by Anne Perry
She could not possibly say other than that he was, even if in fact he hated it. Fortunately she did not have to lie, as Rathbone knew.
“Yes, he is. They are a fine body of men with a high reputation for both skill and honor, and he is proud to be among them.”
“Let us not be overmodest, Mrs. Monk; to lead them!” Rathbone corrected her. “Are you not proud of him also? It is a great achievement.”
“Yes, of course I am proud of him.” Again, she could give no other answer.
He did not belabor the point. He had made it sufficiently for the jury. Both she and Monk owed Durban a great deal, personally and professionally. Rathbone had placed her in a position where she had to say so, or appear utterly graceless. Now anything in which she supported Durban would appear as gratitude, and be suspected as founded in emotion rather than fact. How well he knew her. He had forgotten nothing of her from the days when they had been much closer, when he had been in love with her, not with Margaret.
She felt very alone in the stand with everyone in the court staring at her, and with Rathbone's knowledge of her so delicate and intimate. She was horribly vulnerable.
“Mrs. Monk,” Rathbone resumed. “You played a large part in helping identify this tragic boy, through your knowledge of the abuse of women and children in the trade of sexual relations.” He said it with distaste, reflecting what all the people in the gallery—and more particularly in the jury box—must feel. “It was you who learned that he was once a mudlark.” He turned slightly in a peculiarly graceful gesture. “In case there is anyone in the jury who does not understand the term, would you be good enough to explain it to us?”
She had no choice but to do as he asked. He was guiding her as a skilled rider does a horse, and she felt equally controlled. To rebel in the public gaze of the court would make her appear ridiculous. How well he knew her!
“A mudlark is a person who spends their time on the banks of the river, between low and high tide lines,” she said obediently. “They salvage anything that may be of value, and then sell it. Most of them are children, but not all. The things they find are largely brass screws and fittings, pieces of china, lumps of coal, that sort of thing.”
He looked interested, as if he were not already familiar with every detail of the facts.
“How do you come to know this? It does not seem to lie within the area of your usual assistance. Who did you ask for the information that led to your discovering that the boy, Fig, had once been a mudlark?”
“In a case a short while ago a young mudlark was injured. I looked after him for a couple of weeks.” She wondered why he was asking about Scuff. Did he mean to challenge the identification of the body?
“Really? How old was he? What was his name?” he inquired.
Why was he asking? He knew Scuff. He had been in the sewers with them, as desperate to ensure Scuffs safety as any of them.
“He is known as Scuff, and he thinks he is about eleven,” she replied, her voice catching with emotion in spite of her efforts to remain detached.
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “He thinks?”
“Yes. He doesn't know.”
“Did he identify Fig?”
So it was the identification! “No. He introduced me to older boys, and vouched for me, so they would tell me the truth.”
“This boy Scuff trusts you?”
“I hope so.”
“You took him into your home when he was injured, and cared for him, nursed him back to health?”
“Yes.”
“And an affection grew between you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Monk?”
She felt as if he had slapped her without warning. It was not that she had desperately wanted children; she was happy with Monk and her work. It was the implication that somehow she was lacking, which hurt, that she had taken Scuff in not because she liked him, but to fill an emptiness in herself. By a sort of oblique reference backward, it made it seem as if all she had done in the clinic, and even in the Crimea, had been to compensate for her own lack of family, of purpose, in the more usual sense.
It was not true. She had a husband she loved far more than most women did theirs; she was married of choice, not convenience or ambition or need. She had work to do that stretched her intellect, and used her imagination and courage. Most women got up in the morning to the same endless domestic round, filling their days with words rather than actions, or accomplishing small tasks that had to be begun again in exactly the same fashion the next day, and the day after. Hester had only once in her life been bored, and that was for the brief time spent in the social round before going to the Crimea.
But if she said any of that, she would sound as if she were defensive. He had attacked her so delicately, so obliquely, that people would think she was protesting too much. She would immediately make him seem right.
