by Anne Perry
“I'm sorry, my dear,” he said, busying himself with sorting his cuff links so he did not have to meet her eyes. “I realize it is unfair to expect you to give up your evening at such little notice, but the opportunity only came today, or I should have told you in better time. There are people who will be there whom I wish very much to meet. I cannot discuss it, because it has to do with a case.” Now he faced her. The words had come to him just in time, and it sounded perfectly reasonable. What was more, they were true, if taken obliquely enough.
“Of course,” she replied, searching his eyes to understand his meaning.
He smiled. “I should enjoy it far more if you were able to come with me.” That was untrue, but he felt he had to say it. It would be simpler if he were alone. He would not have to guard himself against being too closely observed, and possibly caught in an inconsistency.
“I should be delighted,” she replied, then turned away also, not having seen the candor she was looking for. “Is it formal?”
“Yes, I'm afraid it is.”
“It is not a concern. I have plenty of gowns.” That at least was true. He had seen that she had more than sufficient in the latest fashion, simply for the pleasure of it. She could look superb, but always in the discreet taste of a woman of breeding. She would not know how to be vulgar. It was one of the things that most pleased him about her. He would like to have told her so, but to say so now would be forced. It would be robbed of all sincerity, and he did mean it.
They arrived at the reception at precisely the best time, neither early enough to seem too eager, nor late enough to appear as if wanting to draw attention to themselves. To be ostentatious was ill-bred, to say the least.
Margaret was dressed in cool plain colors, shading towards the blues rather than the reds, and subdued, as if in shadow. Her bodice was cut low, but she could wear it without showing more of herself than was modest, because she was slender. Her skirt was full, and she had always known how to walk with great grace.
“You look lovely,” he said to her quietly as they came slowly down the stairs, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He saw the color warm her neck and cheeks, and was glad he meant it; it was no empty compliment.
They were greeted by the hostess, a thin, handsome woman of excellent family who had married money, and was a little uncertain whether she had been as wise as she thought. She smiled shyly and welcomed everyone, then fell back on polite conversation about nothing at all, leaving people wondering if they had accepted an invitation they were offered only out of courtesy.
“Poor soul,” Margaret said quietly as she and Rathbone moved into the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, acknowledging briefly those whose names they could not immediately remember, or whom they wished to avoid. Some people did not know when to allow a conversation to die a natural death.
“Poor soul?” Rathbone questioned, wondering if there were something he should have known.
Margaret smiled. “Our hostess made a financially suitable marriage, and is more than a little out of her depth within ‘trade,’ instead of aristocracy,” she explained. “But if one wishes to, one can learn.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
For the first time in several days, she laughed outright. “You look concerned, Oliver. Do you regard yourself as trade? I had not seen myself as impoverished. And I certainly did not marry you for money I refused wealthier men than you. I thought you might be interesting.”
He let out his breath slowly, feeling a certain warmth rise up his cheeks. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. “I am professional,” he replied with mock tartness. “Which is nothing at all like trade. But it is still a considerable advantage to have a well-bred wife, even if she does have rather more wit and spirit than is entirely comfortable.”
She gripped his arm for a moment, then eased away. “It is not good for you to be comfortable all the time,” she told him. “You become complacent, and that is most unattractive. Perhaps you had better find whoever it is you wish to see.”
He sighed. “Perhaps I had,” he conceded, the misery swelling inside him again, making it hard to draw his breath.
It was not difficult to encounter Sullivan without it seeming forced, but Rathbone could feel his heart pounding; it was hard to get his breath, and when he spoke, to keep his voice steady. What would he do if Sullivan simply refused to see him alone? Rathbone must phrase it so that he had no suspicion. Or does a guilty man always suspect?
They were separated from the next group by a yard or two, and Sullivan had his back to an alcove full of books and objets d'art.
“Ah! Nice to see you, Rathbone,” he said warmly. “Still celebrating your victory, I imagine? You achieved what I would have thought was damned near impossible.”
