Execution Dock

by Anne Perry

  Sutton stopped at a small door next to an alley no more than ten feet long, and ending in a blind wall. Snoot instantly sat at his heels. Sutton knocked, and several moments passed before it was opened by a small hunchbacked man with an extraordinarily sweet expression on his face. He nodded when he recognized Sutton and his dog, then he glanced at Hester, more questioning whether she were with them than for her name or business. Satisfied by Sutton's nod, he led them inside to a room so cluttered with books and papers he had to clear two chairs for them to sit down. There were reams of blank paper stacked against the wall; the smell of ink was sharp in the air. The little man hitched himself back with some difficulty into what was obviously his own chair.

  “I dint print it,” he said without any preamble. His voice was deep and chesty, and his diction remarkably clear.

  Sutton nodded. “I know that. It was Pinky Jones, but he's dead, and he'd lie about the time of day. Just tell Mrs. Monk what it said, if you please, Mr. Palk.”

  “It's not nice,” Palk warned.

  “Is it true?” Hester asked, although she had not yet been included in the conversation.

  “Oh, yes, it's true. Lots of folks around here know that.”

  “Then please tell me.”

  He looked at her, for the first time, curiosity sharp in his face.

  “You have to understand, Durban was a man of strong passions,” he began. “Nice on the surface, funny when he wanted to be. I've seen him set the whole room laughing. And generous, he could be. But he felt some things hard, and it seems this Mary Webber was one o’ them. Never heard why. Never heard who or what she was that made him care.”

  “He never found her?”

  “Don't know, Miss, but if he didn't, it wasn't for want of trying. This all started when he went to Ma Wardlop's house. Brothel it is—mebbe a dozen girls or so. Asking her if she'd seen Mary Webber.” He shook his head. “Wouldn't let it drop, no matter what. Finally Ma Wardlop told him one of the girls knew something, and took him to her room. He questioned her in there for more than an hour, until she was screaming at him. That point Ma went an’ fetched a revenue man who lived a couple o’ doors away. Big man, he was.” He pulled his lips into a thin line, an expression of great sadness. “Punched the door in and said he found Durban in a position no policeman should be with a whore, but didn't say what it was, exactly. She claimed he'd forced himself on her. He said he never touched her.”

  Hester did not reply. Her mind raced from one ugly scene to another, trying to find an answer that would not disgust Monk.

  Palk's face was screwed up in revulsion, but it was impossible to say whether it was for Durban, or the lie the prostitute might have told. “Ma Wardlop said she'd keep her mouth shut about it all if Durban would be wise enough to do the same. Only she meant about anything he might see in the future, and he knew that.”

  “Blackmail,” Hester said succinctly.

  He nodded again. “He told her to go to hell, and take the revenue man with her.” Palk said it with some satisfaction, curling back his lips in a smile that showed surprisingly strong white teeth. “They said they'd not just spread it around the streets, they'd put it in the papers too. He told them he agreed with the Duke of Wellington—‘publish and be damned.’ He wasn't going to keep his mouth shut about anything he didn't want to.”

  “And what happened?” she asked, fear and admiration tightening inside her, her stomach knotted, her breath slow, as if the noise of it might stop her hearing what he would say next. It was stupid. Durban was dead and could not be hurt anymore. And yet she cared painfully that he had had the courage and the honor to defy them.

  “Nothing, until the next time he caught them robbing a customer,” the little man answered. “And put the girl in prison for it. Then they published it all right.” His eyes did not move from hers. “Very embarrassing it was for Durban, but he weathered it. Lost a good few he'd thought were friends. Hard way to find out they weren't. Got laughed at in places where they used to call him ‘sir.’ It hurt him, but I only seen him show it once, and then just for a moment. He took it like a man, never complained, and never, far as I know, looked the other way on anything they did.”

  “What happened to the girl?” She felt a flood of warmth inside her, an easing of the ache of tension, then the chill again, and fear of the next answer.

