by Anne Perry
“Too late, now,” Mary replied with self-mockery
“It's not too late to help clear his name,” Hester said urgently. “I'll fight as hard as I can, and more important, so will my husband. But I can't do it without the truth. Please tell me what you know of him, his character, good and bad. It will spoil everything if I try to defend him from an accusation, and then make a fool of myself because it was true. After that no one would believe me, even if I were right.”
Mary nodded. “I know.” At last she met Hester's eyes, shyly, but without flinching. “He was good, in his own way, but he had things to hide. He grew up pretty rough. Had to beg and scrounge, and I shouldn't wonder if he stole a bit. The hospital had to put him out when he was eight. Had no choice. I was the lucky one. It wasn't till the Webbers lost their money that I even knew what it was like to be hungry, I mean the kind of hungry when you hurt inside, and all you can think of is food … any kind, just so you can eat it. He always knew.”
Hester cringed. She did not have to imagine it; she had seen it in too many faces. But she did not interrupt.
“He ran with some pretty rough people,” Mary went on. “I know, because he didn't hide it. But I didn't ever ostracize him. All I wanted was that he would stay alive.” She took a deep breath. “But I didn't know how bad it was, or I'd have been much more scared.”
Hester moved without thinking, her muscles knotted.
Mary nodded imperceptibly. “He had some bad friends up and down the river, mostly Linehouse, and the Isle of Dogs. A bank was robbed, and three of them were caught. They were sent up to the Coldbath Fields. One of them died there, poor creature. Only twenty-three, he was. The other two got broken in health, and one of them at least drunken out of his mind. When they got sent down was when Durban joined the River Police. I never asked him if he was in on the bank job, and he never told me. I didn't want him to think I even thought it of him, but I did. He was pretty wild, an’ a temper on him like one of those snapping eels.”
She sighed. “It was all different after that. He got a fright, and he never went back to the old ways. Reckon maybe that's what made him such a good policeman, he knew both sides of the road. You may not be able to help, or make anyone see that there was so much good in him, but I'd be grateful to you all my life if you'd try.”
Hester looked at the sad woman in front of her, broken and alone, and wished she could offer her something more than words.
“Of course I'll try, every way I can. My husband liked Durban more than anyone else he knew. I liked him myself, although we didn't meet very often. But apart from that, the reputation of the River Police depends on proving that Jericho Phillips and anyone to do with him are liars.”
“Jericho Phillips?” Mary said quietly, her voice tight in her throat. “Is he the one doing this?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about him?”
Mary shivered and seemed to shrink further into herself. “I know better than to cross him. Does he know … who I am?”
“Durban's sister? No. I don't think anybody knows that.” Suddenly a great deal more was clear to Hester, the urgency with which Durban had looked for her, and yet would tell no one why, not even Orme, the fear that must have consumed him for her. If Phillips had found her before he did, it would be a threat even more vivid than to kill another of the boys. “And he won't know anything I do,” Hester added aloud. “I mean to see Phillips hang, so by the time you are out of here he will be dead, and you can start a decent life without giving him a thought. You'll have a little money, because Durban would have wanted you to. We have it safely for you. You are his only relative, so it has to be yours. And if you would like a job, and don't mind some hard work, I'd like to have your help in the clinic I run in Portpool Lane. At least think about it. There'd be a room for you, good work to do, and some decent friends to do it with.”
Hope flared in Mary's tired eyes, so bright and sharp that it hurt to see it. “You be careful of Phillips,” she said urgently. “He isn't alone, you know. He started that business on his boat with money, quite a lot of it. Looks like nothing on the outside, but I heard Fish-burn say it was like the best bawdy house on the inside, comfortable as you like. And photograph machines don't come for nothing.”
“An investor?”
Mary nodded. “Not just that, he's very well protected. There's a few people who wouldn't like anything bad to happen to him, and at least one of them is in the law, and stood up for him in court. A really top lawyer, not one of them that hangs around the courthouse hoping to pick up business, a Queen's Counsel, all silk robes, wigs, that kind of thing.”
