Execution Dock Page 11

  But as Hester went in through the front door and Bessie greeted her, she felt none of her usual anticipation of warmth. She responded, and then asked Bessie about the previous two days’ happenings, when she had been occupied in court, and could not be there. Of course Bessie knew why she had been absent, as they all did; and telling them the outcome was not something she was looking forward to. Like drinking castor oil, it was better done swiftly.

  “We lost,” she said, before Bessie could ask. “Phillips got away with it.”

  Bessie was a large woman who wore her hair screwed back fiercely and gripped by pins so tightly Hester had wondered how she could bear it. Bessie looked even angrier than usual, but her eyes were oddly gentle. “I know that,” she said tartly. “That lawyer twisted everything to make it look like yer fault. I ‘eard already.”

  That was a complication Hester had not even thought of, divided loyalties in the clinic. More bitter medicine to take. Her chest hurt with the tightness of her breath. “That was Sir Oliver's job, Bessie. We should have got our evidence tight enough so that he couldn't. We weren't sufficiently careful.”

  “Yer just gonna let it go, then?” Bessie challenged her, disbelief, pity, and hurt crowding her face all at once.

  Hester swallowed. “No. I'm going to go back to the beginning and start again.”

  Bessie flashed a brilliant smile, then it disappeared so rapidly it could have been an illusion. “Good. Then yer'll be needin’ me an’ the rest of us ter keep comin’ ‘ere.”

  “Yes, please. I would appreciate that very much.”

  Bessie grunted. “Lady Rathbone is in the kitchen, givin’ orders, I ‘spect,” she added. “An’ Squeaky's in the office countin’ money.” She was watching Hester carefully, judging her reaction.

  “Thank you,” Hester replied with a face as devoid of expression as she could manage, and went to get the encounter done with as soon as possible. Besides, she needed to speak to Squeaky Robinson privately, and at some length.

  She swallowed hard and walked along the uneven passage with its twists and its steps up and down until she reached the kitchen. It was a large room, originally intended to serve a family, and it had been added to when the two houses had been turned into one.

  She smiled with bitter humor when she remembered how Rathbone had exercised legal skill and some considerable guile in maneuvering Squeaky into yielding his ownership of the brothels, and then taking on the bookkeeping of his own premises as a shelter for the very people he had once owned. Rathbone had left Squeaky no acceptable choice. It had been wildly daring, and from Rathbone's point of view, totally against the spirit of the establishment he had spent his adult life serving. It had also brought him acute moral and emotional pleasure.

  But then Hester had also allowed Squeaky little choice in his decision, or as little as she could manage.

  Now she was at the kitchen door. Her quick, light step on the wooden boards had alerted Margaret to her coming. Margaret turned with a vegetable knife in her hand. At home she had servants for everything; here she could put her hand to any task that required attention. There was no one else in the room. Hester was not sure if it would have been easier or harder had there been.

  “Good morning,” Margaret said quietly. She stood motionless, her shoulders square, chin a little high, eyes direct. In that one look Hester knew that she was not going to apologize or offer even the suggestion, however tacit, that the verdict of the trial had been unjust. She was prepared to defend Rathbone to the hilt. Had she any idea why he had chosen to champion Jericho Phillips? From the angle of her head, the unwavering stare, and the slight rigidity of her smile, Hester guessed that she did not.

  “Good morning,” she replied politely. “How are our stores? Do we need flour, or oatmeal?”

  “Not for three or four days,” Margaret said. “If the woman with the knife wound in her arm goes home tomorrow, we might last longer. Unless, of course, we get anyone else in. Bessie brought some ham bones this morning, and Claudine brought a string of onions and the bones from a saddle of mutton. We are doing well. I think we should use what money we have for lye, carbolic, vinegar, and a few more bandages. But see what you think yourself.”

  There was no need for Hester to check; that would have made the most delicate of implications that she did not believe Margaret capable. Before the Phillips affair neither of them would have thought such conspicuous courtesy necessary.

  They discussed the medical supplies, simple as they were: alcohol for cleaning wounds and instruments, cotton pads, thread, bandages, salve, laudanum, quinine for fevers, fortified wines to strengthen and warm. The cautious politeness was in the air like a bereavement.

