Anne Perry - Execution Dock

“And you really know Jericho Phillips?” Hester said in awe.

“Yeah, I know ‘im,” Mina replied with a smile. It was oddly attractive, in spite of a chipped front tooth, no doubt also sustained in a fight. “‘E weren't that bad, at least for business.”

“Your business, or his?” Hester asked with a smile.

“Mine!” Mina said indignantly. “I in't got nothin’ ter do wif ‘is.”

Hester refused to allow her imagination to picture it. She concentrated on examining the wound. Most of the bleeding had stopped; it only seeped through the stitches, but it looked raw and painful. She kept talking, both to probe for information, and to keep Mina's mind off the pain as she cleaned away the dried blood and closed the edges of the flesh a little more, cutting away bloodied gauze. “I suppose you've seen a side of him nobody else has,” she remarked.

“Oh, I in't the only one.” Mina found that amusing. “I just mebbe know'd ‘im longer. But I got more sense'n ter say so. Don't like bein’ reminded o’ the past, ‘e don't. Rotten poor, ‘e were. Always cold an ‘ungry, an’ knocked about summink wicked. ‘Is ma were a bad one. Temper like one o’ them rats wot comes out o’ the sewers sometimes. Fight anyone.”

“What about his father?” Hester asked.

Mina laughed. “Came off some ship, an’ then got right back on it,” she answered drily, keeping her eyes tightly closed in case she accidentally caught sight of the wound. “Lived down by the river, almost in the water, ‘e did. Always cold, poor little sod. Now ‘e goes barmy if ‘e ‘ears anythin’ drippin’.”

“But he lives in a boat!” Hester protested.

“Yeah. Daft, in't it?” Mina agreed. “I knew a feller once ‘oo were scared stiff o’ rats. Dreamed about ‘em, ‘e did. Woke up sweatin’ like a pig. ‘Ear ‘im screamin’ sometimes. Send yer blood cold, it would. Made ‘isself keep a rat in a cage, right there in ‘is room. Could ‘ear the bleedin’ thing scrapin’ its silly little feet an’ squeakin’.” She shivered convulsively without realizing it, moving her arm so that Hester momentarily held the scissors away.

“Do you think that's what Jericho Phillips does, with the water?” she asked curiously. She imagined a man forcing himself to live with his haunting fears until he had inured himself to them and no longer panicked. It was the ultimate control. In some ways that might be the most frightening thing about him.

She started to rebandage the wound as gently as she could, while thinking of the bullied child, afraid of the cold, afraid of dripping water, who had grown into a cruel man steeled against every weakness, above all his own. She was not sure if she could pity him or not.

“Are you frightened of him?” she asked Mina when she was nearly finished.

Mina kept her eyes closed. “Nah! Keep me mouf shut, do wot ‘e wants, an’ ‘e pays good. In't me ‘e ‘ates.”

Hester put a few stitches in to keep the bandage from unraveling. “Who does he hate?” she asked.

“ Durban,” Mina replied.

“He was only doing his job, like all the River Police,” Hester pointed out. “You can open your eyes now. I've finished.”

Mina looked at it with admiration. “Yer make shirts an’ all?” she asked.

“No. I only stitch skin, and bandages. I'm not very good at anything more than mending.”

“Yer talk like yer ‘ad servants ter do it for yer,” Mina remarked.

“I used to.”

“On ‘ard times, are yer?” There was sympathy in Mina's voice. “Yer want money fer that?” She indicated her arm. “I in't got none. But I'll pay yer when I ‘ave.”

“No, I don't want money, thank you. You're welcome to a little help,” Hester replied. “Did Phillips hate Durban in particular? I think Durban hunted him pretty hard.”

“‘Course ‘e did,” Mina agreed. “‘Ated each other, dint they?”

Hester felt the chill back inside her.

“Why?”

“Natural, I s'pose.” Mina gave a slight shrug on her uninjured side. “Grew up together, dint they? Durban done good, an’ Phillips done bad. Gotter ‘ate each other, don't they?”

Hester said nothing. Her mind was whirling, crowded with lies and truths, dishonor and light, fear, and gaping, unanswered questions.

Gently she finished the rebandaging, putting the old gauze and linen aside to be washed.

Monk sat quietly in the parlor and went through all Durban 's notes yet again, and found nothing in them that he had not seen before. So many pages held just a word or two, reminders in a train of thought that was gone forever now The only man who might be able to make sense of it was Orme, and so far his loyalty had kept him silent about all except the most obvious.

Hesitantly and with deep unhappiness, Hester had told Monk what the prostitute, Mina, had said about Jericho Phillips, and finally, white-faced, she had added that Durban had grown up in the same area. The whole story of the schoolmaster and the happy family living in a village on the Estuary was a dream, something he created out of his own hungers for things he had never known. Hester had knotted her hands and blinked back sudden tears as she had told him.

Monk had wanted to disbelieve it. What was a blank school registry, a parish record, the word of an injured prostitute, compared with his own knowledge of a man like Durban, who had served the River Police for a quarter of a century? He had earned the love and loyalty of his men, the respect of his superiors, and the healthy fear of criminals great and small the length of the river.

And yet Monk did believe it. He felt guilty, as if it were a kind of betrayal. He was turning his back on a friend when there was no one else to defend him. What did that say of Monk? That he was weak in faith and loyalty, placing himself first? Or a realist who knew that even the best of men have their flaws, their times of temptation and vulnerability?

He could argue with himself forever and resolve nothing. It was time to look harder for the truth, to stop using loyalty to justify evading it. He put the papers away and found Orme.

But it was late in the morning before they were alone where there would be no interruption. They had very satisfactorily solved a warehouse robbery and the thieves had been arrested. Orme stood on the dock near the King Edward Stairs as Monk finished congratulating him on the arrest.

“Thank you, sir,” Orme acknowledged. “The men did a good job.”

“Your men,” Monk pointed out.

Orme stood a trifle straighter. “Our men, sir.”

Monk smiled, feeling worse about what he had to do. There was no time to delay it. He liked Orme and he needed his loyalty. More than that, he admitted, he wanted his respect, but leadership was not about what you wanted. There would not be a better time to ask; maybe not another time at all today.

“How well did Durban know Phillips, Mr. Orme?”

Orme drew in his breath, then studied Monk's face, and hesitated.

“I have a good idea already,” Monk told him. “I want your view of it. Was Fig's death the beginning?”

“No, sir.” Orme stood more stiffly. The gesture was not one of insolence-there was nothing defiant in his face-just a stiffening against an awaited pain.

“When was the beginning?”

“I don't know, sir. That's the truth.” Orme's eyes were clear.

“So far back, then?”

Orme flushed. He had given himself away without meaning to. It was obvious in his tightened lips and squared shoulders that he also saw that Monk knew, and that evasions were no longer possible. It would have to be the truth, or a deliberate, planned lie. But Orme was not a man who could lie, unless it were to save life, and even then it would not come lightly.