Execution Dock (35 page)

“That's all right,” he said a bit self-consciously. “Weren't nothin’. She were lost, that's all.” He made a casual gesture as if to dismiss it.

Hester decided to allow it to pass. Just at the moment she was dizzy with relief that Claudine was safe. She realized only now how deeply afraid she had been that some harm had come to her. If she had gone around asking about Phillips, he was quite capable of killing her, and they would probably never even know. She would appear to be just one more beggar woman dead of cold or hunger, or some unspecified disease. Even a knife attack or a strangling would not occasion a great deal of remark.

She thanked Squeaky again, told Ruby that Claudine was safe, and decided to allow Wallace Burroughs the privilege of having a good night's sleep, or not. She would send him a letter in the morning, unless Claudine wished to go home and tell him herself. If she did not, then that was up to her.

Another message she would definitely send would be to Rathbone, to tell him that Claudine was safe. It would be polite to address it to Margaret as well.

Over breakfast in the large kitchen she asked Squeaky what Claudine had discovered, if anything, but he told her he had no idea. He looked slightly surprised when he said it, and it was several moments before she realized that it was not Claudine's lack of discovery that startled him, but his own reply to Hester. That must be because it was a lie, to defend Claudine.

She looked at him more closely, and he returned her look with a straight, slightly belligerent gaze. She found herself smiling. Squeaky was definitely defending Claudine.

When she had eaten her toast and drunk her own tea, she made more, set it on a tray, and took it up to the bedroom Claudine was using. She found her just beginning to wake up, ravenously hungry and longing for a cup of tea.

Hester sat on the bed while Claudine ate and drank. She addressed the subject.

“What did you discover?” she asked.

Claudine stared at her over the top of her cup.

“I asked Squeaky, but he won't tell me,” Hester explained. “He said he doesn't know, but he's lying. So that makes me think it's important.”

Claudine finished her tea slowly, giving herself time to think. Finally she put the cup down on the bedside table and took a deep breath. “I found a shop selling pornographic photographs of young boys. I saw a couple. They were terrible. I don't want to talk about them. I wish I didn't have them in my mind. I didn't realize how hard it is to get something out of your memory once you've seen it. It's like a stain no amount of soap or water can remove.”

“It dulls with time,” Hester said gently. “As you get more and more things in there, there's less room for the horrors. Push it out every time it comes back, and eventually the details will fade.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Not those. But I've seen other things, on the battlefield, and heard them. Sometimes when we have someone in here with a knife wound, the smell of blood brings it all back.”

Claudine's face was gentle, full of pity.

“Why wouldn't Squeaky tell me that?” Hester asked her. “That doesn't make sense.”

“That wasn't what he wouldn't tell you,” Claudine replied. “It was who I saw on the pavement just outside the shop, with cards in his hand. He bought some matches from me and stared at me very closely. I was scared he'd recognized me.”

Hester frowned, her imagination struggling. “Who did you see?”

Claudine bit her lip. “Mr. Ballinger, Lady Rathbone's father.”

Hester was stunned. It seemed preposterous. And yet if it was true, it explained Rathbone's predicament exactly. “Are you certain?” she said aloud.

“Yes. I've met him several times, at dinners and balls. My husband is acquainted with him. He stood no more than two feet from me.”

Hester nodded. It was hideous. How on earth could Margaret bear that, if she believed it? If it became known? Had Rathbone had any idea? How would he see it: disgust, pity, loyalty, protection for Margaret and her mother? She could not believe that he knew already. And yet he would have to one day. Perhaps he could in some way prepare?

“Your husband was worried about you,” she said to Claudine. “Would you like me to send a letter? I could say you were kept in some kind of emergency, but we had better offer the same explanation.”

A shadow crossed Claudine's face. “I don't think he is going to forgive me, whatever it is,” she replied. “I am not quite sure what I am going to do. I shall have to give it a great deal of thought. If… if he puts me out, may I live here?” She looked frightened, and embarrassed.