Suddenly Hester was ice-cold, imprisoned in something terrible, without escape, as if the iron door were locked forever. She could kick and scream forever, but no one could hear her. A Queen's Counsel, one who had defended Phillips in court.
“I'm sorry,” Mary said apologetically. “I can see I've scared you, but you have to know. I can't sit by and let something happen to you when you've been so kind to me.”
Hester found it hard to speak; her lips seemed numb, her mouth full of cotton batting. “A lawyer? Are you sure?”
Mary stared at her, struggling towards a dark understanding. She had no trouble recognizing the pain. “Phillips has power over lots of people,” she said, lowering her voice as if even in prison she was afraid of being overheard. “Maybe that's why my brother never caught him. Lord knows, he tried hard enough. Be careful. You don't know who he's got in his pocket, who'd like to escape but can't.”
“No,” Hester whispered back without knowing why. “No, I suppose you can't.”
TEN
t was the middle of the afternoon and Monk was busy catching up on some of the more pedestrian cases of theft from various yards along the waterfront when one of the men came to his door and told him that Superintendent Farnham had arrived and wished to see him, immediately.
Farnham was sitting down when Monk went into the room, and he did not rise. He was clearly unhappy and in a very bad temper. He indicated curtly for Monk to take the chair opposite him.
“The Phillips case is over,” he said grimly, his eyes hard and flat. “You lost. In fact, not only you, Monk, but the whole of the River Police. You don't seem to be aware of quite how much.” He held up his hand to keep Monk silent, just in case he should think of defending himself. “It was bad enough when the wretched man was acquitted, through your inefficiency and your wife's emotionalism, although one expects such a thing from women, but …”
Monk was so furious he could barely keep still. “Sir, that …”
“When I have finished!” Farnham exploded. “Until then, you will hold your peace. I am disappointed in you, Monk. Durban recommended you highly, and I was fool enough to listen to him. But thanks to your meddling, your obsession with this Phillips case, not only I, but most of the senior police in general, and half the ferrymen, lightermen, dockers, and warehousemen up and down both banks of the river also know a great deal more about the late Commander Durban than we wish to. Leave it, Monk. That is an order. There is quite enough crime on the Thames that genuinely needs your attention. Solve it, all of it, with speed and justice, and you may begin to redeem not only your own reputation but ours as well.”
“Commander Durban was a good officer, sir,” Monk said between his teeth, acutely conscious of everything Hester had told him the previous evening. “I have learned nothing about him to his discredit,” he added bluntly.
“That only suggests that you are not a very good detective, Monk,” Farnham replied. “There is a considerable amount that it seems, for all your effort, you failed to discover.”
“No, sir, there is not,” Monk contradicted. It was a firm lie, and he intended to stick to it. “I have traced him back to the day he was born. I just choose not to discuss it with others, when it is none of their business. He was a good man, and deserves the same dignity of keeping his family affairs private that is accorded to the rest of us.”
Farnham star
ed at him across the table, and gradually some of the temper died out of his eyes and left only tiredness and anxiety.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But now we have newspapermen asking more and more questions about him, why he was so obsessed with this damned Phillips case, and why you're just as bad, if not worse, and we are doing nothing to curb you. You're leaving half the regular work that should be your responsibility for Orme to do. He denies it, but others say it's true. He's a loyal man, Orme. He deserves better than to be lumbered with your job while you chase after Phillips. Phillips beat us. It happens sometimes. We can't catch every single villain on the river.”
“We need to get this one, sir. He's like a malignant wound, one that if it isn't cut out will poison the whole body.”
Farnham raised his eyebrows.
“Is he? Or have you just convinced yourself of that because he beat Durban, then he beat you? Can you swear to me that it isn't pride, Monk? And prove it to me?”