  “Nothing,” Palk told her, his eyes reading her emotions like print on the page. “That wasn't Durban's way. He knew she was only doing what she had to, to get by. He had a hot temper, but he never took it out on women or kids. Soft, he was, in his own fashion, as if he knew what it was like to be poor, or hungry, or alone.” He smiled at the memory. “Beat the hell out of Willy Lyme for knocking his wife around, but gentle as a woman with old Bert when ‘e got daft and didn't even know who he was anymore. Went into the canal after the poor old sod drowned himself, and cried when he couldn't save him. Poor old Bert. Came to his funeral, Durban did. Never knew for sure, but I reckoned he paid for most of it. Bert hadn't sixpence to his name.”

  He looked narrowly at Hester. “I don't know why yer want to know, Miss. You can't hurt Durban now, but there's a lot of folk won't take it kindly if you speak ill of him. Wouldn't be a good thing.”

  “I'm trying to stop those who would,” she replied.

  He looked puzzled, searching her face.

  She smiled at him. “My husband took his place in the River Police, because Durban suggested him. We tried to solve Durban's last case, and we failed so badly we can't go back and do it again. I want to show that the court was wrong and we were right, Durban and my husband and I.”

  “Won't do any good,” Palk told her.

  “Yes, it will. We'll know it, and that matters.”

  “Is Monk the new fellow at Wapping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won't be easy to follow Durban.”

  “Depends where he was going.”

  He looked at her without blinking. “Right and wrong,” he said. “No man's right all the time, but he was more than most.”

  She stood up. “I hope so. But I need the truth, whatever it is.”

  “And then you'll tell everybody?”

  “Depends. I don't know what it is yet.”

  He nodded. “That'll do. But be careful. There's plenty that'd kill to make sure you don't.”

  “I know that.”

  He hitched himself down off his chair, awkward, one shoulder almost half a foot higher than the other, and made his way to the door to show them out.

  Unaware of Hester's mission, Monk started out again in the morning, with Scuff beside him, dressed as yesterday in the old boots. Very soon Monk would get him something better, but now he was compelled to go back to tracing Durban's search for Mary Webber. He would rather have been alone. The effort of concealing his emotions and keeping up a civil conversation was more than the value of any help Scuff could give. But he had left himself no choice. Apart from wounding him by rejection, he dare not allow Scuff to wander around by himself now. He had endangered him, and he must do what he could to protect him from the consequences.

  By midmorning, after several failed attempts, he was almost robbed by the very scuffle-hunter he was actually looking for. They were at the Black Eagle Wharf, between a cargo of timber and lightermen unloading tobacco, raw sugar, and rum. There was no breeze off the river to move the smell of it in the air. The tide was low again, and the water slurped over the weed on the steps and the lighters bumped against the stones.

  An argument between a lighterman and a docker spread until it involved half a dozen men shouting and pushing. It was a form of robbery Monk had seen many times. Bystanders watched, a crowd gradually gathered, and while their attention was on the fighting, pickpockets did their silent job.

  Monk felt the jolt, swung around, and came face-to-face with an old woman who grinned at him toothlessly, and at the same moment there was a touch behind him so light, the thief was a couple of yards away before Monk lunged after him an
d missed. It was Scuff who brought him down with a swift kick to the shins, which left him sprawling on the ground, yelling indignantly and hugging his left leg.

  Monk yanked him to his feet without sympathy. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the top of the steps, the scuffle-hunter between them, looking uncomfortable, but willing to talk.

  “I didn't tell ‘im nowt ‘cause I don't know nuffin’,” he said aggrievedly “I never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber. I said I'd ask around, an’ I did, I swear.”

  “Why did he want her?” Monk answered. “What kind of woman was she supposed to be? When did he first ask? He must have told you something more than her name. How old was she? What did she look like? What did he want her for? Why ask you? Was she a pawnbroker, a money lender, a receiver, a brothel keeper, an abortionist, a whore, a procuress? What was she?”

  The man squirmed. “Gawd! I don't know! ‘E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no ‘ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could ‘a been any o’ them other things. All ‘e said were ‘er name an’ that she ‘ad goldy-brown eyes an’ curly ‘air, little fine curls.”