“Of course,” Hester said instantly. “If you wish to, for whatever reason.” She nearly added that Rathbone would give her legal help, then she thought that was a little premature. Surely Wallace Burroughs would calm himself and behave a little more reasonably. Although his behaving reasonably was a very long way indeed from giving Claudine any kind of happiness. “I shall write to him that you were helping someone in an accident.” There was a note of gentleness in her voice. “He will never know differently,” she went on. “You had better say the same. You know enough details to give them to him if he should ask you.”

“He won't. He is never interested in such things,” Claudine told her. “But thank you.”

Hester very briefly told Squeaky that she was going to the Wapping police station to find Monk, then she left immediately, dreading the chance of running into Margaret on the way out.

She caught a cab on Farringdon Road, and half an hour later was in Wapping. She had a further hour to wait before Monk returned from the water, but she was prepared to wait far longer, had it been necessary.

He closed the door of his office and stood waiting for her to speak.

Briefly, leaving out everything that was irrelevant to the issue, she told him of Claudine's adventure, and that she was certain beyond any doubt that it had been Arthur Ballinger she had seen.

“She must be wrong,” he said. “She was tired, frightened, upset after seeing the cards…”

“No she wasn't, William,” Hester said levelly “She knows Ballinger.”

“How would she know him? He's not her solicitor, surely?”

“No. They move in the same circles in Society,” she explained. “Claudine may scrub kitchens and cook for the sick in Portpool Lane, but in her own home she's a lady. She probably knows most people in Society, more or less. Now she is terrified because he looked so closely at her she was afraid he had recognized her too.”

He did not fight any longer; the grief in his eyes showed his acceptance.

“We have to be prepared,” she continued more gently. “I don't imagine Oliver knows, but perhaps he does. It may even be the reason he took Phillips's case in the first place. But I'll wager Margaret doesn't. Or her mother.” She winced. “I can't imagine what that will be like for them, if they are forced to know.”

Monk breathed out slowly. “God! What a mess!”

There was a sharp rap on the door and before Monk could answer, it opened and Orme stood there, ashen-faced, eyes hollow. Hester saw him before Monk did.

“What is it?” she demanded, fear gripping her like a tightening noose.

Monk swung around to Orme.

Orme handed him a sheet of paper, folded over once.

Monk took it and read, his hand shaking, the color draining from his cheeks.

“What is it?” Hester demanded more urgently, her voice high-pitched, her heart pounding.

“Jericho Phillips has Scuff,” Monk replied. “He says that if we don't stop pursuing him, all of us, the River Police, then he will use Scuff in his trade. And when he's finished with him, he'll either sell him on to someone, or if he's a nuisance and causes trouble, then he'll kill him.”

“Then we will stop.” Hester nearly choked on the words, but she could not even imagine letting Scuff endure that. The possibility did not exist to consider.

“That's not all,” Monk went on, his voice shaking now. “I must publicly condemn Durban and say everything bad about him that I can, including his early involvement with the men who robbed the bank. Then I must retract all the charges I've made against Phillips, and say that they were motivated by my desire to vindicate Durban 's name, and pay my debt to him. His price is Scuffs life. If I don't, his death will be slow, and very unpleasant.”

She stared at him for interminable seconds, unable to grasp what he had said, then slowly it became clear, indelible, impossible to bear. “We must do it.” She felt as if she were a betrayer even as the words were on her lips, and yet any other answer was unthinkable. What happiness or honor could there ever be again if they let Phillips keep Scuff, and one day torture him to death? The power of terror and extortion was sickeningly clear, and without escape.

She saw something else in Monk's face, intelligence, understanding, and deeper horror.

“What is it?” she demanded, leaning forward as if to grasp him, and at the last moment stopping. “What do you know?”

“I was thinking that I should go to Rathbone and tell him about Ballinger,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “He needs to know, for his own sake, hideous as it will be for him. And he might be able to help; I don't know how.”

“Poor Oliver,” she said quietly. “But I would tell everybody any truth, if I had to, to get Scuff back.”

“Claudine thought Ballinger might have recognized her,” Monk said quietly, his voice rasping. “It seems he did, and told Phillips. That's why Phillips has taken Scuff now. They know the net is tightening.” His face was very pale, eyes hollow. “We have to get Scuff back, or get some hostage of our own that will force Phillips to let him go. I'll go to Rathbone…”

“I'm coming too,” she said instantly.