“Sir, Phillips murdered a young boy, Figgis, because Figgis wanted to escape the servitude Phillips had him in, which was far more than labor. He was an object of pornography for the use and entertainment of Phillips's customers …”
“It's filthy.” Farnham shivered with disgust. “But there are brothels all over London, and every other city in Europe. In the world, for all I know. Yes, he murdered the boy, God knows why. It would surely have been much simpler to have put him on one of the ships leaving port, and much less of a risk …”
It was discipline, sir, Monk interrupted. To demonstrate to the rest of his boys what happens to those who defy him.”
“Not very efficient,” Farnham countered. “They wouldn't go if they didn't believe they'd be the ones who'd get away.”
“Then he'd simply kill one of the others,” Monk explained, watching Farnham's face. “One of the younger, more vulnerable ones, whoever the escapee was most fond of.”
Farnham paled, and started to swear, then bit it off.
“It's more than that also,” Monk went on. “Have you considered, sir, what kind of men his clients are?”
Farnham's lips curled; it was a subconscious expression of revulsion. “Men with obscene and uncontrolled appetites,” he replied. “The use of street women may, by some stretch of the imagination, be understandable. The abuse of terrified and cowed children is not.”
“No, sir, it's not,” Monk agreed vehemently. “But that was not the aspect of them that I was thinking of. They are deplorable, but Phillips's clients are also rich, or they couldn't pay his prices. It's not a brothel he runs, it's entertainment, costumes, charades, photographs. They pay well for it.”
“Your point, Monk? We know Phillips profits. That's why he does it. It's hardly worth making a point of.”
“No, sir,” Monk said urgently. “That's only part of the reason. Perhaps even more important than that is its power.” He leaned forward a little, his voice becoming sharper. “They are important men, some of whom hold high office. They know their appetites are not only twisted, but because it is boys, they are also criminal.” He saw a hideous understanding dawn in Farnham's eyes. “They are highly corruptible in all sorts of other ways, sir. Have you never wondered why Durban couldn't catch Phillips before? He was close many times, but Phillips always got away. Oliver Rathbone conducted his defense, but who hired him, do you know that? I don't, but I would dearly like to.”
“It could be …” Farnham stopped, his eyes wide.
“Yes, sir,” Monk finished for him. “It could be almost anyone. A man in bondage to a devil inside himself, and a monster like Phillips outside, is capable of all manner of acts. He could lie at the heart of our justice, our industry, even our government. Do you still want me to forget about Phillips, and concentrate on warehouse robberies, and the odd theft from cargoes on the water?”
“I could tell this damn journalist this,” Farnham said very quietly. “God knows what he'd do with it. He's saying now that the corruption in the River Police is deep and lasting, and that the public has a right to know exactly what it is, and where it leads. He's even suggesting, so far only verbally, but print will follow, that we should cease to exist as a separate body at all but be broken up and come under the local stations. Our survival depends on this, Monk.”
“Yes, sir. I've heard rumor of it already. But then he may be one of Phillips's customers, or in the pay of one.”
Farnham looked as if Monk had slapped him, but he did not retaliate. It was himself he was furious with, because he had not thought of it. “He even put up the possibility that Durban was a partner in Phillips's trade,” he said bitterly. “And his pursuit of Phillips was in order to take over all of it. That's what he'll write, if we don't find a way of stopping him.” His shoulders hunched tightly, as if every muscle in his body were knotted. “Tell me, Monk, don't leave me defenseless when I talk to this bastard. What did you find out about Durban? We can't afford dignity now, for the living or the dead. I won't tell him, but I need to know, or I can't defend any of us.”
Monk weighed his trust and his loyalties. He needed to trust Farnham, for the sake of the future. “He lied about his family, sir,” he admitted. “Said his father was a schoolmaster in Essex. Actually I don't think he knew who his father was. His mother died in a foundling hospital, giving birth to him. He grew up there. He was put out in the streets to earn his own way when he was eight. That's why he had such compassion for mudlarks and other children, or women on their own, the hungry, the frightened, the abused. It was fellow feeling. He'd known it himself.”