  Hester was relieved to escape to the room where Squeaky Robinson, the short-tempered, much-aggrieved ex-brothel-keeper was doing the accounts and guarding every farthing from frivolous and unnecessary expenditure. One would have thought he had labored for it personally rather than received it, through Margaret, from the charitable of the city.

  He looked up from his table as she closed the door behind her. His sharp, slightly lopsided face under its long, moth-eaten-looking hair was full of sympathy.

  “Made a mess of it,” he observed, without specifying whom he meant. “Pity that. Bastard should've ‘ad ‘is neck stretched, an’ no mistake. The fact we got a lot o’ money in't much comfort, is it! Not today, any'ow. Mebbe termorrer it'll feel good. Yer can ‘ave five pounds ter get more sheets, if yer like.” That was an extraordinarily generous offer from a man who begrudged a penny, and regarded sheets for street women as being about as necessary as pearl necklaces in the farmyard. It was his oblique way of trying to comfort her.

  She smiled at him, and he looked away, embarrassed. He was slightly ashamed of himself for being generous; he was letting his standards slip.

  She sat down in the chair opposite him. “I shall do that. Then we can launder them more often, and keep infection down.”

  “That'll cost more soap, and more water!” he protested, horrified at the extravagance he had apparently let himself in for. “An’ more time to dry ‘em.”

  “And fewer people infected so they'll leave quicker,” she elaborated. “But what I really want is your help. That's why I came.”

  He looked at her carefully. “You seen Mrs … Lady Rathbone?” His face was carefully expressionless.

  “Yes I have, and dealt with the kitchen accounts,” she replied, wondering how much all of them knew about the trial and the verdict. It seemed to be quite a lot.

  “Wot can I do? The swine is free!” He said the words with a sudden savagery, and she realized with new pain how much she and Monk had let them all down. They had used every avenue they knew and given Hester the information, and she had failed to get Phillips hanged.

  “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “We were so sure he was guilty we weren't careful enough.”

  Squeaky shrugged. He had no compunction about hitting a man when he was down. Indeed, it was the safest time to do it! But he could not hit Hester; she was different. He did not want to think how fond he was of her; it was a decidedly serious weakness.

  “Oo'd've thought Sir Rathbone'd ‘ave done that?” he demanded. “We could see if we got enough money to ‘ave someone stick a shiv in ‘is gizzard. It'd cost, mind. Get bedsheets for ‘alf the ‘ores in England.”

  “Oliver?” She was horrified.

  He rolled his eyes. “Gawd, woman! I mean Jericho Phillips! Wouldn't cost nothin’ ter do Sir Rathbone. Except yer'd ‘ave every cop in London after yer, so I s'pose yer'd dance on a rope in the end. An’ that's kind o’ costly. But Phillips'd be another thing. Like as not ‘e'd get yer first. Right nasty piece o’ work, ‘e is.”

  “I know that, Squeaky. I'd rather get him legitimately.”

  “Yer tried that,” he pointed out. He pushed a pile of papers across the desk, further out of his way. “Don't want ter rub it in like, but yer didn't exactly get ‘im justice, did yer? ‘E's better off now than if ye
r ‘adn't bothered. Free, ‘e is, the piece o’ turd. Now even if yer could prove it an ‘e confessed, yer can't touch the sod.”

  “I know.”

  “But mebbe wot you in't thought of, Miss ‘Ester,” he said very seriously, “is that ‘e knows yer after ‘im, an’ ‘e knows ‘oo can tell yer wot, an’ they're gonna ‘ave ter tread very careful from now on. ‘E's a nasty piece o’ work, is Jericho Phillips. ‘E in't gonna forgive them wot spoke out o’ turn.”

  She shivered, chilled in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps that was the most serious failure of all: the danger to others, lives now shadowed with fear of Phillips's revenge, when they had been promised safety. She did not want to meet his eyes, but it was cowardly to look down. “Yes, I know that too. It is going to be even harder to do it again.”

