Execution Dock Page 4

  He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.

  He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove Rathbone, and possibly a desire to know if there were facts to do with someone else's guilt that were being held from him. It was that second possibility that above all compelled him to give Phillips the finest defense he could.

  There was a discreet knock on the door. It was the usher to tell him that it was time.

  The trial began with all the ceremony the Old Bailey commanded. Lord Justice Sullivan was presiding, a man in his late fifties with a handsome nose and very slightly receding chin. His shock of dark hair was hidden beneath his heavy, full-bottomed wig, but his bristling brows accentuated the somewhat tense expression of his face. He conducted the opening procedures with dispatch. A jury was sworn, the charges were read, and Richard Tremayne, Q.C., began the case for Her Majesty against Jericho Phillips.

  Tremayne was a little older than Rathbone, a man with a curious face, full of humor and imagination. He would have appeared much more at home in a poet's loose-sleeved shirt and extravagant cravat. Rathbone in fact had seen him wear exactly that, one evening at a party in his large house whose lawn backed on to the Thames. They had been playing croquet, and losing an inordinate number of balls. The late sun was setting, falling in reds and peaches on the water, bees were buzzing lazily in the lilies, and nobody knew or cared who won.

  And yet despite this lack of competition, Rathbone knew that Tremayne both loved and understood the law. Rathbone was not sure at all whether he was a fortunate choice, or an unfortunate one as his opponent.

  The first witness he called was Walters of the Thames River Police, a solid man with a mild manner and buttons that had such a high polish they shone in the light. He climbed the steep, curving steps to the witness box and was sworn in.

  In the dock, higher up opposite the judge's bench, and sideways to the jury, Jericho Phillips sat between two blank-faced guards. He looked very sober, almost as if he might be frightened. Was that to impress the jury, or did he really believe Rathbone would fail? Rathbone hoped it was the latter, because then Phillips would maintain his appearance without the chance of it slipping and betraying him.

  Rathbone listened to see what the river policeman would say. It would be foolish for him to question any of the facts; that was not the tactic he proposed to use. Now all he needed to do was take note.

  Tremayne was intelligent, charming, born to privilege, and perhaps a little lazy. He was due for an unpleasant surprise.

  “The message came to us at the Wapping Station,” Walters was saying. “Lightermen'd found a body, an’ they reckoned as we should go and look at it.”

  “Is that usual, Mr. Walters?” Tremayne asked. “I presume there are tragically many bodies found in the river.”

  “Yes, sir, there are. But this one weren't an accident. Poor beggar'd ‘ad ‘is throat cut from ear to ear,” Walters replied grimly. He did not look up at Phillips, but it was obvious from the rigidity of his shoulders and the way he stared fixedly at Tremayne that he had been told not to.

  Tremayne was very careful. “Could that have happened accidentally?” he asked.

  Walters's impatience sounded in his voice. “‘Ardly, sir. Apart from ‘is throat cut, an’ ‘e were only a boy, there were burn marks on ‘is arms, like from cigars. They called us because they thought ‘e'd been murdered.”

  “How do you know that, Mr. Walters?”

  Rathbone smiled to himself. Tremayne was nervous, even though he believed his case to be unassailable, or he would not be so pedantic. He was expecting Rathbone to attack at every opportunity. It would be pointless to object to this as hearsay. It would make Rathbone look desperate, because the answer was obvious.

  Lord Justice Sullivan's lips curved in a very slight smile also. It seemed he read both of them and understood. For the first time since they began, there was a flash of interest in his eyes. He sensed a duel of equals, not the execution he had expected.

  “I know it ‘cause they said so when they asked us to come,” Walters replied stolidly.

  “Thank you. Who is the ‘us’ you refer to? I mean, who from the River Police did go?”

  “Mr. Durban an’ me, sir.”

  “Mr. Durban being your commanding officer, the head of the River Police at Wapping?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rathbone considered asking why Durban was not testifying, although of course he knew, but most of the jury would not.

