Execution Dock (9 page)

Rathbone resumed the presentation of the defense. He called a lighterman who had known Durban well and admired him. He asked questions gently, drawing out pieces of information as if he were aware that the process would sooner or later become painful. He was right. At the start it was easy: merely a pattern of dates and questions asked and answered. Durban had asked the lighterman about comings and goings on the water, mostly of Jericho Phillips and his boat, occasionally of other men who patronized whatever its facilities were. They professed that it offered ale and entertainment, a simple matter of an evening on the river with refreshment and a little music, performed to the taste of whatever audience presented itself.

Lord Justice Sullivan leaned forward, listening intently, his face grave.

Did the lighterman, Hurst, know for certain what that entertainment was? Rathbone continued. No, he had no personal knowledge at all. Durban had asked him that, many times. The answer was always the same. He did not know, or wish to. As far as he was aware, the boys could have been there to serve ale, wait on tables, clear up, anything at all.

It seemed very routine, even tedious, until Hester saw something alter in Rathbone's stance, and a new, suppressed energy enter him. Was Durban 's interest in Phillips consistent from the time it began?

Hurst looked puzzled, as if he remembered something odd. No, it wasn't. For several months Durban had shown no interest at all, as if he had forgotten about him. Then equally without explanation, his interest had resumed again, even more fiercely than before. His pursuit had become almost savage, exceeding his duty. He had been seen on the river in all weather, even in the small hours of the night when all sane men were in their beds.

Could Hurst explain any of this? In fact, had Durban offered any reason for his extraordinary obsession and the erratic manner of his occupation with it?

No. Hurst was disillusioned. He had no idea.

Tremayne must have known that in questioning him further he would gain nothing, and might even lose. He declined.

To end the day Rathbone added another member of the River Police who had been serving at the Wapping Station during Durban 's latter years. The man made it quite apparent that he was there against his will. His loyalty was to the police in general, and to his immediate colleagues in particular. He was openly hostile to Rathbone, and to anyone else who questioned Durban 's integrity, and by implication, that of all the police.

However, he was obliged to admit that he knew beyond any doubt at all that towards the end of his life Durban had spent the little spare time he had, and much of his own money, in his endless, fruitless pursuit of Jericho Phillips. In spite of his careful wording, or perhaps because of it, it made Durban sound obsessed to the point of madness. Suddenly Phillips, as unpleasant as he was, appeared to be the victim.

Hester saw several confused faces in the gallery around her, even glances towards the figure of Phillips as he was escorted from the dock back down to the cells for the night. Now they were curious, and not as certain of his guilt as they had been even a few hours ago.

She left the courtroom feeling betrayed. She moved through the open doors into the hallway beyond, not literally buffeted by the crowd, but it seemed as if they pressed in on her from all sides. They were puffed up with their own convictions, there to see and hear, unaffected by what anyone believed.

She cared passionately. She cared whether Durban was the hero Monk believed him to be, both because he was one of the few men Monk admired, and also because Monk himself had founded his career in the Thames Police on finishing his predecessor's last case. It was his gift of gratitude to a man he could thank in no other way.

She could see now that they had both allowed it to become too important. All the rage they felt towards everyone who had beaten, neglected, or abused a child had centered on Phillips. Perhaps that was unfair, and it was that thought reflected in other people's eyes that humiliated and confused her now.

She came face-to-face with Margaret Rathbone on the steps as she was leaving. She had turned for an instant, uncertainly, and Margaret was only a couple of paces behind her.

Margaret stopped, but she did not lower her eyes. There was an embarrassed silence. Hester had always been the leader. She was the one with the medical experience, the knowledge. She had been to the Crimea; Margaret had never been out of England, except for family holidays to France, carefully chaperoned. Hester had watched Margaret fall in love with Rathbone, and try so hard to win him. They had said little; neither was someone who discussed their deepest fears or dreams, but there had been a wealth of silent understanding between them.

