Execution Dock

by Anne Perry

  Was this what Durban had faced, threats of blackmail? Do what I want, or I'll paint every decent act of compassion as an obscenity. The accusation will stain your name. Because of their own filth, there will be those who believe it. You will be unable to do your job. I'll cripple you.

  Or do what I say, turn a blind eye to the cases I tell you to, and I'll keep quiet. And when you've turned away from some, out of fear of me, I'll have another unbreakable thread to bind you with, and this one will be true. You will have denied your duty, corrupted yourself to stay safe.

  “I hear you,” Monk replied. “Tell your paymaster to go to hell.”

  “Oh, very unwise, Mr. Monk, sir. Very unwise.” The man shook his head, still smiling. “I'd think again on that, if I were yer.”

  “You probably would,” Monk agreed. “But then you are obviously for sale. I am not. Tell him to go to hell.”

  The man hesitated only seconds, then realized that he would gain nothing by remaining, and turned and went away at a surprisingly rapid pace.

  Monk walked back into the station. What he had to do was best done immediately, before he had time to weigh his words and be afraid.

  Orme looked up, surprised to see him back so soon. He must have read the concern in Monk's face. He stood up, as if to follow him into his office.

  “I need to speak to everyone,” Monk said distinctly. “Now.”

  Orme sat down again slowly and one by one the other men stopped what they were doing and faced him.

  He had their attention. He must begin. “As soon as I stepped outside a few minutes ago,” he said, “I was accosted by a man who delivered a message. He did not say from whom, but the implication was obvious.” It was difficult to trust. He hated making himself so vulnerable. He looked at their waiting faces. This was his future. He must trust these men, or lose their respect and the one chance he had to lead them.

  “This man told me to leave the Jericho Phillips case alone,” he went on. “If I don't, Phillips will make sure that I am accused of procuring small boys for use on his boat, to be rented to his clients, and then photographs taken in obscene and illegal acts to be sold for entertainment.” He drew in his breath and let it out slowly to try to stop the terror in his voice. It embarrassed him that he could not stifle it completely.

  “He will say to the press that initially Commander Durban was not Phillips's enemy, but his partner, and that they fell out over sharing the profits. He will say also that when I took over Commander Durban's position here, I took over his business interests as well, and that the boy my wife and I have taken into our home is intended for that purpose also.” He had committed himself He had not intended to. He had also said that Scuff was remaining with them. He realized without any real surprise that he meant that, and he knew Hester had long ago stopped debating with herself. It remained only to hear what Scuff thought, once the immediate danger to him had passed—if it did.

  He looked around at the men's faces, afraid of what he would see: amusement, disgust, disappointment, the struggle whether to believe him or not, fear for their own positions.

  “We must stop him,” he went on, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone in particular. He would not try to demand or intimidate, and certainly not beg. “If we don't, he will do all he can to bring down the whole River Police. We are the only force standing between him and running his filthy trade unhampered.” Should he tell them the rest, the even greater danger? He had trusted them this far; now was the time to win or lose them altogether. He looked at Orme and saw his steady gaze, grave and unwavering.

  There was hardly a sound in the room. It was too warm for the black stove at the end to be lit. The doors to the outside were closed, muffling the noises of the river.

  “It's worse than just the boys as victims,” he went on, now looking at their faces one by one. “Phillips's patrons are men of wealth, or they couldn't afford his prices. Rich men have influence, and usually power, so his opportunities for blackmail are limitless. You can imagine them for yourselves: port authorities, harbormasters, revenue men, lawyers.” He clenched his hands. “Us.”

  No one moved.

  “You see the danger.” He made it a statement rather than a question. “Even if we are not guilty, there is the high chance that we may be accused. And which of us would not be tempted to do as we were told, rather than have that charge made in public, no matter how innocent we were? The thought alone is enough to make you sick. What would your wives have to endure? Your parents or children?”