  Lord Justice Sullivan beat him to it. He leaned forward, his expression mild and curious. “Mr. Tremayne, are we to hear from this Commander Durban?”

  “No, my lord,” Tremayne said grimly. “I regret to say that Mr. Durban died at the very end of last year, giving his life to save others. That is the reason we have called Mr. Walters.”

  “I see. Please proceed,” Sullivan directed.

  “Thank you, my lord. Mr. Walters, will you please tell the court where you went in answer to the summons, and what you found there?”

  “Yes, sir.” Walters squared his shoulders. “We went down the Limehouse Reach, about level with Cuckold's Point, an’ there was a lighterman, a ferryman, and a couple o’ barges all anchored an’ waiting. One o’ the barges'd caught up the body of a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. The lighterman'd seen it and raised the cry. O’ course you can't stop a barge, still less a string of ‘em, all of a sudden, like. So they'd gone a good ‘undred yards or so before they threw out an anchor an’ got to look at what they ‘ad.” His voice sank even lower, and he was unable to keep the emotion out of it. “Poor kid was in an ‘ell of a mess. Throat cut right across, from one ear to the other, an’ been dragged an’ bashed around so it were a wonder ‘is ‘ead ‘adn't come off altogether. ‘E were caught in some ropes, otherwise, of course, he'd ‘ave gone out with the tide, an’ we'd never ‘ave found him before the sea an’ the fish ‘ad ‘im down to bone.”

  On his high seat Sullivan winced and closed his eyes. Rathbone wondered if any of the jurors had seen that small gesture of revulsion or noticed that Sullivan was more than usually pale.

  “Yes, I see.” Tremayne gave the tragedy of it full importance by waiting to make sure the court had time to dwell on it also. “What did you do as a result of this discovery?”

  “We asked ‘em to tell us exactly what ‘appened, where they were when they reckoned the barge'd run onto the body, ‘ow far they'd dragged it without realizing …”

  Sullivan frowned, looking sharply at Tremayne.

  Tremayne saw it. “Mr. Walters, if they did not know the body was there, how could they have estimated how far they had dragged it?”

  Rathbone hid a smile not because he was unamused by the irony of the arguments, and Tremayne's exactness, but because if he were seen to display any lack of horror or pity now it would work against him later.

  “Because o’ the last time someone would ‘ave ‘ad to ‘ave seen it if it were there, sir,” Walters said grimly “If someone passed astern o’ you, they'd ‘ave seen.”

  Tremayne nodded. “Precisely so. And how far had that been?”

  “Around Horseferry Stairs. Passed a ferry going in, pretty close. Must ‘ave run afoul o’ the poor little begger some time after that.”

  “Did you know who he was, this dead child?”

  Walters winced, his face suddenly transformed by anger and pity. “No, sir, not then. There's thousands o’ children on the river, one way or the other.”

  “Did you work on the case after that, Mr. Walters?”

  “No, si
r. It was mostly Mr. Durban hisself, and Mr. Orme.”

  “Thank you. Please remain there, in case my learned friend, Sir Oliver, wishes to ask you anything.” Tremayne walked back across the open space of the floor and gestured an invitation to Rathbone.

  Rathbone rose to his feet, thanked him, and walked calmly into the center of the court. Then he looked up at the witness stand to where Walters was waiting, his face heavy and apprehensive.

  “Good morning, Mr. Walters,” he began. “I shall not detain you long. May I compliment you on the marvelous work the River Police do for us. I believe that in the nearly three quarters of a century that you have existed you have reduced crime on the river by a staggering amount. In fact, you solve more than ninety percent of the crimes you address, do you not?”

  Walters straightened himself. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You are rightly proud. It is a great service to Her Majesty, and to the people of London. Am I correct in thinking that the murder of this boy stirred a deep anger in you?”

  “Yes, sir, you are. ‘E'd not only been murdered. From the burns on ‘is arms and body, ‘e'd been tortured as well.” Walters's face was ashen, his voice hoarse as though his throat were dry.