Rathbone hid his feelings about his own part in the trial, which were growing more and more repugnant to him all the time. “Thank you,” he accepted, since to do anything less would be discourteous, and he had to be civil at least until he could find a time and place to speak to Sullivan alone. He was used to seeing him in his wig and robes, and at a distance of several yards, from the floor of the court up to the judicial bench. Closer he was still a handsome man, but the features were a little less clearly defined, the skin blotchier, as if his health were compromised, perhaps by self-indulgence, and the resultant dyspepsia. “It proved less difficult than I foresaw,” he added, since Sullivan seemed to be waiting for him to say something further.
“River Police dug their own graves,” Sullivan replied grimly. “Both Durban and Monk. I think their power needs curbing. Maybe the newspapers are right, and it's time they were dispersed and command given entirely to the local stations on shore. Too much a law unto themselves at the moment.”
Rathbone choked back his protest. He could not afford to antagonize Sullivan yet, and he would learn nothing if he put him on the defensive.
“Do you think so?” he asked, assuming an air of interest. “It seems they have a particular knowledge, and I must say, up to this point, an excellent record.”
“Up to this point,” Sullivan agreed. “But by all accounts, Durban was not as clever or as honorable as we had assumed, and this new man, Monk, has followed too much in his footsteps. You have only to look at the Phillips case to see that he is not up to the job. Promoted beyond his ability, I dare say.”
“I don't think so,” Rathbone protested.
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. “But my dear fellow, you proved it yourself! The man involved his wife, a good woman no doubt, but sentimental, full of well-meaning but illogical ideas. And he, apparently, fell victim to the same wishful thinking. He presented inadequate evidence to poor Tremayne, and so the jury had no choice but to find Phillips not guilty. Furthermore, we know that now he cannot be tried for that crime again, even if we find incontrovertible proof of his guilt. We cannot afford many fiascos like that, Rathbone.”
“No, indeed,” Rathbone said with perfectly genuine gravity. “The situation is now very serious indeed, more than perhaps Monk has any comprehension.”
“Then you agree that perhaps the River Police should be disbanded?” Sullivan prompted.
Rathbone looked up at him. “No, no, I was thinking of the critical problem of blackmail.” He watched Sullivan's face and knew from some movement of shadow in his eyes that he had struck a nerve; how deep he had yet to find out. He smiled very slightly. “Naturally, in order to defend Phillips, I had to study the evidence with extreme care, and of course, question him closely.”
“Naturally,” Sullivan agreed, his face oddly stiff. “But do be careful, Rathbone. Whatever he told you as your client is still confidential, regardless of the fact that the verdict is in, and he is acquitted. I am not the judge hearing the case now, and no privilege pertains to me.”
“None at all,” Rathbone said drily “I was not going to let anything slip, beyond generalities. He has never denied that he makes his living by satisfying the more pathetic and obscene tastes of
men who have the money to pay to have their fantasies indulged.”
Sullivan's face reflected a conflict of emotions, fear, contempt, and flickering excitement also. “With such knowledge, it must have cost you dearly to defend him,” he observed.
While they might have pretended amiability, it was now gone completely, and both men knew it. What remained was mutual dislike, and a thin film of disgust.
“A lot of people I defend have practices that revolt me,” Rathbone replied. “I am sure you have conducted cases where both the crime itself, and the character of the accused, offended you profoundly. It would not cause you to recuse yourself from the case, or some cases would never be heard.”
Sullivan gave a slight shrug and half turned away. “I am aware of the difficulties of the law, and justice,” he said without expression. “Is someone accusing blackmail? Or is all this merely theoretical?”
Rathbone steadied his breathing with difficulty. Sullivan was a judge. Rathbone had stolen the information from Ballinger, which he could not afford to have anyone know, for his own sake, for Cribb's, possibly even for Margaret's. But Rathbone had something to learn, and something to redeem. He must lie.