“Oh, God!” Farnham ran his hands through his sparse hair. “Any crime known against him? And tell me the truth, Monk. If I get caught in a lie just once they'll never believe me again.”
“Not known, sir,” Monk said reluctantly. “But friends of his robbed a bank. Bad associates. Growing up in the streets, that's unavoidable. It was just after that that he joined the River Police.”
“Thank God. Now who is this Mary Webber he was hell bent on finding? Childhood sweetheart? Common-law wife? What?”
“Sister, sir. Older sister. She was adopted, but the family who took her, the woman was crippled and couldn't cope with a baby, so he was left behind. Mary used to save up pennies and send them to him. They lost touch when she married and later discovered her husband was a thief. She was too ashamed to let Durban know that. The hospital gave him the name of Durban, after one of their benefactors who happened to be from Africa. She changed her name when she married, and then again when her husband's creditors came after her.”
“Where is she now?”
“I know, but it's irrelevant, sir. She's safe, for the time being.”
Farnham blasphemed gently. “I apologize, Monk. You did a superb job finding out about Durban. I hope nobody but me ever has to know about it. I'll put a flea in this newspaperman's ear that will keep him busy, and far away from us for as long as possible. If he speaks to you, tell him you are under orders, on pain of losing your job, to say nothing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“You'll keep me informed?”
“Yes, sir.”
Monk told Orme briefly what Farnham had said, and was only just outside the station walking towards the stairs down to where the police boat was waiting when a man approached him. He was ordinary, slightly shambling, impossible to describe so he would be known again. He wore an old seaman's jacket, shapeless enough to hide his build, and a cap on his head, which hid his hair. His eyes were narrowed against the bright light off the water.
“Commander Monk?” he said politely.
Monk stopped. “Yes?”
“Got a message fer yer, sir.”
“From whom?”
“Din't give me no more, sir. Said as yer'd know.” The man's voice was innocent, even courteous, but there was something knowing in his manner, and the creases that almost concealed his eyes suggested a sneer.
“What's the message?” Monk asked, then half wished he had refus
ed to listen. “Never mind. If you can't tell me who it's from, maybe it doesn't matter.”
“Gotta deliver it, sir,” the man insisted. “Paid ter do it. Wouldn't reckon my chances if I mess wi’ this gentleman. Nasty, he would be, real nasty … if yer get my meanin’?” He looked up at Monk and he was definitely smiling now. “Glad ter see yer listenin’, sir. Save my neck maybe. Gentleman said ter tell yer ter back off the Durban case, whatever that is? D'you know?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can see yer do. ‘E said it would be best people think like they do, ‘cause Durban did wot ‘e did. Otherwise, this gentleman said ‘e'd make the ‘ole thing public. Said ‘e ‘as all the evidence that yer took on this Durban's job wi’ the police, wi’ all ‘is papers and things. An’ yer took over ‘is other interests an’ all, the business o’ getting little boys, that is. Yer got one special trained up fer yerself, an’ all. Clean and bright, ‘e is. Go down a treat wi’ certain gentlemen wi’ special tastes. Scuff, I think ‘e called ‘im. That sound right to yer, sir?”
Monk felt sick to his stomach, his body cold. It was obscene, as if a filthy hand had reached out and touched everything that was decent and precious, staining them with its own dirt. He wanted to lash out at the man, hit him so hard he broke that leering face and left it a bloody pulp so he would never smile again, never speak clearly enough to say words anyone could distinguish.
But that would be exactly what he wanted. And he was probably not unarmed. An attack would be the perfect excuse to knife him in the stomach. It would be self-defense. Another example of River Police brutality. He could say honestly that he had accused Monk of procuring a small boy for Phillips's use. Who could prove otherwise?