They were all waiting now for her to reply. She could see the beginning of pity in their faces. Even Tremayne looked uncomfortable.
“No, I don't have children,” she answered the question. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that neither did he, but that would be unbecoming; again, an attack in order to defend, before there was justification for it.
“May I say that it is a very noble thing you are doing, giving of your time and means to fight for those children of others who suffer from the abuse and neglect of the very people who should be caring for them.” He spoke sincerely, and yet after what he had said before, it still managed to sound like pity. He moved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the subject. “So you sought the help of other mudlarks to identify the body of this poor boy who was found near Horseferry Stairs. And because of your rescue of Scuff, they were willing to help you, in a manner that they would not help the police. Is that accurate?”
“They helped,” she replied. “I did not attribute motive to them.” It sounded sharp, as if she were defending herself. It took all the self-control she could muster to keep her voice from shaking and her expression mild. “But if I had, I would think it to protect themselves, and perhaps act in some fairness to the boy who had been one of them.”
Rathbone smiled. “You think well of them, Mrs. Monk. Your trust and affection do you credit. I am sure every woman in this court would like to think she might do the same.”
In one sentence he had turned it into an issue of being feminine, something charitable but unrealistic. How clever of him, and how very unfair. He knew she was the least sentimental of people. She must attack him back, or be mowed under.
“I am an army nurse, Sir Oliver, as you mentioned earlier.” Her voice shook in spite of all her efforts, and the tone was sharper than she meant it to be. “Wounds are real; they do not stop bleeding because of well-meaning idealism or kind judgments of affection. Gangrene, typhoid, and starvation do not respond to woolly-minded good wishes. I have quite often failed, especially in reforms I would like to have brought in, but because I spoke too bluntly, not because I was sentimental. I thought you knew that of me. But perhaps it was you who were too kind in your judgments, and saw what you wished to see, what you thought womanly and becoming, and easy to deal with.”
A flare of surprise lit in his eyes, and of admiration. This time it was honest, not assumed for the jury
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Monk,” he apologized. “Of course you are right. You never lacked courage, only tact. You saw what needed to be done, but did not have the knowledge of human nature to persuade people to do it. You did not foresee the arrogance, the shortsightedness, or the selfishness of those with interests vested in things remaining as they are. You are idealistic; you see what could be and strive to bring it about. You fight with passion, courage, and honor for the oppressed, the sick, the forgotten of the world. You are disobedient to the law when it is unjust, and loyal at any cost to what is right. Is that a fairer assessment of your character?”
It was fair, even generous. It was also damning of her as an impart
ial witness. The court might both like and admire her, but it would always judge whatever she said against the force of her beliefs, and emotion would win. She had turned Rathbone's argument around, but he had still beaten her.
He went on to take apart all the evidence she had gathered through the witnesses learned of in her dealings with Portpool Lane. For every one of them he could show that they had benefited from her care. He worded it so it seemed that their indebtedness would cause them to say whatever she wished them to, not in deliberate deceit but in the desire to please a woman whose help they depended upon. In spite of the praise he had given her, she still appeared worthy but driven more by feelings than by reason, passionately tireless for justice towards those she saw as needy, and furious for vengeance against those who preyed upon them. She was feminine; he had harped on about her womanliness. She was vulnerable; he had subtly reminded them that she was childless. And she had poor judgment; he gave no example of that, but by then he was believed without it.
She stood helpless on the stand, surrounded by strangers who saw her through Rathbone's words, and she wondered if he actually saw her that way. Was this his true opinion, and all the past courtesy was only good manners towards a woman with whom he had once been in love, but had now grown beyond? His arrogance infuriated her.
Then she was touched by the first cold splash of fear that he could be right. Perhaps she was led by emotion rather than a fair and equal rationality. Perhaps Monk was led by his sense of debt to Durban, as Rathbone implied, and she simply went along with it in blind loyalty.
