Anne Perry - Execution Dock

She left the courtroom feeling betrayed. She moved through the open doors into the hallway beyond, not literally buffeted by the crowd, but it seemed as if they pressed in on her from all sides. They were puffed up with their own convictions, there to see and hear, unaffected by what anyone believed.

She cared passionately. She cared whether Durban was the hero Monk believed him to be, both because he was one of the few men Monk admired, and also because Monk himself had founded his career in the Thames Police on finishing his predecessor's last case. It was his gift of gratitude to a man he could thank in no other way.

She could see now that they had both allowed it to become too important. All the rage they felt towards everyone who had beaten, neglected, or abused a child had centered on Phillips. Perhaps that was unfair, and it was that thought reflected in other people's eyes that humiliated and confused her now.

She came face-to-face with Margaret Rathbone on the steps as she was leaving. She had turned for an instant, uncertainly, and Margaret was only a couple of paces behind her.

Margaret stopped, but she did not lower her eyes. There was an embarrassed silence. Hester had always been the leader. She was the one with the medical experience, the knowledge. She had been to the Crimea; Margaret had never been out of England, except for family holidays to France, carefully chaperoned. Hester had watched Margaret fall in love with Rathbone, and try so hard to win him. They had said little; neither was someone who discussed their deepest fears or dreams, but there had been a wealth of silent understanding between them.

They had nursed the sick and dying together, and faced the truth of violence and crime. Now for the first time they were on different sides, and there was nothing to say that would not make it worse. Rathbone had attacked Hester on the stand personally, and stripped the covering decencies from her beliefs by revealing those she had trusted. Above all, he had exposed Monk to disillusion, and to the appearance of having let down his colleagues who had followed him into the battle.

Margaret's loyalty was committed to Rathbone. She had no room to ask anything or to yield in her position. The lines were set.

Margaret hesitated, as if she would smile, say something, offer commiseration. Then she knew that everything could be misunderstood, and she changed her mind.

Hester made it easier for her by turning away again, and continuing down the steps.

Margaret would catch a cab. Hester took the public bus to the ferry across the river, then walked up to Paradise Place and let herself in through the front door. The house was warm in the summer sun, and quiet. They were close to Southwark Park, and the distant sound of laughter carried through the trees.

She spent a wretched evening alone. There had been a bad incident on the river, on Limehouse Reach, and by the time Monk came home he was too tired to talk about anything. She did not have the opportunity to discuss the day's events with him.

Rathbone also had an acutely uncomfortable evening, in spite of Margaret's unconditional praise of his skill, and surprisingly, of his morality.

“Of course it disturbs you,” she said to him gently after dinner. They were sitting opposite each other with the French windows open again onto the quiet garden with its birdsong and the slight rustling of leaves in the late sunset wind. “No one likes to show up the weakness of their friends, especially in public,” she continued. “But it was not your choice that they go after Jericho Phillips. It would be totally wrong for you to refuse to defend him, or anyone else, on the grounds that you have friends in the prosecution. If it were right, then anyone could refuse to defend any case they might lose, or that might challenge their opinions, or even their social standing. No man of honor does only what is comfortable to him.” Her eyes were bright, and there was warm color in her skin.

It gave Rathbone pleasure that she admired him so genuinely, but it was the guilty pleasure of stolen fruit, or at least of that obtained dishonestly. He struggled for words to explain it to her, but it was too complicated to frame, and he knew from her smile that she was not really listening. He ended up saying nothing, and was ashamed of himself.

Rathbone began the next day's proceedings with what he intended to be his coup de grâce. He had no choice now but to go ahead with it. It was inconceivable that he would do less than his best, because even in the defense of a man like Jericho Phillips, that would be to betray every principle that he believed in. Above the political battles, the good or bad governments, the judiciary at its most brilliant, corrupt, or incompetent, the impartiality of the law-and its power to deal with all people without fear or favor-was the bedrock upon which every civilized nation depended.

When lawyers made judgments the jury of the common man was betrayed, and in the end would become extinct. The law itself would pass from the people to the few who held power. There would no longer be a check on their prejudices, or in time, on their ability to remain above the tides of corruption, bribery, the threat of loss, or the hope of gain.

He now found himself in a position in which he must call William Monk to the stand, and force him to testify against the man to whom he owed the best opportunity of his life.

They faced each other in a silent court. This might well prove to be the last day of a trial that had begun as a mere formality but was now a very real battle in which it was even possible that Jericho Phillips's fight for his life could end in victory. People in the gallery were straining to look at him. He had assumed a sudden public stature that was both frightening and fascinating.

Monk had already been identified. Both the jury and the spectators had heard of him from earlier witnesses. Now they stared in sharp interest as the questions began.

“I did not call you earlier, Commander Monk,” Rathbone began, “because you are familiar with only part of this case, and Mr. Orme was involved from the beginning, when Mr. Durban was first called to the discovery of the boy's body.” He walked elegantly across the open space, as if he were very much at ease. Only someone who knew him as well as Monk did would see that his shoulders were stiff, and he did not carry his hands quite naturally. “However,” he continued, turning to face the witness stand, “certain facts have come to our attention that suggest unusual elements with which you could help us.” He waited, for dramatic effect, not because there was any question in his words.

Tremayne shifted in his seat as though he could not find a comfortable position.

“This case had been dropped, Mr. Monk.” Rathbone's voice was suddenly challenging. “Why did you choose to reopen it?”

Monk had expected exactly this question. “Because I came across a record of it in Mr. Durban's papers, and the fact that it was still unsolved bothered me,” he replied.

Rathbone's eyebrows rose. “Indeed? Then I assume you pursued all of Mr. Durban's other unsolved cases with equal zeal?”

“I would like to solve them all,” Monk replied. “There were not many: a few minor thefts, one to do with the smuggling of half a dozen kegs of brandy; the fencing of stolen china and ornaments; a couple of incidents of public drunkenness that ended in fights; a few broken windows. The murder of children comes before all those.” He too paused for effect, and smiled very slightly. “I'll attend to the rest, if I have time.”

Rathbone's face changed slightly, acknowledging that he had an adversary not to be trifled with. “Of course that takes priority,” he agreed, changing his angle of attack with barely a trace of awkwardness. “It seems from what we have heard that it comes before a great many things in your estimation. You appear to have read Mr. Durban's notes with great attention. Why is that?”