  “Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?”

  “I dunno!” The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. “D'yer think I wouldn't ‘a told ‘im if I'd ‘a known?”

  Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. “When?” he insisted. “When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?”

  “Nuffin’! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because ‘e stood out in the cold an’ I were near freezin’. Me ‘ands were blue.”

  “Did he ever find her?”

  “I dunno! Nobody round ‘ere never ‘eard of ‘er. An’ I know all the fences and receivers, all the ‘ock shops an’ moneylenders from Wappin’ ter Blackwall, an’ back.”

  Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.

  “Stop it!” Monk snapped. “I'm not going to hit you!” He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.

  But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.

  He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.

  “‘E were lookin’ for fat Tilda's boy,” an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling on her head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. “Gorn missin’, ‘e ‘ad. Told ‘er ‘e'd possibly gone thievin’ an’ been caught, but she were ‘fraid that Phillips'd got ‘im. Could ‘ave. Daft as a brush ‘e is, an’ all.”

  “What happened?” Monk asked patiently.

  “Stupid little sod fell in the water an’ got fished out by a lighterman who took ‘im all the way down ter Gravesend. Come back three days later, right as rain.” She grinned at the memory as if she found acute satisfaction in it.

  “But Mr. Durban looked for the boy?”

  “Yeah, I said so. It were ‘im as found ‘im at Gravesend an’ brought ‘im back. Otherwise ‘e could ‘a been took ter sea an’ ended up dinner for some cannibal in the South Seas. That's wot I told my boys: do as I tell yer, or yer'll get run off an’ be boiled an’ ate up.”

  Monk cringed inwardly at the thought.

  “Reckon ‘e thought Phillips could ‘a got ‘im right enough,” the old woman said dourly, her smile vanished. “It's a bad shame Mr. Durban is dead. ‘E were the one as mebbe could ‘a done for Phillips. Didn't take no nonsense from no one, ‘e din't, but ‘e were fair, an’ nothin’ weren't too much trouble if yer was down.”

  Scuff stood suddenly upright.

  Monk swallowed. “Durban?”

  “‘Course, Durban,” she snapped, glaring at him. “‘Oo d'yer think I was talkin’ about, the Lord Mayor o’ London? ‘Ard man if yer was bad, but soft as muck if yer was sick or poor, or old, like me. ‘E wouldn't ‘ave stood ‘ere in the sun leavin’ me on me feet, an’ me mouth dry as a wooden boot. ‘E'd ‘a gave me a cup o’ tea, an’ bought a couple o’ pairs o’ shoelaces an’ all.”

  “Why was he looking for Tilda's son?” Monk had to examine the moment of kindness, so it would not later fade and slip out of his grasp.

  “‘Cause ‘e were afraid Phillips might ‘ave got ‘im, yer fool!” she said in disgust.

  “Was that likely?”

  “‘E knew. Tried ‘is ‘ardest ter get the bastard, then ‘e got killed ‘isself. Now them stupid sods o’ the river police in't good for nothin’ ‘cept smugglers, pickpockets, an’ a few ‘eavy ‘orsemen.” She was referring to the thieves who stole goods from the ships and brought them ashore in specially designed pockets inside their coats. The reproof stung less than Monk would have expected, and he shot a glance at Scuff to prevent him from leaping to his defense.

  “Then he was going to catch Phillips?” he asked mildly.

  She looked him up and down. “Yer want a pair o’ laces?” she asked.

  He fished tuppence out of his pocket and passed it to her.

  She gave him the laces. “Yer in't man enough to do it,” she responded. “Yer gotter ask an old woman like me the way?”

  Scuff could take it no more. “You mind yer gob, yer ol’ mare!” he said furiously. “Mr. Monk's strung up more murderers than yer've ‘ad ‘ot dinners or like ter ‘ave! Mr. Durban never got Phillips neither, an’ you in't no ‘elp. Where's ‘is boat, eh? ‘Oo goes on an’ off it? ‘Oo puts burns on them boys when they get out o’ line? ‘Oo kills ‘em, an’ why, eh? D'yer even know wot yer talkin’ about, yer ol’ bag o’ bones?”