  “In't no point in doin’ it again, Miss ‘Ester!” he pointed out. “We can't ‘ang the bastard anymore! We know ‘e should be ‘ung, drawn, and quartered an’ ‘is guts fed ter the birds! But the law says ‘e's as innocent as them kids wot ‘e sells! Thanks ter Sir bloody Rathbone! Now none o’ them wot spoke agin’ ‘im in't safe, poor sods.”

  “I know, Squeaky,” she agreed. “And I know we let them down. Not you, Mr. Monk and I. We took too much for granted. We let our anger and pity guide us, instead of our brains. But Phillips still needs dealing with, and we owe it to everybody to do it. We'll have to put him away for something else, that's all.”

  Squeaky shut his eyes and sighed in exasperation, but for all the alarm, there was a very faint smile on his face as well. “Yer don't learn, do yer! Gawd in ‘eaven! Wot der yer want now?”

  She took it as if it were agreement, or at least acquiescence. She leaned forward on the table. “He is only acquitted of murdering Fig, specifically. He can still be charged with anything else …”

  “Not ‘anged,” he said grimly. “An’ ‘e needs ‘angin’.”

  “Twenty years in Coldbath Fields would do for a start,” she countered. “Wouldn't it? It would be a much longer, slower death than on the end of a rope.”

  He gave it several moments’ thought. “I grant yer that,” he said finally. “But I like certain. The rope is certain. Once it's done, it's done ferever.”

  “We don't have that choice anymore,” she said glumly.

  He looked at her, blinking. “Yer wonderin’ ‘oo paid ‘im, or d'yer know?” he asked.

  She was startled. “Paid?”

  “Sir Rathbone,” he replied. “‘E din't do it fer nothin’. Wot did ‘e do it fer, anyway? Does she know?” He jerked his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

  “I've no idea,” Hester replied, but her mind was busy with the question of who had paid Rathbone, and why he had accepted the money. She had never considered the possibility of his owing favors before, not of the sort for which such a payment could be asked. How did one incur such a debt? For what? And who would want such payment? Surely anyone Rathbone would consider a friend would want Phillips convicted as much as Monk did.

  Squeaky screwed up his face as if he had bitten into a lemon. “If yer believe ‘e done it fer free, there in't much ‘ope for yer,” he said with disgust. “Phillips's got friends in some very ‘igh places. Never reckoned Rathbone was one of ‘em. Still don't. But some of ‘em ‘ave a lot o’ power, one way an another.” He curled his lip. “Never know where their fingers stretch ter. Lot o’ money in dirty pictures, the dirtier, the more money. Got ‘em o’ little boys, an yer can ask yer own price. First for the pictures, then fer yer silence, like.” He tapped the side of his nose and looked at her sourly out of one eye.

  She started to say that Rathbone would not have yielded to pressure of any sort, then changed her mind and bit the words off. Who knew what one would do for a friend in deep enough trouble? Someone had paid Rathbone, and he had chosen not to ask why.

  Squeaky pursed his lips into an expression of loathing. “Lookin’ at the kind o’ pictures Phillips sells people can affect yer mind,” he said, watching her closely to make sure she understood. “Even people who you wouldn't think. Take ‘em out o’ them smart trousers an’ fancy shirts, an’ they think no different from yer beggar or yer thief, when it comes ter queer tastes. Exceptin’ some folk ‘ave got more ter lose than others, so it leaves ‘em open ter a little pressure now an’ then.”

  She stared at him. “Are you saying Jericho Phillips has friends in places high enough to help him before the law, Squeaky?”

  He rolled his eyes as if her naiveté had injured some secret part of him. “‘Course I am. Yer don't think ‘e's been safe all these years ‘cause nobody knows what ‘e's doin’, do yer?”

  “Because of a taste for obscene photographs?” she went on, disbelief thick in her voice. “I know many men keep mistresses, or conduct affairs haphazardly, and in some unlikely places. But photographs? What pleasure can there be in seeing them that is so powerful that you would compromise your honor, reputation, everything to deal with a man like Phillips?”

