Anne Perry - Execution Dock

When he had hailed one and they were at last sitting side by side, necessarily rather close together, she spoke again.

“If Mr. Ballinger is involved in this business,” she said, looking towards him in the dark, her voice anxious, “it is going to be… very distressing.”

That was an understatement, he thought. It would be monumental. Lady Rathbone's father!

“It may even reflect upon Sir Oliver,” she added. “Since he was the one to defend Phillips. There will be many people who will not accept that he had no idea of the connection. He may be accused of participating in the profit, being… tainted by it. Mrs. Monk will be very unhappy.”

He said nothing. He was thinking of just how awful it would be. The few moments of conflict in Hester's office would be a summer's day compared with what might be to come.

“So I would be very grateful, Mr. Robinson, if you would say nothing about my seeing Mr. Ballinger, at least not yet. Please?”

It would be the honorable thing to do, the right thing. “No,” he agreed without hesitation. “No, I won't tell ‘er. Yer say when yer ready.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence for quite a while. He was not sure, but he thought she might even have gone to sleep. Poor creature, she must be so tired she would have slept on her feet, now that she knew she was safe. Guaranteed she was hungry too, and would like a clean, hot cup of tea more than anything in the world, except maybe a bath. Funny how women liked a bath.

When they arrived at Portpool Lane it was after midnight but Hester was still there. She had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the big entrance hall where they first saw people as they arrived. She was curled up with her feet half underneath her, her boots on the floor. She woke as soon as she heard their footsteps, jerking her head up, blinking. She recognized Squeaky before she realized that it was Claudine with him. She scrambled to her feet and ran across to throw her arms around Claudine, then with flushed face and eyes shining with relief, she thanked Squeaky profoundly.

“That's all right,” he said a bit self-consciously. “Weren't nothin’. She were lost, that's all.” He made a casual gesture as if to dismiss it.

Hester decided to allow it to pass. Just at the moment she was dizzy with relief that Claudine was safe. She realized only now how deeply afraid she had been that some harm had come to her. If she had gone around asking about Phillips, he was quite capable of killing her, and they would probably never even know. She would appear to be just one more beggar woman dead of cold or hunger, or some unspecified disease. Even a knife attack or a strangling would not occasion a great deal of remark.

She thanked Squeaky again, told Ruby that Claudine was safe, and decided to allow Wallace Burroughs the privilege of having a good night's sleep, or not. She would send him a letter in the morning, unless Claudine wished to go home and tell him herself. If she did not, then that was up to her.

Another message she would definitely send would be to Rathbone, to tell him that Claudine was safe. It would be polite to address it to Margaret as well.

Over breakfast in the large kitchen she asked Squeaky what Claudine had discovered, if anything, but he told her he had no idea. He looked slightly surprised when he said it, and it was several moments before she realized that it was not Claudine's lack of discovery that startled him, but his own reply to Hester. That must be because it was a lie, to defend Claudine.

She looked at him more closely, and he returned her look with a straight, slightly belligerent gaze. She found herself smiling. Squeaky was definitely defending Claudine.

When she had eaten her toast and drunk her own tea, she made more, set it on a tray, and took it up to the bedroom Claudine was using. She found her just beginning to wake up, ravenously hungry and longing for a cup of tea.

Hester sat on the bed while Claudine ate and drank. She addressed the subject.

“What did you discover?” she asked.

Claudine stared at her over the top of her cup.

“I asked Squeaky, but he won't tell me,” Hester explained. “He said he doesn't know, but he's lying. So that makes me think it's important.”

Claudine finished her tea slowly, giving herself time to think. Finally she put the cup down on the bedside table and took a deep breath. “I found a shop selling pornographic photographs of young boys. I saw a couple. They were terrible. I don't want to talk about them. I wish I didn't have them in my mind. I didn't realize how hard it is to get something out of your memory once you've seen it. It's like a stain no amount of soap or water can remove.”

“It dulls with time,” Hester said gently. “As you get more and more things in there, there's less room for the horrors. Push it out every time it comes back, and eventually the details will fade.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Not those. But I've seen other things, on the battlefield, and heard them. Sometimes when we have someone in here with a knife wound, the smell of blood brings it all back.”

Claudine's face was gentle, full of pity.

“Why wouldn't Squeaky tell me that?” Hester asked her. “That doesn't make sense.”

“That wasn't what he wouldn't tell you,” Claudine replied. “It was who I saw on the pavement just outside the shop, with cards in his hand. He bought some matches from me and stared at me very closely. I was scared he'd recognized me.”

Hester frowned, her imagination struggling. “Who did you see?”

Claudine bit her lip. “Mr. Ballinger, Lady Rathbone's father.”

Hester was stunned. It seemed preposterous. And yet if it was true, it explained Rathbone's predicament exactly. “Are you certain?” she said aloud.

“Yes. I've met him several times, at dinners and balls. My husband is acquainted with him. He stood no more than two feet from me.”

Hester nodded. It was hideous. How on earth could Margaret bear that, if she believed it? If it became known? Had Rathbone had any idea? How would he see it: disgust, pity, loyalty, protection for Margaret and her mother? She could not believe that he knew already. And yet he would have to one day. Perhaps he could in some way prepare?

“Your husband was worried about you,” she said to Claudine. “Would you like me to send a letter? I could say you were kept in some kind of emergency, but we had better offer the same explanation.”

A shadow crossed Claudine's face. “I don't think he is going to forgive me, whatever it is,” she replied. “I am not quite sure what I am going to do. I shall have to give it a great deal of thought. If… if he puts me out, may I live here?” She looked frightened, and embarrassed.

“Of course,” Hester said instantly. “If you wish to, for whatever reason.” She nearly added that Rathbone would give her legal help, then she thought that was a little premature. Surely Wallace Burroughs would calm himself and behave a little more reasonably. Although his behaving reasonably was a very long way indeed from giving Claudine any kind of happiness. “I shall write to him that you were helping someone in an accident.” There was a note of gentleness in her voice. “He will never know differently,” she went on. “You had better say the same. You know enough details to give them to him if he should ask you.”

“He won't. He is never interested in such things,” Claudine told her. “But thank you.”

Hester very briefly told Squeaky that she was going to the Wapping police station to find Monk, then she left immediately, dreading the chance of running into Margaret on the way out.

She caught a cab on Farringdon Road, and half an hour later was in Wapping. She had a further hour to wait before Monk returned from the water, but she was prepared to wait far longer, had it been necessary.