“Regrettably, I believe it to be fact, at least in one case, possibly more. Phillips does nothing unless there is profit for him in it. In the case of supplying boys to satisfy these appetites, there is double profit, first for the satisfaction itself, second to keep silence afterwards, because in some instances, if not all, it is illegal. It seems these men will not, or cannot, control themselves, even when it is of such fearful cost to them.” He watched the blood ebb from Sullivan's skin, leaving his cheeks blotched. His expression did not change in the slightest.
“I see,” he said very quietly, in little more than a whisper.
“I was certain you would,” Rathbone agreed. “Since they are obviously men who can pay blackmail sufficient to keep Phillips's silence, they are wealthy men, and so likely to also be men of power, and even of far-reaching influence. We can have no idea who they are.”
“You do not need to spell it out, Rathbone. I perceive where you are going. It is very grave, as you say. And if you throw around wild and rash accusations, you will place yourself in very great danger indeed. I imagine you realize that?” It was quite definitely a question, and it required an answer.
“Of course I do, my lord,” Rathbone said grimly. “I have taken intense care regarding to whom I spoke about this.” It might not be wise to let Sullivan think he had told no one else. “But I cannot ignore it. The potential for corruption is too great.”
“Corruption?” Sullivan asked, staring at Rathbone. “Are you not exaggerating a trifle? If certain men have … tastes that you deplore, is their private behavior, or the company they keep, really your concern?”
“If they can be blackmailed for money, then I suppose that it is not,” Rathbone replied, measuring every word. “Then they are victims, but until they complain, it is a private suffering.”
A footman passed, hesitated, and moved on. A woman laughed.
“But if they are men of power,” he continued. “And the price is no longer money but the abuse of that power, then it is the business of us all. Most particularly if the power concerned is high office in finance, or government, or most especially in the judiciary.” His eyes met Sullivan's squarely, and it was Sullivan who flinched and looked away.
“What if this man were to pay his blackmail in blindness to bending the law?” he asked. “Or what if he used fraud, embezzlement of money to pay Phillips, after his own funds have run out? Or police authority, to allow or even abet in a crime? Port authorities might overlook smuggling, theft, even murder on the river. Lawyers, or even judges, may corrupt the law itself. Who can say who is involved, or how far it may seep into the fabric of all we believe in, all that separates us from the jungle?”
Sullivan swayed, his face gray.
“Get a grip on yourself, man!” Rathbone said between his teeth. “I'm not going to let this pass. Those boys are beaten and sodomized, and the ones who rebel are tortured and murdered. You and I have both connived to let Phillips get away with it, and you and I are going to put that right!”
“You can't,” Sullivan said weakly “No one can stop him. You've seen that. You were used just as much as I was. If you turn against him now, he'll say you were a customer, and defended him to save yourself That your payment was blackmail.” Hope flickered on his face, pasty and sheened with sweat. He took several steps backwards, but there was nowhere to escape to.
Rathbone followed him, even further away from the crowd. People assumed they were speaking confidentially and left them alone. The crowd swirled around them and away, oblivious.
“How in God's name did this happen to you?” Rathbone demanded. “Sit down, before you fall over and make a complete fool of yourself.”
Sullivan's eyes widened as if the idea appealed to him. Insensibility! There was a way to get out after all.
“Don't entertain it!” Rathbone snapped. “People will think you are drunk. And it will only delay what is inevitable. If you could control yourself, if you could stop, surely to God in heaven, you would have?”
Sullivan shut his eyes to block out the sight of Rathbone's face. “Of course I would have, damn you! It all began … in innocence, before it became an addiction.”
“Really?” Rathbone said icily.
Sullivan's eyes flew open. “I only wanted … excitement! You can't imagine how … bored I was. The same thing, night after night. No thrill, no excitement. I felt half alive. The great appetites eluded me. Passion, danger, romance was passing me by. Nothing touched me! It was all served up on a plate, empty, without … without meaning. I didn't have to work for anything. I ate and left as hungry as I came.”
“I presume you are referring to sexual appetite?”