  He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Don’ ask me ter explain ‘uman nature, Miss. I in't responsible fer it. But there's some things you can make children do that no adult'd do without lookin’ at yer like yer'd crawled up out o’ the garbage. It in't about love, or even decent appetite, it's about makin’ other people do wot you want ‘em to, an’ tastin’ the power over an’ over like yer can't get enough of it. Sometimes it's about the thrill o’ doin’ something that'd ruin yer if yer was caught, an’ the danger of it makes yer kind o’ drunk. An’ neither of them in't always no respecters o’ persons, if you get my meanin’. Some people need ter be colder an’ ‘ungrier ter think on wot matters.”

  She said nothing.

  “Goin’ with ‘ores is one thing,” he continued. “Let's face it, it in't all that serious, as Society looks at it. Most married ladies turn the other way an’ gets on wi’ their own lives. Keep the bedroom door locked, likely, ‘cause they don't want ter wake up wi’ no nasty disease, but don't make no scandal about it. Pictures o’ little girls is indecent, an’ it makes a right-thinkin’ person disgusted.”

  He shook his head.

  “But little boys is summink else altogether. It in't only indecent, it's illegal. An’ that's entirely another thing. If nobody knows about it, most in't goin’ ter go lookin’. We all know that things go on we'd sooner not think about, an’ most folk mind their own affairs. But if yer forced ter know, then yer forced ter do summink. Friend or no friend, yer out o’ yer clubs and yer job, an’ society won't never ‘ave yer back. So yer pays ‘igh, wide, and ‘andsome ter keep it good an’ quiet, see?”

  “Yes, I do see,” Hester said a trifle shakily. A whole new world of misery had yawned open in front of her. Not that she had been unaware of homosexuality. She had been an army nurse. But the use of children to exert a power no adult relationship would tolerate, even one purchased with money, or to gratify a hunger for the thrills of danger, was a new thought, and extremely ugly. The idea of children kept and hired out for such a purpose was sickening.

  “I need to destroy Mr. Phillips, Squeaky,” she said very softly. “I don't think I can do it without your help. We have to find out who else we can ask to assist us. I imagine Mr. Sutton will be one, and possibly Scuff. Who else can you think of?”

  A succession of emotions crossed Squeaky's face: first incredulity, then horror and an intense desire to escape, lastly a kind of amazement at flattery, and the beginning of a daring impulse.

  She waited him out.

  He cleared his throat, giving himself time. “Well.” He coughed slightly. “There's a couple I know of, I s'pose. But they in't very …” He fished for the right word, and failed to find it. “… nice,” he finished lamely.

  “Good.” She did not hesitate. “Nice people aren't going to be any help at all. Nice people don't even believe in creatures like Jericho Phillips, let alone have the slightest idea how to catch them. He probably eats nice people for breakfast, skewered on a fork.”

  He smiled mir
thlessly, but not without a certain surprised satisfaction.

  There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Claudine Burroughs came in with a tray of tea. She set it down on the tabletop, a fraction closer to Hester than to Squeaky. The pot was steaming gently, the fragrance of it inviting.

  Claudine was a tall woman, roughly the same height as Squeaky, so he always stood a trifle more stiffly when beside her, to add the extra half-inch. She was narrow-shouldered and broad-hipped, handsome enough in her youth, but years of loneliness in an unsatisfying marriage had drawn many of the lines downward in her face. Only since coming to Portpool Lane, searching for some charitable work to do, had she found a genuine and vital purpose.

  “Thank you,” Hester said with the sudden realization of how welcome the tea was. She wondered if Claudine had any idea of yesterday's desperate disappointment, or if she was simply aware that Hester was tired, even at this hour of the morning. She was weary inside, confused and beaten, which was an even deeper thing.

  Claudine was still standing motionlessly, waiting for something.

  Squeaky moved in his chair, impatiently, implying that Claudine had interrupted. Hester turned to look at her, and realized that she was uncomfortably aware of his annoyance. Perhaps she did know about yesterday's conclusion.

  “I'd like to help,” Claudine said awkwardly, her face pink, her eyes unable to look at them. And yet she would not leave. She waited there in acute embarrassment, determined to be part of whatever they were doing, to give her own contribution, regardless of the cost.