They had nursed the sick and dying together, and faced the truth of violence and crime. Now for the first time they were on different sides, and there was nothing to say that would not make it worse. Rathbone had attacked Hester on the stand personally, and stripped the covering decencies from her beliefs by revealing those she had trusted. Above all, he had exposed Monk to disillusion, and to the appearance of having let down his colleagues who had followed him into the battle.

Margaret's loyalty was committed to Rathbone. She had no room to ask anything or to yield in her position. The lines were set.

Margaret hesitated, as if she would smile, say something, offer commiseration. Then she knew that everything could be misunderstood, and she changed her mind.

Hester made it easier for her by turning away again, and continuing down the steps.

Margaret would catch a cab. Hester took the public bus to the ferry across the river, then walked up to Paradise Place and let herself in through the front door. The house was warm in the summer sun, and quiet. They were close to Southwark Park, and the distant sound of laughter carried through the trees.

She spent a wretched evening alone. There had been a bad incident on the river, on Limehouse Reach, and by the time Monk came home he was too tired to talk about anything. She did not have the opportunity to discuss the day's events with him.

Rathbone also had an acutely uncomfortable evening, in spite of Margaret's unconditional praise of his skill, and surprisingly, of his morality.

“Of course it disturbs you,” she said to him gently after dinner. They were sitting opposite each other with the French windows open again onto the quiet garden with its birdsong and the slight rustling of leaves in the late sunset wind. “No one likes to show up the weakness of their friends, especially in public,” she continued. “But it was not your choice that they go after Jericho Phillips. It would be totally wrong for you to refuse to defend him, or anyone else, on the grounds that you have friends in the prosecution. If it were right, then anyone could refuse to defend any case they might lose, or that might challenge their opinions, or even their social standing. No man of honor does only what is comfortable to him.” Her eyes were bright, and there was warm color in her skin.

It gave Rathbone pleasure that she admired him so genuinely, but it was the guilty pleasure of stolen fruit, or at least of that obtained dishonestly. He struggled for words to explain it to her, but it was too complicated to frame, and he knew from her smile that she was not really listening. He ended up saying nothing, and was ashamed of himself.

Rathbone began the next day's proceedings with what he intended to be his coup de grâce. He had no choice now but to go ahead with it. It was inconceivable that he would do less than his best, because even in the defense of a man like Jericho Phillips, that would be to betray every principle that he believed in. Above the political battles, the good or bad governments, the judiciary at its most brilliant, corrupt, or incompetent, the impartiality of the law-and its power to deal with all people without fear or favor-was the bedrock upon which every civilized nation depended.

When lawyers made judgments the jury of the common man was betrayed, and in the end would become extinct. The law itself would pass from the people to the few who held power. There would no longer be a check on their prejudices, or in time, on their ability to remain above the tides of corruption, bribery, the threat of loss, or the hope of gain.

He now found himself in a position in which he must call William Monk to the stand, and force him to testify against the man to whom he owed the best opportunity of his life.

They faced each other in a silent court. This might well prove to be the last day of a trial that had begun as a mere formality but was now a very real battle in which it was even possible that Jericho Phillips's fight for his life could end in victory. People in the gallery were straining to look at him. He had assumed a sudden public stature that was both frightening and fascinating.

Monk had already been identified. Both the jury and the spectators had heard of him from earlier witnesses. Now they stared in sharp interest as the questions began.

“I did not call you earlier, Commander Monk,” Rathbone began, “because you are familiar with only part of this case, and Mr. Orme was involved from the beginning, when Mr. Durban was first called to the discovery of the boy's body.” He walked elegantly across the open space, as if he were very much at ease. Only someone who knew him as well as Monk did would see that his shoulders were stiff, and he did not carry his hands quite naturally. “However,” he continued, turning to face the witness stand, “certain facts have come to our attention that suggest unusual elements with which you could help us.” He waited, for dramatic effect, not because there was any question in his words.

Tremayne shifted in his seat as though he could not find a comfortable position.

“This case had been dropped, Mr. Monk.” Rathbone's voice was suddenly challenging. “Why did you choose to reopen it?”

Monk had expected exactly this question. “Because I came across a record of it in Mr. Durban's papers, and the fact that it was still unsolved bothered me,” he replied.