Rathbone sat down, knowing he had succeeded superbly. She looked at his face and had no idea what he felt, or if he felt anything at all. Perhaps his intellect would always dominate his heart. That was why she had not accepted his offer of marriage, turning it aside gently, as if it had not really been made, in order not to hurt him.
Poor Margaret.
Tremayne stood up and attempted to redress the balance, but it was impossible, and he realized it quickly enough to do little damage before he sat down again.
Hester remained in the courtroom afterwards as Rathbone called other witnesses who cast doubt on Durban's honesty. It was done so subtly that at first she did not realize the impact of it. A revenue man testified as to Durban's zeal in pursuing Phillips.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he said, nodding his head vigorously. “‘E was very keen. Like a terrier with a rat ‘e were. Wouldn't let go fer love ner money.”
“Wouldn't let go,” Rathbone repeated. “For the sake of the jury Mr. Simmons, would you describe exactly the kind of thing you are referring to? The gentlemen may have had little to do with police procedure and be unfamiliar with what is usual, and what is not. I assume you are speaking of behavior that was out of the ordinary?”
Simmons nodded again. “Yes, sir. I see what yer mean. Folks might think as all policemen are like that, an’ they in't. ‘E were very different, Mr. Durban were. ‘E'd ask one question, and if yer didn't give ‘im the answer ‘e wanted, ‘e'd go round it a different way, an’ then another again. I've seen some o’ them bull terriers what didn't ‘ave a grip like ‘e ‘ad. If I'd been less than ‘onest, I'd ‘ave told ‘im what ‘e wanted, just to get ‘im off me back.”
“Indeed. Did he tell you why he was so determined to find out who killed the boy Fig, Mr. Simmons?” Rathbone was very careful not to lead the witness, not to ask him for assumptions or evidence that was hearsay. Tremayne was unhappy with it, but there were no grounds for him to object. Hester could see it as clearly as watching a game of chess. Every move was plain, obvious the moment after it had been made, and yet impossible to forestall.
“No, sir, ‘e din't,” Simmons answered. “Couldn't say whether ‘e ‘ated Phillips ‘cause ‘e killed the boy, or cared about the boy ‘cause it was Phillips ‘oo killed ‘im.”
Rathbone responded quickly before Tremayne could object, or Sullivan sustain him.
“You mean his behavior gave you reason to think there was a personal dislike, above the matter of the crime? What behavior was that, Mr. Simmons?”
Tremayne half rose, then changed his mind and sank back again.
Sullivan looked at him inquiringly, a sharp interest in his face, as if he were watching a personal battle beneath the professional one, and it interested him intensely, almost excited him. Was this why he loved the law, for the combat?
Simmons was struggling with his answer, his face furrowed. “It were personal,” he said at length. “I can't really say ‘ow I know. Look on ‘is face, way ‘e spoke about ‘im, language ‘e used. ‘E'd sometimes let go of other things, but never Phillips. ‘E were real torn up with the way the boy ‘ad been used, but ‘e were still glad to ‘ave a reason ter go after Phillips.”
There was an almost indiscernible ripple of appreciation around the room.
Lord Justice Sullivan leaned sideways a little to face the witness, his face earnest, one hand clenched on the beautiful polished surface in front of him.
“Mr. Simmons, you may not state that the accused is guilty of having murdered the boy, unless you know of your own observation that he did so. Is that the case? Did you see him kill Walter Figgis?”
Simmons looked startled. He blinked, then he went white as the full import of what he had been asked dawned on him. “No, me lud, I didn't see it. I weren't there. If I ‘ad been, I'd've said so at the time, an’ Mr. Durban wouldn't've needed to ride me like ‘e did. I don't know for meself ‘oo killed the poor little devil, nor any o’ them other kids up and down the river what go missing and get beaten, or whatever else ‘appens to ‘em.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying that Mr. Durban appeared to you to be more interested in this lost child than in any other, Mr. Simmons?”
