Anne Perry - Execution Dock

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 yer ‘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.