  “It is very terrible,” Rathbone agreed. This was proceeding exactly as he had intended. Walters was a deeply sympathetic witness. “Was Mr. Durban similarly affected?” he went on. “Or perhaps I should more correctly ask you, what was Mr. Durban's manner, his reaction, when he saw the boy's corpse with his throat slashed open so his head hung half off, and the marks of deliberate torture on his flesh?”

  Walters winced at the brutal words. He closed his eyes as if taking himself back to that fearful scene. “‘E wept, sir,” he said quietly. “‘E swore that ‘e'd find ‘oo done it, an’ see ‘im ‘ang till ‘is own ‘ead were near off ‘is body too. ‘E'd never, ever do that to another child.”

  “I imagine we can all understand how he felt.” Rathbone spoke quietly, yet his voice had a timbre that carried to every seat in the silent court. He knew Lord Justice Sullivan was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. He was probably wondering whether to remind Rathbone which side he was on. “And Commander Durban pursued it himself,” he continued. “With the assistance of Mr. Orme, you said? Mr. Orme, I believe, was his immediate right-hand man.”

  “Yes, sir. He's still second in command, sir,” Walters agreed.

  “Just so. These events you describe happened some year and a half ago. And we are only just come to trial. Did Mr. Durban abandon the case?”

  Walters's face flushed with indignation. “No, sir! Mr. Durban worked on it day and night, until ‘e ‘ad to give over to other things, an’ then ‘e followed it on ‘is own time. ‘E never, ever gave up on it.”

  Rathbone lowered his voice, while making sure that every word still carried to the jury and to the benches where the public sat awed and silent.

  “Are you saying that he felt so passionately that he devoted his off-duty time to it, until the tragedy of his own early death cut short his dedication, to finding the person who had tortured and then killed this boy?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. An’ then when ‘e found the notes Mr. Durban left, Mr. Monk took up after ‘im,” Walters said defiantly.

  “Thank you.” Rathbone held up his hand to stop any more revelations. “We will get to Mr. Monk in due time. He can testify himself, should that prove necessary. You have made it all very clear, Mr. Walters. That is all I have to ask you.”

  Tremayne shook his head, his face a little tight, concealing a certain unease.

  The judge thanked Walters and excused him.

  Tremayne called his next witness: the police surgeon who had examined the body of the boy. He was a thin, tired man with receding sandy hair and a surprisingly good voice, in spite of having to stop and sneeze, then blow his nose from time to time. He was obviously practiced at such court appearances. He had every answer on the tip of his tongue, and told them of the state of the boy's body briefly and precisely. Tremayne did not need to prompt him in anything. He used no scientific language to describe the wasted flesh, which was underdeveloped, barely beginning to show signs of puberty. He spoke simply of the flesh scarring that could have been made only by something like the lit end of a cigar. Finally he told them that the throat was cut so violently that the wound reached to the spine, so the whole head was only just attached. In such unaffected words the description seemed immeasurably more appalling. There was no passion or disgust in his language; it was all in his eyes, and in the rigid angles of his body as he gripped the rail of the witness stand.

  Rathbone found it hard to speak to him. Legal tactics melted away. He was face-to-face with the reality of the crime, as if the surgeon had brought the smell of the mortuary with him, the blood and carbolic and running water, but nothing washed away the memory.

  Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor with every eye in the room on him, and wondered suddenly if he really knew what he was doing. There was nothing this man could add that would help him. Yet to fail to ask him at least one question would make that obvious. He must never let Tremayne see any weakness. Tremayne might look like a dandy, a poet and dreamer caught by chance in the wrong place, but it was an illusion. His mind was keen as a razor, and he would scent weakness as a shark scents blood in the water.

  “You were obviously very moved by this particular case, sir,” Rathbone said with great gravity. “Perhaps it was one of the most distressing you had seen?”

  “It was,” the surgeon agreed.

  “Did Mr. Durban seem to you similarly distressed by it?”

