Execution Dock

by Anne Perry

  Scuffs narrow shoulders were tight, as if he were waiting to be struck; it was his only outward sign of fear. Now he stopped, hands in his pockets, and turned slowly to face Monk. His eyes were dark, hollow, and embarrassed by what he saw as his own weakness. “Yeah?” He wanted desperately to meet expectations.

  “I think we'll need you all the time, to help with the questioning, until we get him,” Monk said casually, starting to walk again. “It would be a sacrifice, I know. But we'd find you a proper place to sleep, where you could shut the door and be alone. And there'd be food, of course.”

  Scuff was too startled to move. He stood rooted to the spot. “Food?” he repeated.

  Monk stopped and turned back. “Well, I can't come looking for you every day. I haven't time.”

  Suddenly Scuff understood. Joy filled his face, then very quickly he sobered up to a proper dignity. “I reckon I could,” he said generously. “Just until yer get ‘im, like.”

  “Thank you,” Monk replied, almost certain that Hester would see the necessity of keeping Scuff safe as long as Jericho Phillips was free, however long that might be. “Well, come on then! The first boy we need to find is the one who identified Fig from Durban's drawings. He might know something else, if we ask him the right questions.”

  “Yeah,” Scuff said, as if he thoroughly agreed. “‘E might, an’ all.”

  However, it took them the rest of the day to find the boy, and he was clearly very unhappy about speaking with Monk about anything. They stood where the narrow entrance of an alley opened into the Shadwell Dock. The tide was ebbing and slapping over the stairs a few yards away, leaving the higher steps slimy as it retreated. There was a large ship in the New Basin behind them, its spars and yards black against the fading sky.

  “I dunno nothin’ more,” the boy said urgently. “I told yer ‘oo ‘e were, same like I told Mr. Durban. I dunno ‘oo done ‘im, an I can't ‘elp yer.”

  “‘E won't leave yer alone ‘til yer tell ‘im.” Scuff gestured towards Monk. “So yer might as well get on wif it. It don't do ter be seen talkin ter the cops, if yer can ‘elp it.” He gave a philosophical shrug. “It's a bit late for me, but you could save yerself.”

  The boy gave him a filthy look.

  Scuff was impervious. “Wot else did Mr. Durban ask yer?” He looked at Monk, then back at the boy. “Yer don't want ‘im as an enemy, believe me. If yer like, ‘e'll pretend ‘e never ‘eard of yer.”

  The boy knew when to give up. “‘E were askin’ fer a woman called Mary Webster, Walker … Webber! Summink like that,” he said. “Like a dog wif a bone, ‘e were. Where was she? ‘Ad I seen ‘er? ‘Ad anybody said anything, even ‘er name? I told ‘im I'd never ‘eard of ‘er, but ‘e wouldn't leave it. I told ‘im I'd ask me sister, just ter shut ‘im up, like. ‘E said as ‘e'd be back. This Mary whatever were ‘bout ‘is age, ‘e said, but ‘e dint know much more about ‘er ‘n that.”

  Scuff looked across at Monk.

  There was a pleasure boat passing down the river, hurdy-gurdy music playing. The sound drifted on the air, loud and then soft, loud and then soft, as the wind carried it.

  “So did you ask your sister?” Monk said, curious to know what Durban was looking for. There had been no mention of a middle-aged woman before.

  “Not the first time,” the boy answered, sucking in his breath. “But Mr. Durban come back an’ ‘e wouldn't let it go. I seen pit bull terriers as couldn't ‘ang on to a thing and worry it like ‘e did. So I told ‘im ter ask Biddie ‘isself, an’ told ‘im where ter find ‘er.”

  “Where can we find Biddie?”

  The boy rolled his eyes, but he told him.

  Monk had no desire to take Scuff with him to a brothel, but the alternative was to leave him alone. He could have told him to go to Paradise Place, but it would be bitterly unfair to oblige him to explain to Hester that he had come to stay. And anyway, she might not even be there if they had had some crisis at Portpool Lane. There was nothing to do but allow him to come.

  It was completely dark, even on this clear summer night, by the time they found Biddie. She had apparently been plying her trade earlier in the evening, but was now cheerfully available to take a glass of ale and merely talk, for a couple of shillings. She was a plain girl, but buxomly built and relatively clean in a blue dress disturbingly low cut, which did not bother Scuff as much as Monk thought it should have.