“No. I won't shut you out, I promise…”

“I'm coming! If you go after Scuff, and anyone is hurt, I can do more for them than any of the rest of you.” For the first time her glance took in Orme, pleading. “You know that!”

Monk turned back and faced her. “Yes, I do know it. I also know that you would not forgive me if anything went wrong and you might have prevented it, and I couldn't live with that. I give you my word that I will not go without you. Or Orme, if you'll come?” he added, looking at the other man.

“I'll come,” Orme said simply. “I'll get a boat ready, and some pistols.”

Monk nodded his thanks, and touched Hester's hand in passing. It was just a momentary warmth, skin to skin, and then it was gone.

Monk went straight to Rathbone's office and asked to see Oliver.

His clerk, Dobie, was apologetic. “I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, but Sir Oliver is with a client at the moment. I expect him to be free in half an hour, if it is urgent,” he said courteously.

“It is extremely urgent,” Monk replied. “Unless his client is coming up for trial tomorrow, it cannot wait. Jericho Phillips has kidnapped another child. Please interrupt Sir Oliver and tell him so. Tell him it is Scuff.”

“Oh, dear,” Dobie said with extreme distaste. “Did you say Scuff, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, sir. Would you please wait here?” He did not bother to ask Monk to be seated. He could see very well that he was too distressed to sit down.

Monk paced back and forth. The seconds seemed drawn out, even the minutest sound ringing in his ears.

Finally Dobie returned, solemn-faced. “Sir Oliver will see you immediately,” he said. “I shall ask all other clients to wait, until you inform me otherwise.”

“Thank you.” Monk strode past him and opened Rathbone's office door.

Rathbone turned, face pale, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” He did not elaborate; there was no need.

“Yes,” Monk replied, closing the door behind him. “He sent a message to say that if I didn't stop pursuing him, and blacken Durban 's name in public, he'd use Scuff in his trade, and then kill him.” It was difficult to even say the words, as if they gave it a more intense reality. “I'm going to get him back, and I need your help.”

Rathbone started to say that it was not a legal matter, then realized that of course Monk knew that. He had not yet come to the worst.

Monk told him quickly, sparing nothing. “Claudine Burroughs dressed as a match woman and went to try to find where they were selling Phillips's photographs. She succeeded in finding at least one shop. The photographs were appalling, but what matters is that she recognized one of the purchasers, because she knew him socially. She is afraid that he also recognized her, and that is why Phillips has attacked.”

Rathbone frowned. “I don't follow your logic. Why would Phillips do that? He won't care about individual customers, even if Mrs. Burroughs was right.”

Monk hesitated for the first time. He loathed doing this. “It was Arthur Ballinger,” he said quietly. “I think he warned Phillips that we are closing in on him, and this is Phillips's retaliation. I'm sorry.”

Rathbone stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He looked as if he had been struck such a blow as to rob him momentarily of thought, or the power to respond.

Monk wanted to apologize again, but he knew it was futile.

“It is the only thing that has changed,” he said aloud. “Before that, Phillips was winning, and he knew it. He had no need to do anything but wait us out. Now we have seen Ballinger, and that must matter to him.”

Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. “I'll do what I can.” His voice was hoarse.

“I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff,” he said, his voice strained. He stood up and swayed very slightly. “Sullivan is the weak link. He will know where Phillips's boat is, and I can force him to take us. He'll know the times and places because he goes there. I don't think we have time to waste.” He moved to the door.

Monk followed him. He wanted to ask about Ballinger's involvement, but the wound was too raw, and too deep to probe yet. He could barely imagine how it must hurt Rathbone, not for Ballinger, but for Margaret. He thought of Hester, whose father had taken his own life after a financial scandal that had ruined him. He had believed it to be the only decent way out, and he had had no fault but faith in a man who was beneath honor of any kind.

They took a cab and rode in silence to Sullivan's chambers. The hot air was sharp with the smells of horse dung, the leather inside the cab, and stale sweat.