“I'm referring to life, you smug bastard!” Sullivan hissed. “Then one day I did something dangerous. I don't give a damn about relations with other men. That disgusts me, except that it's illegal.” His eyes suddenly shone. “Have you ever had the singeing in your veins, the pounding inside you, the taste of danger, terror, and then release, and known you are totally alive at last? No, of course you haven't! Look at you! You're desiccated, fossilized before you're fifty. You'll die and be buried without ever having really been alive.”
A world he had never thought of opened in front of Rathbone, a craving for danger and escape, for wilder and wilder risks.
“And do you feel alive now?” he asked softly. “Helpless to control your own appetites, even when they are on the brink of ruining you? You pay money to a creature like Jericho Phillips, and he tells you what to do, and what not to, and you think that is power? Hunger governs your body, and fear paralyzes your intellect. You have no more power than the children you abuse. You just don't have their excuses.”
For an instant Sullivan saw himself as Rathbone did, and his eyes filled with terror. Rathbone could almost have been sorry for him, were it not for his complete disregard for the other victims of his obsession.
“So you went to Ballinger to find a lawyer who could get Phillips off,” he concluded.
“Of course. Wouldn't you have?” Sullivan asked.
“Because he's my father-in-law, and I was Monk's friend, and knew him well enough to use the weaknesses that were the other side of his strengths.”
“I'm not a fool!” Sullivan said waspishly.
“Yes, you are,” Rathbone told him. “A total fool. Now you have not only Phillips blackmailing you, you have me as well. And the payment I shall require is the destruction of Phillips. That will silence me forever on this issue, and obviously it will get rid of Phillips, on the end of a rope, with luck.”
Sullivan said nothing. His face was sweating, and there was no color in his skin at all.
“I won't ruin you now,” Rathbone said with disgust. “I need to use you.” Then he turned and walked away.
In the morning Rathbone sent a mess
age to the Wapping Station of the River Police, asking Monk to call on him as soon as he was able to. There was no point in going to look for Monk, who could have been anywhere from London Bridge to Greenwich, or even beyond.
Monk arrived before ten. He was immaculate, as usual, freshly shaved and with a neatly pressed white shirt under his uniform jacket. Rathbone was mildly amused, but too sick inside to smile. This was the Monk he knew, dressed with the careless grace of a man who loved clothes and knew the value of self-respect. And yet there was no lift in his step, and there were shadows of exhaustion around his eyes. He stood in the middle of the office, waiting for Rathbone to speak.
Rathbone was horribly familiar with the charges against the River Police in general, and Durban and Monk in particular. He had resented it before. Since last night it woke an anger in him that he could hardly contain.
He wanted the rift between Monk and himself healed, but he avoided words; they only redefined the wound.
Monk was waiting. Rathbone had sent for him, so he must speak first.
“The situation is worse than I thought,” he began. He felt foolish for not having seen it from the start. “Phillips is blackmailing his clients, and God only knows who they are.”
“I imagine the devil knows too,” Monk said drily. “I assume you didn't send for me to tell me that. You can't have imagined that I was unaware. I'm threatened myself, because I've taken in a mudlark, largely for his protection. Phillips is suggesting that I am his partner in procuring.”
Rathbone felt the heat of guilt in his face. “I know where the money came from that paid me,” he said. “I will donate it to charity, anonymously, I think. I am not proud of the way I obtained the information.”
A flash of pity lit Monk's eyes, which surprised Rathbone. There was a temperance in Monk he had not seen before.
“The instructing solicitor was my father-in-law,” he continued. The next was more difficult, but he would not prevaricate or attempt to excuse. “I will not tell you how I learned who his client is. There is no need for the guilt to be anyone's but mine. It is sufficient for you to know that it is Lord Justice Sullivan …” He saw the incredulity on Monk's face, then dawning perception and amazement. His smile was bleak. “Precisely,” he said with bitter humor. “It throws a new light on the trial, does it not?”