  “Yeah, Mary Webber,” Biddie said, nodding, keeping both hands around her glass as if she feared having it taken from her. “Lookin’ fer ‘er summink fierce, ‘e were. I kep’ tellin’ ‘im I dint know no Mary Webber, which I din't! I never ‘eard of ‘er.” She managed to look aggrieved, even while wiping the foam off her upper lip. “‘E got a temper on ‘im, that one. Right paddy ‘e were in. Clocked Mr. ‘Opkins summink awful. ‘It ‘im on the side o’ the ‘ead an’ near sent ‘im inter the middle o’ next week. An ‘e's a nasty sod, too, but ‘e never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber no more'n I ‘ad.”

  Monk felt an acute sense of dismay. It sounded nothing like the man he had known. “What did he look like?” he asked. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity.

  Biddie had a good eye for faces. Perhaps it was part of her trade. It might be the way to remember certain people it would be advisable to avoid. “‘Bout your ‘eight, bit less, but more solid. Nice-lookin’, specially fer a cop. Nice eyes, dark they were. Grayish ‘air, wi’ sort o’ little waves in it. Walked easy, but a bit like mebbe ‘e'd once been a sailor.”

  That was Durban. Monk swallowed. “Did he say why he wanted to find Mary Webber?”

  A couple wove their way past them, talking loudly and bumping into people.

  “No, an’ I din't ask,” Biddie said vehemently. “I ‘eard ‘e went ter old Jetsam, the pawnbroker, an’ gave ‘im an ‘ell of a time. Duffed ‘im up summink rotten. Still got the scars, ‘e ‘as. Not that ‘e were ever much ter look at, but ‘is own ma wouldn't take ter ‘im now.” She finished her ale with relish. “Wouldn't mind if yer got me another,” she remarked.

  Monk dispatched Scuff with the empty glass and threepence. He took a breath. There was no escaping now, whatever the truth was.

  “Do you mean that Durban beat the pawnbroker?” She must be lying. Why would he believe her, rather than everything he knew of Durban? And yet he could not leave it alone. In his own past people had been frightened of him. Was he violent too? It was so easy. “Who told you that?” he asked.

  “I saw ‘im,” she said simply. “Told yer. ‘Orrible ‘e looked.”

  “But how do you know it was Durban who struck him, or that it was deliberate? Perhaps Jetsam hit him first?”

  She gave him a look of incredulity. “Ol’ Jetsam? Get on wi’ yer. Jetsam's as big a coward as ever were born. ‘E wouldn't go ‘ittin’ a cop even if ‘e were soused as an ‘erring. Lie ‘is way out of a paper bag, cheat ‘is own mother out o’ sixpence, but ‘e wouldn't never ‘it nobody face-ter-face.”

  Monk's stomach clenched and he felt a coldness through him. “Why would Durban hit him?”

  “Probably lost ‘is temper ‘cause Jetsam lied ter ‘im,” she answered reasonably.

  “If Jetsam is that kind of a liar, how do you know it wasn't some customer he cheated who hit him?”

  Scuff came back with the ale and gave it to Biddie, and the change to Monk, who thanked him.

  “Look,” Biddie said patiently. “Yer been fair ter me. I in't gonna lie to yer. The local cop on the beat ‘ad ter pull ‘em apart, an’ ‘e were gonna charge Durban, ‘cause ol’ Jetsam got more'n the worst of it. ‘E were near ‘avin’ ‘is ‘ead stove in. I reckon Durban'd ‘ave been charged if ‘e ‘adn't bin a cop ‘isself, an’ put the twist on.”

  “That shouldn't make any difference,” Monk said, then immediately knew it was a mistake. He saw the contempt in her eyes. He knew what she was going to say before she started, and yet the words still hurt like a fresh cut.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah? Well, the cop wo
t caught ‘im were just the local constable, and Durban were a commander in the River Police. Yer can't be daft enough not ter work that out fer yerself Constable might ‘a grumbled, but ‘e din't do nothing, nor Jetsam neither. If any of us ‘ad known ‘oo Mary Webber were, we'd ‘a told ‘im.”