  He saw in their faces the understanding, and the fear. He waited for the anger, but it did not come. He did not even sense it. “I'm sorry that my haste to convict Phillips allowed him to be acquitted for the murder of Figgis. I'll get him for something else.” He said it calmly, but as he said it he knew the promise would bind him forever.

  “Yes, sir,” Orme said as soon as he was certain Monk was not going to add any more. He looked at the men, then back at Monk. “We'll get him, sir.” That too was an oath.

  There was a murmur of agreement, no dissenting voices, no half-heartedness. Monk felt a sudden ease, as if he had been given a blessing he did not expect or deserve. He turned away before they saw him smiling, in case anyone misunderstood the emotion of joy for something more trivial, and less profound in its gratitude.

  Oliver Rathbone was increasingly unhappy about the Phillips case. It invaded his thoughts at the times when he had expected to be happiest. Margaret had asked him what it was that caused his anxiety, and he could not answer her. An evasion was undignified, and she was intelligent enough to know it for what it was. To lie was not even a possibility. It would close a door between them that might never again be opened, because guilt would bar it.

  And yet in the quiet ease of his sitting room, with Margaret opposite him, wishing to talk with her, he remembered how much he had enjoyed it only a month or two ago. He recalled her smile in repose. She was happy. In his mind he could hear her laughter at some joke. She liked the subtle ones best, always catching the point. Even their long discussions when they disagreed were delicate and full of pleasure. She had an acute grasp of logic, and was surprisingly well-read, even in subjects he would not have expected a woman to know.

  But he sat in silence, not daring to speak about the Phillips case, and the rift with Monk and Hester. It seemed to touch so many things. Like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water, it spread to stain everything it touched.

  Still it was painful to sit in the same room, not talking to each other. He was being a coward. It must be addressed, or gradually he would lose all that he valued most. It would slip away, inch by inch, until there was nothing left to grasp. What was he afraid of, truly? That he had lost the respect of Monk and Hester? A sense of honor?

  With Phillips he had won, but the victory was sour. He had been supremely clever, but he knew now that he had not been wise. Phillips was guilty, probably of having murdered Fig, but certainly of the vile abuse of many children. And, Rathbone was beginning to believe, also of the blackmail and corruption of many powerful men.

  He looked across at where Margaret sat sewing, but he was careful not to meet her eyes, in case she read in him what he was thinking. He could not continue like this. The gulf was widening every day.

  There was no answer other than to find out who had hired Arthur Ballinger to retain Rathbone in Phillips's defense. He had already asked, and been refused. It must be done without Ballinger's knowledge. Ballinger had said it was a client; therefore, it would be in his official books at his chambers. The money would have gone through the accounts, because it was the office that had passed it to Rathbone.

  Since it was a client, and money was involved, it would have been noted by Cribb, Ballinger's meticulous clerk. It must have begun roughly the time Ballinger had first come to Rathbone and continued until the time of the trial and Phillips's acquittal. If Rathbone could find a list of Ballinger's clients between those times, it would be a matter of eliminating those whose cases had b
een heard in some other matter and would now be public knowledge, or of course those still pending but due to come to trial soon.

  But he could hardly go to Ballinger's office and ask to see his books. The refusal would be automatic, and cause highly uncomfortable questions. It would make the relationships between Rathbone and his father-in-law virtually impossible, and obviously Margaret would be aware of it.

  Yet it would be wildly dangerous to pay someone else to do it, even if he could find anyone with the requisite skills. The temptation to extort blackmail afterwards would be almost overwhelming, not to mention the chance to sell the information elsewhere, possibly to Phillips himself.

  There was only one answer. Rathbone would have to devise a way to do it himself. The thought made him thoroughly miserable. A kind of sour chill settled in the pit of his stomach. After all, he had no idea who might be blackmailed by Phillips. Who were the victims of such appetites as he fed, and thus could be manipulated as Phillips wished? It could be any of the men Rathbone had previously considered his friends, honorable and skilled.

