Anne Perry - Execution Dock

“You don't think he is?” Hester asked.

Scuff gave her a skeptical look. “Dip means ‘e picks pockets. ‘Oo don't, round ‘ere? I reckon ‘e's all guff.”

And so it turned out. But by the end of the day they had heard many stories of Durban from a variety of people up and down the dockside. They had been discreet, and Hester believed with some pride that they had also been inventive enough not to betray the reason for their interest.

It was well after dusk with the last of the light faded even from the flat surface of the water when they finally made their way up Elephant Stairs just a few yards along from Princes Street. The tide was running hard, slapping against the stone, and the sharp river smell was almost pleasant in the air after the closed-in alleys they had walked all day, and the heavy, throat-filling odors of the docks, where men were unpacking all manner of cargoes, pungent, clinging, some so sweet as to be rancid. The quiet movement of water was a relief after the shouting, clatter of hooves, and clank of chains and winches and thus of heavy loads.

They were tired and thirsty. Scuff did not say that his feet were sore, but possibly he regarded it as a condition of life. Hester ached all the way up to her knees, and beyond, but in the face of his stoicism, she felt that it would be self-indulgent to let it be known.

“Thank you,” she said as they started to walk up in the direction of Paradise Place. “You are quite right. I do need you.”

“S'all right,” he said casually, giving a little lift of his shoulder visible as he passed under the street lamp.

He took a deep breath. “‘E weren't a bad man,” he said, then looked sideways at her quickly.

“I know, Scuff.”

“Does it matter if ‘e told a few lies about ‘oo ‘e were or where ‘e come from?”

“I don't know. I suppose it depends what the truth is.”

“Yer think it's bad, then?”

They came to the end of Elephant Lane and turned right into Church Street. It was completely dark now and the lamps were like yellow moons reflected over and over again right to the end. There was a faint mist drifting up in patches from the water, like castaway silk scarves.

“I think it might be. Otherwise why would he lie about it?” she asked. “We don't usually lie about good things.”

He was quiet.

“Scuff?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You can't go on calling me ‘miss’! Would you like to call me ‘Hester’?”

He stopped and tried to look at her. “Hester?” he said carefully, sounding the H. “Don't you think Mr. Monk might say I'm bein’ cheeky?”

“I shall tell him I suggested it.”

“Hester,” he said again, experimentally, then he grinned.

Hester lay awake and thought hard about what steps she should take next. Durban had tried for a long time, well over a year, to find Mary Webber. He was a skilled policeman with a lifetime of experience in learning, questioning, and finding, and he had apparently failed. How was she to succeed? She had no advantages over him, as far as she knew.

Beside her, Monk was asleep, she thought. She lay still, not wanting to disturb him, above all not wanting him to know that she was thinking, puzzling.

Durban must have searched for all the families named Webber who lived in the area and gone to them. He would even have traced any who had lived there and moved, if it were possible. If he had not found Mary that way, then Hester would not either.

Then just as she was finally drifting off towards sleep, another thought occurred to her. Had Durban gone backwards? Had he found out where they had come from before that?

The idea did not seem nearly as clever in the morning, but she could think of nothing better. She would try it, at least until another avenue occurred to her. It would be better than doing nothing.

It was not particularly difficult to find the local families by the name of Webber who had a Mary of roughly the right age. It was simply tedious looking through parish registers, asking questions, and walking around. People were willing to help, because she embroidered the truth a little. She really was looking for someone on behalf of a friend who had died tragically before finding them, but whether Mary Webber was a friend or witness, help or a fugitive, she had no idea. If it had not been for Monk's sake, she might have given up.

After some time, she found what appeared to be the right family, only to discover that Mary had been adopted from the local foundling hospital. Her mother had died giving birth to her brother, and the adoptive family had no ability to care for a baby, the wife being handicapped herself. There was only one such hospital in the area, and it was no more than half an hour's bus ride to its doors. It was a further half hour before Hester, now with Scuff determinedly on her heels, was shown into the office of Donna Myers, the brisk and rather starched matron who ran it from day to day.

“Now, what can I do for you?” she asked pleasantly, looking Hester up and down, and then regarding Scuff with a measuring eye.

Scuff drew in his breath to protest that he needed nobody to look after him, then realized that that was not what Miss Myers had in mind, and let it out in a sigh of relief.

“We've got plenty of work,” Mrs. Myers told Hester. “Wages are poor, but we'll feed you and the boy, three square meals a day, porridge and bread mostly, but meat when we have it. No drink allowed, and no men, but the place is clean and we don't treat anyone unkindly. I'm sure the boy could find something too, errands or the like.”

Hester smiled at her, appreciating from her own experience in running the clinic just how strict one had to be, no matter how deep or how genuine your pity. To indulge one was to rob another.

“Thank you, Mrs. Myers. I appreciate your offer, but it is only information I'm looking for. I already have work, running a clinic of my own.” She saw Miss Myers's eyes open wider and a sudden respect flickered alive in them.

“Really?” Mrs. Myers said guardedly. “And what is it that I can do for you, then?”

Hester wondered whether to mention that Monk was in the River Police, and decided that in view of the present highly unfavorable publicity, it would not be a good idea.

“I am seeking information about a woman who came here as a girl of about six, with her mother,” she answered. “Perhaps about forty-five years ago. The mother died in childbirth, and the girl was adopted. I believe the baby remained here. I would like to know as much about them as your records show, and if there is anyone who knows what happened to them I would be most grateful.”

“And why is it you wish to know?” Mrs. Myers looked at her more closely. “Are they related to you in any way? What was the mother's name?”

Hester had known that the question would be asked, but she still felt foolish that she could not answer. “I don't know her name.” There was no choice but the truth; anything else would make her look dishonest. So much of what she was saying was no more than an enlightened guess, but it made the only decent sense.

“It is the baby who concerns me,” she went on. “He would be in his fifties now, but he died over six months ago, and I want to trace the sister and tell her. Perhaps she would like to know what a fine man he was. He was doing all he could to find her, but he failed. I am sure you understand why I wish to complete that for him.” She was leaping far to such a conclusion. If Durban had really been born in a foundling hospital, was that why he had invented for himself a gentler, more respectable background, and a family that loved him? Poverty was not a sin, but many people were ashamed of it. No child should grow up with nobody to whom he was important and precious.