  She darted her hand out and gave him a swift, hard slap around the ear. Monk winced as he heard the crack of skin on skin.

  Scuff let out a howl.

  “Wot'd I tell you lot fer?” the old woman demanded furiously. “Yer wouldn't do nothin’. Yer wouldn't take no risks ter keep the little bastards safe, not like ‘e did.”

  “Risks?” Monk asked, gulping down hope and trying to keep his voice steady. He must not let her know it mattered. She would play every advantage. He even tried to invest his tone with some skepticism.

  She was still angry. Her contempt was bitter in the deep lines around her eyes and mouth. “‘E got Melcher, dint ‘e?” She gave a toothless sneer. “Real clever sod ‘e were, when ‘e wanted. And ‘e conned Melcher every time, if ‘e din't keep an eye on other boys, an’ Phillips knew it. Pearly Boy too. Weren't till after Durban were dead that Reilly went. But wot'd yer know? Bloody useless.” She spat on the dusty ground. “Yer don't make me laugh like ‘e did. An’ don't give me nothin’ ter eat.”

  He walked away with Scuff, thinking deeply. The insults did not bother him, it was the information whirling in his head that he needed to order. Melcher he knew was a heavy horseman, one of the roughest. According to the old woman, Durban had held something over him. Pearly Boy was an opulent receiver, a fence of the more elegant and expensive goods stolen and resold along the river, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness and greed was well enough known to keep him insulated from the usual dangers and irritations of rivalry in his particular trade. It seemed Durban had somehow manipulated him too. Phillips would not have liked that.

  But who was Reilly? Or if the old woman was right, who had he been, and what had happened to him?

  Scuff was worried. He glanced at Monk now and again, then away quickly.

  “What is it?” Monk asked eventually as they crossed the narrow bridge on the Wapping Basin and moved west.

  “She dint ought ter ‘ave talked to yer like that,” Scuff replied. “Yer shouldn't ‘a let ‘er get by wi’ it. Takes ‘erself liberties, she does.”

  Scuff was right. Monk had been too relieved to hear someone
speak so well of Durban that he had ignored the fact that he had allowed her to disparage him, and done nothing to assert his authority. It was an error that would have to be corrected, or he would pay the price later. He conceded the point to Scuff, who was satisfied, but took no pleasure in his victory. In his own way, he was worrying about Monk, afraid he was not fit to do the job, or to look after himself in the dangerous alleys and docksides of his new beat. There was a very strict hierarchy, and Monk was letting his place in it slip.

  “I'll deal with her,” Monk repeated firmly.

  “You watch Pearly Boy.” Scuff looked up at him. “I in't never met ‘im meself, careful not ter. But I ‘eard ‘e's real nice to yer face, an’ tear yer gizzard open the moment yer in't lookin’.”

  Monk smiled. “You haven't heard what they used to say about me when I was in the regular shore police.”

  “Yeah?” But the anxiety in his manner did not diminish at all. Was he being tactful? Afraid for him, a little pitying? It hurt. Monk was allowing his concern for Durban to erode his skill at his own job. It was past time he amended that.

  “I will be very careful of Pearly Boy,” he assured Scuff. “But I need to find information about him, and at the same time let him know that I am no easier to deal with than Durban was, and no pleasanter.”

  Scuffs shoulders straightened a little, and his step became a trifle cockier, but he did not answer.

  SIX

  onk could put it off no longer. He was at Rathbone's office ‘when the clerk opened the door before nine in the morning.

  “Good morning, Mr. Monk,” he said with some surprise and a certain degree of discomfort. No doubt he knew more about many things than he ever disclosed, even to Rathbone himself. “I am afraid Sir Oliver is not in yet.”

  “I'll wait,” Monk replied. “It is of some importance.”

  “Yes, sir. May I get you a cup of tea?”