  “Yes, sir. Any civilized man would be.” The surgeon looked at him with distaste, as if Rathbone himself were devoid of decency. “Mr. Monk after him was equally upset, if you were going to ask,” he added.

  “It had occurred to me,” Rathbone acknowledged. “As you've implied, it is an appalling piece of savagery, and against a child who had obviously suffered already. Thank you.” He turned away.

  “Is that all you have to ask me?” the surgeon called after him, his voice harder, challenging.

  “Yes, thank you,” Rathbone replied with a slight smile. “Unless my learned friend has anything further, you are free to leave.”

  Tremayne next called Orme. He was a solemn figure, not overtly nervous. He held his hands at his sides, not gripping the rail except when he went up the steps. Then he stood square in the box and faced Tremayne with as little expression on his face as he could manage.

  Rathbone knew he would be a difficult man to break, and if he did so and the jury saw it, they would not forgive him. He glanced at them now, for the first time. Immediately he wished he had kept his resolve not to. They were mostly middle-aged men, old enough to have sons the victim's age. They sat stiffly in their sober best suits, white-faced and unhappy. Society had entrusted them not only with weighing the facts, but also with seeing the horror and dealing with it on behalf of everyone. If they sensed that they were being manipulated they would not pardon the man who did it.

  “Mr. Orme.” Tremayne began his questions, which were likely to go on until the adjournment for lunch, and long into the afternoon, perhaps until evening. “You worked with Mr. Durban during the rest of his life, from the time the boy's body was pulled out of the river until Mr. Durban's own death at the end of last year?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “We have already heard that Mr. Durban took a special interest in this case. As far as you know from your own direct observation, will you describe what was done to solve it, either by him, of which you have the evidence, or by yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.” Orme stood stiffly. “It was plain from the beginning that the boy was murdered, and that he'd been pretty badly used before that,” he said distinctly, his voice carrying throughout the room. No one moved or whispered in the jury box or the gallery “We ‘ad to find out who he was, and where he came from. There was nothing on the body that'd give ‘is name,
but the way ‘e'd been treated it seemed likely ‘e'd fallen into the ‘ands of one o’ them who sells children for the use of brothels an’ pornographers and the like.” He said the words with withering disgust.

  “You could tell that from a body?” Tremayne said, affecting some surprise.

  All this was exactly what Rathbone had expected, and what he would have done had their roles been reversed—draw it all out in the fashion of a story, and with detail the jury would never forget. The poor devils would probably have nightmares for years to come. They would waken in a sweat with the sound of running water in their ears.

  “Yes, sir, pretty likely,” Orme replied. “Lots of boys, an’ girls too, is ‘alf starved. You're poor, you've got no choice. But the burns are different.”

  “Is it not possible that a poor man, violent, perhaps drunken, in his despair might hurt even his own children?” Tremayne pressed.

  “Yes, sir,” Orme conceded. “‘Course it is. But poor men don't ‘ave cigars to do it with. It isn't a bad temper that makes you light a cigar, smoke it till it's hot, then hold the end of it against a child's body till it burns through the skin into the flesh, and then makes scabs that bleed.”

  Several people in the gallery cried out, stifling the sound instantly, and one of the jurors looked as if he might be sick. His face was sweaty, and had a faintly greenish hue. The man next to him grasped his arm to steady him.

  Tremayne waited a moment before going on.

  Rathbone understood. He would have done the same.

  “Did that prompt any particular course of action from you?” Tremayne asked, retaining his composure as if with difficulty.

  “Yes, sir,” Orme answered. “We visited the places we knew of where people kept boys o’ that age to use. We'd looked at them pretty hard, sir. ‘E wasn't a chimney sweep's boy, nor a laborer of any kind. Easy enough to see by ‘is ‘ands. No dirt from chimneys, no calluses from oakum picking or any other sort of thing like that. But if you'll pardon me, sir, in public like, there were other parts of his body that'd been ‘ard used.” His face was red, his voice cracking with emotion.