  And then an even more painful thought forced itself into his understanding. If people were aware of Phillips and his trade, they might equally well think such things of Rathbone himself! Why not? He was the one who had defended him, and gained his acquittal at the price of his own previously treasured friendships.

  Yes, tomorrow he must go to Ballinger's office and find the records. He really had no other endurable choice.

  It was one thing to make up his mind; it was quite another to execute the plan. The following morning as his cab set him down outside Ballinger's offices, he realized exactly how far apart he and Ballinger were. He knew from past experience that Ballinger himself would not be in for at least another hour, but the excellent Cribb was always prompt. Had the offices been any other than those of his father-in-law, he would have considered trying to lure Cribb away and into his own service.

  “Good morning, Sir Oliver,” Cribb said with courtesy that bordered on genuine pleasure. He was a man of about forty-five, but with an ascetic air that made him seem older. He was of average height and had a lean, bony face that showed intelligence and a very carefully concealed humor.

  “Good morning, Cribb,” Rathbone replied. “I hope you are well?”

  “Very, thank you, sir. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is not in yet. Is there anything with which I can assist you?”

  Already Rathbone loathed what he was doing. How much easier it was to be honest. The embarrassment and strain of this was awful.

  “Thank you,” he accepted. He must cast the die quickly or he would lose his nerve. “I believe there is.” He lowered his voice. “It has come to my knowledge, and of course I cannot tell you from whom, that one of Mr. Ballinger's clients may be involved in something distinctly unethical. A matter of playing one person against another, if you understand me?”

  “How very distasteful,” Cribb said with some sympathy. “If you wish me to inform Mr. Ballinger, of course I shall do so. Perhaps you would prefer to leave it in writing for him? I can give you pen and paper, and an envelope with wax to seal it.”

  Rathbone smothered his scruples with an effort. “Thank you, but I have nothing sufficiently specific so far. I know only when the man in question was here. If I might glance at his diary for the period it would confirm any suspicions, or deny them.”

  Cribb looked troubled, as Rathbone had known he would. “I'm very sorry, sir, but I cannot show you Mr. Ballinger's diary. It is confidential, as I am sure your diary is.” He shifted his weight very slightly from one foot to the other. “I know you would not wish anything … wrong …, sir.”

  Rathbone did not have to try to look confused. “No, I would not,” he agreed. “I had hoped that if I explained my dilemma to you, you might have some idea how to solve it. You see, the difficulty is that the man may well be a personal friend of Mr. Ballinger's, so much so that he may refuse to believe it of him, until it is too late. Unless I can prove it.”

  “Oh dear,” Cribb said quietly. “Yes, I perceive your difficulty, Sir Oliver. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is more charitable in some of his judgments than perhaps the circumstances justify.”

  Rathbone understood exactly. That was Cribb's loyal way of admitting that Ballinger did not choose all his friends with care.

  “Perhaps, sir, we might discuss this problem in my office? It might be more discreet, if you don't mind,” Cribb suggested.

  “Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “Thank you.” He followed Cribb to the tiny room, barely more than a large cupboard, where a well-polished desk was crowded in between walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of files. Cribb closed the door, as much for room so that they might both sit as for privacy. He looked at the wall briefly, knowing exactly where every file and folder was.

  Rathbone followed his glance to the diary for the month in question.

  “This is a very difficult problem indeed,” Cribb said, facing Rathbone again. “I really don't know what is for the best, Sir Oliver. I have the greatest respect for you, and I am aware that you are concerned for Mr. Ballinger's welfare, both professional and personal. I need to think on this very deeply. Perhaps I might fetch you a cup of tea so we may discuss it in some comfort?”

  “Thank you,” Rathbone accepted. “That would be very good of you.”

  Cribb hesitated an instant, looking very steadily at Rathbone, then he excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.

  Rathbone felt vile, as if he were about to steal something. The diary was on the shelf. He was committed. Whether he looked at it now or not, Cribb would believe that he had.