Rathbone's eyebrows rose. “Indeed? Then I assume you pursued all of Mr. Durban's other unsolved cases with equal zeal?”

“I would like to solve them all,” Monk replied. “There were not many: a few minor thefts, one to do with the smuggling of half a dozen kegs of brandy; the fencing of stolen china and ornaments; a couple of incidents of public drunkenness that ended in fights; a few broken windows. The murder of children comes before all those.” He too paused for effect, and smiled very slightly. “I'll attend to the rest, if I have time.”

Rathbone's face changed slightly, acknowledging that he had an adversary not to be trifled with. “Of course that takes priority,” he agreed, changing his angle of attack with barely a trace of awkwardness. “It seems from what we have heard that it comes before a great many things in your estimation. You appear to have read Mr. Durban's notes with great attention. Why is that?”

Monk had not foreseen the question phrased quite that way. “I have held Mr. Durban's position since shortly after his death. I thought I had a great deal to learn from his experience, and what he had written about.”

“How modest of you,” Rathbone observed. “So you admired Mr. Durban a great deal?”

There was only one possible answer. “I did.”

“Why?” Rathbone asked innocently.

Monk had opened the way to such a question; now he had to answer it. He had no time to concoct a reply that was careful or measured to safeguard the case. “Because he held command without abuse of his authority,” he said. “His men both liked and respected him. For the short time that I knew him, before he gave his life in the call of duty, I found him to have humor, kindness, and integrity.” He nearly said something about hating injustice, and stopped himself just in time.

“A fine eulogy for a man who is not here to speak for himself,” Rathbone said. “He certainly has a loyal friend in you, Mr. Monk.”

“You say that as if loyalty to a friend were an offense,” Monk retaliated, just a shade too quickly, betraying his anger.

Rathbone stopped, turned slowly towards Monk up in the witness stand, and smiled. “It is, Mr. Monk, when it places itself before loyalty to truth, and to the law. It is an understandable quality, perhaps even likable-except of course, to the man who is accused of a hideous crime so that one friend may pay a debt to another.”

There was a rustle of sharpened interest around the room. One or two of the jurors looked anxious. Lord Justice Sullivan's face was carefully expressionless.

Tremayne rose to his feet, but with anger rather than confidence.

“Profound as Sir Oliver's philosophy may be, my lord, it does not appear to contain a question.”

“You are quite correct,” Sullivan agreed, but with reluctance. “Such observations more properly belong in your club, Sir Oliver. You called Mr. Monk to the stand; therefore, I assume you have something to ask him. Please proceed with it.”

“My lord,” Rathbone said, masking only the slightest irritation. He looked back up at Monk. “What was your own occupation when you first met Mr. Durban?”

“I was a private agent of inquiry,” Monk answered. He could guess where Rathbone was leading, but he could not avoid going with him.

“Did that fit you for taking over Mr. Durban's position as Commander of the River Police at Wapping?”

“I don't think so. But I had been in the Metropolitan Police before that.” Surely Rathbone was not going to bring up his loss of memory? He was seized with a sudden cold uncertainty that he might.

But that was not where Rathbone struck.

“Why did you leave the Metropolitan Police?” he asked.

Sullivan was impassive, but as if he were containing his emotion with difficulty. His color was high, his fist tightly closed on the bench.

“Sir Oliver, are you questioning Mr. Monk's professional ability, his reputation, or his honesty?” he asked.

“None of those, my lord.” Irritation marked Rathbone's face now. His hands were closed tight and hard. “I believe Mr. Durban had leadership skills that Mr. Monk intensely admired, because he had failed to exhibit them himself in the past. Mr. Durban, in choosing him as his successor, gave him the opportunity to try a second time, which is a chance few men receive. Mr. Durban also expressed a confidence in him that he did not have in himself. I will show that Mr. Monk's sense of debt to Durban drove him to exceed his authority, and his usual judgment, in pursuit of Jericho Phillips, and that he did so to pay what he perceived as a debt. He also desired profoundly to earn the respect of his men by vindicating Durban 's original pursuit of the murderer.”