  Monk did not pursue it any further. It was too late today to see if he could substantiate any of it. He walked in silence with Scuff to the nearest steps where there was a light and he could hire a ferry to take them back across the river to Rotherhithe. It was slack tide now and the long stretch of mud and stones gleamed in the yellow glare from the lamps. In its own way it was both sinister and beautiful. The slick surface of the river barely moved. Even the ships at anchor lay still, their spars lumpy with furled sails. The blur of smoke hung above some still-burning factory chimney where industry never slept.

  Did he believe Biddie? Who was Mary Webber? Nothing he had learned about Durban had made any mention of a woman. Why such passion? Who was she that Durban would so lose control of himself, and of all the beliefs he had so clearly lived by, that he would attack a man to beat information out of him? And perhaps even worse, he had apparently then coerced a junior officer into ignoring his duty and overlooking the whole episode!

  Monk could not imagine Durban doing either of these things. But then, how much had he really known him? He had liked him. They had shared food, warmth, and exhaustion of body and mind in the relentless search to find men who could unknowingly destroy half the world. They had found them. He still relived the horror of it in dreams.

  But in the end it had caught up with Durban himself. He had gone nobly, willingly, to death by fire in order to save others, and take the threat with him. And he had gone alone, refusing to allow Monk to share his fate. He had physically thrown him off the stern of the ship into the boiling wake rather than let him also perish, and had not had time to save himself before the magazines exploded.

  What kind of friendship or loyalty can you give to someone who is so supremely brave, and yet also desperately flawed? What do you owe to promises made, or understood? What if the other person is gone, and no more explanations can be asked for or given, and still you have to act, and believe something?

  Scuff was watching him, waiting to see what he did because of this latest revelation, and Monk was intensely aware of it.

  “Mebbe she could ‘ave put Phillips away.” Scuff said hopefully. “D'yer think that were why ‘e were after ‘er? Or mebbe Phillips did ‘er in too, d'yer think? An’ that's why nobody found ‘er?”

  Monk had to answer him. “No, not really.”

  “She might ‘ave.” Scuff raised his voice to sound more positive, even trying to be cheerful. Monk knew it was for his sake. “She's ‘iding ‘cause she's scared stiff o’ Phillips. She could ‘ave seen wot ‘appened. Mebbe she's somebody's ma wot Phillips done.”

  “Perhaps,” Monk conceded, although he did not believe it. “Durban never mentioned her in his notes, and surely he would have, if that's who she was.”

  Scuff thought about that for quite a long time. They had hailed a ferry and were more than halfway across the river, weaving in and out of the great ships at anchor, before he found a solution.

  “Mebbe that were to keep ‘er safe. If she saw summink Phillips'd kill ‘er fer. An’ ‘e would,” he suggested.

  Hank could not see Scuffs face in the darkness of the river, but he could see the hunch of his narrow shoulders and the way he held himself when he was hurt.

  The oars splashed in and out. The ferryman had a good rhythm, probably from years of practice.

  “An’ like you said,” Scuff replied unhappily, “there's gentlemen in it up ter their necks. Gentlemen wot got enough money ter pay yer friend the lawyer wot spoke up fer Phillips. And yer don't know ‘oo they are, ‘cause they don't exactly go round tellin people they go in fer wot ‘e does.”

  “You're right, Scuff,” Monk said decisively. “I should have thought of that for myself. Of course you are.”

  He could see Scuffs grin, even in the dark.

  When a bed had been made up for Scuff and he was sound asleep in it, Hester and Monk sat in the kitchen over a very late supper—really no more than two large pieces of fruitcake and two cups of tea.

  “I can't let him go back until Phillips is arrested and locked up,” he said anxiously, watching her face.

  “It's as much my responsibility as yours,” she answered. Then she smiled. “Of course we can't. And that might be quite a while, so you had better get him some clean clothes. I'm much too busy to wash these every night, even supposing I could dry them. You might even get a pair of boots that fit him—and really are a pair.”

  She wanted to talk about something that was worrying her. He could see it in her eyes, in a kind of hesitation, as though she were still looking for a way to avoid saying it at all.