  What was Rathbone trying to do? Find the truth, whoever it saved, or lost.

  He took the book down and searched the right pages. Rapidly, little more than scribbling, he took down the names. He was barely finished and had only just replaced the diary on the shelf when Cribb returned, carefully making a noise with his feet on the boards outside before he opened the door.

  Cribb set the tea tray down on the desk.

  “Thank you,” Rathbone said, his mouth dry.

  “Shall I pour, sir?” Cribb offered.

  “If you please.” Rathbone found that his own hands were shaking. He considered offering Cribb some kind of appreciation. What would be suitable, and not insulting? Thirty pieces of silver?

  Cribb poured the tea, a cup for Rathbone, nothing for himself.

  It was the most difficult thing Rathbone had ever swallowed. It tasted sour, and he was aware that it was he himself who had poisoned it.

  “Thank you,” he said aloud. He wanted to add something, but it was all contrived, insulting.

  “You are welcome, Sir Oliver,” Cribb replied calmly. He appeared to see nothing odd in Rathbone's manner, in fact to be totally unaware of his appalling discomfort. “I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I am afraid I can think of no solution for it.”

  “I was wrong to have asked,” Rathbone replied, and that at least he was absolutely certain about. “I must seek some other solution.” He finished the tea. “Please do not trouble Mr. Ballinger with it until I can think of some way to ease his mind at the same time as I tell him of it. If I am fortunate, it may turn out to be an error anyway.”

  “Let us hope so, sir,” Cribb agreed. “In the meantime, as you say, it would be better not to distress Mr. Ballinger unnecessarily.”

  Rathbone thanked him again, and Cribb walked with him to the front door. Rathbone went down the steps into the street heavy-footed, imprisoned within himself and weighed down with a moral dilemma from which there was now no escape.

  He went straight to his own office and spent the next four hours comparing notes of cases he knew, court dates, and trials past and pending against the names he had copied down from Ballinger's diary. He pursued every one to its conclusion, finding out who the people were, of what they were accused, by whom they were defended, and what had been the verdict.

  Most of the cases
were trivial and easy enough to dismiss as regular business. In fact, many were to do with family estates, wills, and quarrels over property. Some were trials or settlements out of court for cases of financial incompetence or malfeasance. Those that had gone to trial and were concluded he could also discount. Their course was clear, and now in the public domain, simple cases of moral decline ending in tragedy, common enough.

  In the end he was left with only three who could be Phillips's benefactor, or victim! Sir Arnold Baldwin, Mr. Malcolm Cassidy and Lord Justice Sullivan. It was that last name that caused him to freeze and his hands to clench the paper. But that was ridiculous. Lord Justice Sullivan had to have a solicitor, like any other man. He would have property, in all likelihood a house in London and a home in the country. Property always involved deeds, money, and possible disputes. And of course there were wills and inheritances and other matters of ownership and litigation.

  His immediate task was to learn more about each of the men on the list, and if necessary to actually meet them. Although exactly how he would determine which of them it was, he realized he had no idea. What did a man look like who was driven by such an appetite? Was he frightened, plagued with guilt, compulsive like one who gambles or drinks to excess? Or did he look like anyone else, and that darker part of his nature emerged only when he permitted it, secretly, on the river at night?

  This was forced upon him even more plainly upon meeting both Cassidy and Baldwin, the first at a luncheon, the latter at one of the gentlemen's clubs of which he was a member. He observed nothing about either of them that made him wary; indeed, it was only his own suspicions that caused him any preoccupation whatever.

  Meeting Sullivan proved more difficult, and he felt a crowding sense of inevitability, as if in his mind he had already determined the man's guilt. Since he was the judge who had actually heard the case, the situation was hideously tangled, by that fact alone.

  In order to meet the judge, Rathbone had to connive to obtain an invitation to a reception to which he had not originally been invited, a most unseemly act. And it was not easy to ask Margaret if she would come; to her it was even harder to offer any explanation that was not clearly an evasion.