“Damn right ‘e did,” Simmons agreed. “Like a dog with a bone, ‘e were. Couldn't ‘ardly think o’ nothing else.”
“Surely he was equally concerned with the theft, fraud, smuggling, and other crimes that happen on the water, and dockside?” Rathbone said innocently.
“Not that I saw, no sir,” Simmons replied. “Always on about Phillips, and that boy. ‘Ated him, he did. Wanted to see ‘im ‘anged. ‘E said so.” He glanced up at Sullivan and then away again. “That I ‘eard with me own ears.”
Rathbone thanked him, and invited Tremayne to take his turn.
Hester could think of a dozen things to ask in rebuttal. She stared at Tremayne as if by force of will she could prompt him into doing so. She watched him rise, a little of his usual grace lost to tension. What had seemed a certainty was slipping out of his hands. He looked pale.
“Mr. Simmons,” he began very politely. “You say that Mr. Durban gave you no reason for his eagerness to catch whoever abused, tortured, and then murdered this boy, and as you yourself suggest, perhaps many others like him?”
Simmons shifted his weight uncomfortably. “No, sir, ‘e didn't.”
“And you found it hard to understand that he should consider the lives of children much more important than the evasion of customs duty on a cask of brandy, for example?”
Simmons started to speak, then changed his mind.
“Do you have children, Mr. Simmons?” Tremayne inquired gently, as one might of a new acquaintance.
Hester held her breath. Did he? Did it matter? What was Tre-mayne going to make of it? At least some of the jurors would have children, if not all of them. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. She found that she was holding her breath.
“No, sir,” Simmons answered.
Tremayne smiled very slightly. “Neither does Sir Oliver. Perhaps that might explain a great deal. It is not everyone who has Mrs. Monk's compassion for the injured and the dead who do not belong to their own family, or even their own social class.”
There was a distinct rustle in the gallery now. The people on either side of Hester quite blatantly turned to look at her. One even smiled and nodded.
Simmons blushed furiously.
Tremayne wis
ely hid his victory. He inclined his head towards the judge, as if to thank him, and then returned to his seat.
Rathbone sounded a little less certain as he called his next witness, a dockmaster named Trenton from the Pool of London. He testified to Durban's friendship over several years with the mudlarks, beggars, and petty thieves who spent most of their lives at the river's edge. This time Rathbone was more careful to allow his witness to express his own opinions. Tremayne had scored an emotional victory, but he was going to find it a great deal more difficult to score another.
“Spent time with them,” Trenton said with a slight shrug. He was a small, squarely built man with a heavy nose and mild manner, but under the respect for authority there was considerable strength, and more than fifty years of ever-hardening opinion. “Talked to ‘em, gave ‘em advice, sometimes even shared ‘is food, or gave ‘em the odd sixpence or the like.”
“Was he looking for information?” Rathbone asked.
“If ‘e was, ‘e was a fool,” Trenton answered. “You get a reputation for being a soft touch like that, an’ you'll ‘ave a line o’ folks from Tower Bridge to the Isle o’ Dogs, all ready to tell you anything you want to ‘ear, for a penny or two.”
“I see. Then what could he have been doing? Do you know?”
Trenton was well prepared. Tremayne leaned forward, ready to object to speculation, but he did not have the opportunity.
“Don't know what ‘e was doing,” he said, pushing his lower lip out in an expression of puzzlement. “Never seen another River Police, nor land neither, who spent time with beggars and drifters like ‘e did, not with boys, like. They don't know much an’ won't tell you anything that matters even if they do.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Trenton?”
“I run a dock, Sir Oliver. I ‘ave to know what people are doing on my patch, ‘specially if there's a chance it's something as they shouldn't. I kept an eye on ‘im, over the years. There aren't that many bent River Police, but it's not impossible. Not that I'm saying ‘e was, mind you!” he added hastily. “But I watched. Thought at first ‘e might be a kidsman.”