  He told her about hearing of Mary Webber, but not of Durban's violence towards the pawnbroker, or his use of rank to prevent the constable from charging him. He realized with surprise that it was not Hester he was protecting—it was Durban. Because he himself cared so intensely what Hester thought of him, he was imagining that Durban would too.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked him, puzzled and a little off balance.

  “I don't know,” he admitted. “At Scuffs help, I suppose.”

  Suddenly she was profoundly serious.

  “Be careful, William,” she warned. “Please? I know he's looked after himself for years, but he's only a child. Lots of people die on the river …” She left the rest unsaid. There were more like Fig than like Scuff, and they both knew that.

  He looked down at her hands on the table. They were very slender, like a girl's, but strong. Their beauty lay not in soft, white skin or delicate nails, but in grace; they were quick and gentle, and their touch was light. They would be broken before they would let a drowning man go, but they would allow a butterfly to leave as simply as it had come. He loved her hands. He wanted to reach out and touch them, but he felt self-conscious when there was so much more urgent business at hand.

  “Durban was being blackmailed,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “I don't yet know what for. Could that be to do with this Mary Webber, whoever she is?”

  “I don't know,” he confessed. He wished he did not have to know. He was overburdened with knowledge already, and the more there was of it, the more it hurt. What was it that drove people on and on to seek the truth, to unravel every knot, even when it was the ignorance and the peace of heart that made it all endurable? Was truth going to heal anything? How much of it could any one person grasp?

  She stood up. “That's enough for today. Let's go to bed.” She said it gently, but she was not going to accept an argument, and he had no wish to offer any.

  Hester was concerned for Durban's reputation too, not so much for himself as for what the discoveries could do to Monk. Her husband had had few friends, at least that he could remember. At one time he and Runcorn had been more than allies. They had shared the involvement and the tragedy of police work, and the dangers.

  But Monk's abrasive tongue and his ambition had driven Runcorn to a bitter jealousy He was a narrower man in both his vision and his ability. The rivalry had brought out the meanest spirit in him. Friendship had eventually become enmity.

  Of course she did not explain any of this to Sutton when she met him to take up the search again. He would think their purpose was to find some evidence to prove Phillips guilty of something for which they could try him. He must know that the death of Fig was closed to them now, even if he had been tactful enough to refrain from saying so.

  They rode the bus in companionable silence, Snoot by Sutton's feet as always.

  Hester sat in the top of the bus watching the narrow, closely crammed houses with the stained walls and sagging roofs as they moved closer to Limehouse and the printer Sutton had told her they were going to. He had helped in many things, and she knew he would do all he could now. He would call
in favors, incur more, spend all day away from his own work to help her find what she was seeking.

  But Sutton could not tell her what it was that she wanted to find, or what she hoped it would prove. They could not undo the failure of Phillips's trial, nor the fact that Rathbone had defended him. They might find out the reason for that choice—if indeed it had been choice, and not some kind of necessity. But it might be confidential and something they could never learn. Did it matter? Could they not trust Rathbone, after all the battles they had fought together?

  In framing the question, she realized with a jolt of cold surprise that the answer must be that she did not, or she would not have asked. She would not have said the same a year ago. Had his marriage to Margaret really changed him so much? Or was it simply that it had brought to the fore a different, weaker part of his character?

  Or was it a different part of hers? She had never been in love with him; it had always been Monk, even if she had doubted at times that he would ever love her, or make her happy. In fact, she had considered it impossible that he would even wish to try. But she had liked Rathbone deeply, and she had trusted a decency in him. If this were a lapse, for whatever reason, could she not forgive him? Was her loyalty so shallow that one mistake ended it? Loyalty had to be worth more than that or it was little more than convenience.

  The bus stopped again and more people climbed on, standing packed together in the aisle.

  And Monk's loyalty to Durban, she thought. That also had to be strong enough to handle the truth. She wanted desperately to protect him from the disillusion she feared was coming. There were moments when she did not want to know why Rathbone had defended Phillips. But they passed. Her better self despised the weakness that preferred ignorance, or worse, lies. She would not want anyone she cared for to love a false reflection of her. After all, could there be a greater loneliness than that?

  They reached the terminus and alighted. It was a walk of about half a mile along the busy street, and she had to go behind Sutton and Snoot because the way was so narrow they could not pass together without bumping into the traffic going the other way. Every few moments Sutton would look back to make sure she was still on his heels.