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“Mr. Orme.” Tremayne began his questions, which were likely to go on until the adjournment for lunch, and long into the afternoon, perhaps until evening. “You worked with Mr. Durban during the rest of his life, from the time the boy's body was pulled out of the river until Mr. Durban's own death at the end of last year?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“We have already heard that Mr. Durban took a special interest in this case. As far as you know from your own direct observation, will you describe what was done to solve it, either by him, of which you have the evidence, or by yourself?”
“Yes, sir.” Orme stood stiffly. “It was plain from the beginning that the boy was murdered, and that he'd been pretty badly used before that,” he said distinctly, his voice carrying throughout the room. No one moved or whispered in the jury box or the gallery “We ‘ad to find out who he was, and where he came from. There was nothing on the body that'd give ‘is name,
but the way ‘e'd been treated it seemed likely ‘e'd fallen into the ‘ands of one o’ them who sells children for the use of brothels an’ pornographers and the like.” He said the words with withering disgust.
“You could tell that from a body?” Tremayne said, affecting some surprise.
All this was exactly what Rathbone had expected, and what he would have done had their roles been reversed—draw it all out in the fashion of a story, and with detail the jury would never forget. The poor devils would probably have nightmares for years to come. They would waken in a sweat with the sound of running water in their ears.
“Yes, sir, pretty likely,” Orme replied. “Lots of boys, an’ girls too, is ‘alf starved. You're poor, you've got no choice. But the burns are different.”
“Is it not possible that a poor man, violent, perhaps drunken, in his despair might hurt even his own children?” Tremayne pressed.
“Yes, sir,” Orme conceded. “‘Course it is. But poor men don't ‘ave cigars to do it with. It isn't a bad temper that makes you light a cigar, smoke it till it's hot, then hold the end of it against a child's body till it burns through the skin into the flesh, and then makes scabs that bleed.”
Several people in the gallery cried out, stifling the sound instantly, and one of the jurors looked as if he might be sick. His face was sweaty, and had a faintly greenish hue. The man next to him grasped his arm to steady him.
Tremayne waited a moment before going on.
Rathbone understood. He would have done the same.
“Did that prompt any particular course of action from you?” Tremayne asked, retaining his composure as if with difficulty.
“Yes, sir,” Orme answered. “We visited the places we knew of where people kept boys o’ that age to use. We'd looked at them pretty hard, sir. ‘E wasn't a chimney sweep's boy, nor a laborer of any kind. Easy enough to see by ‘is ‘ands. No dirt from chimneys, no calluses from oakum picking or any other sort of thing like that. But if you'll pardon me, sir, in public like, there were other parts of his body that'd been ‘ard used.” His face was red, his voice cracking with emotion.
“The surgeon didn't testify to that,” Tremayne pointed out reluctantly. His body was oddly stiff as he stood, his usual grace lost.
“We didn't ask ‘im, sir. It isn't medical, it's common sense,” Orme told him.
“I see. Did that cause you to look anywhere in particular?”
“We tried lots o’ places up and down the river. It's our job to know where they are.”
“And did you find out where he came from?”
“No, sir, not for sure.”
“Only ‘sure’ will do here, Mr. Orme.”
“I know that!” Orme's temper was suddenly close to the surface, the emotion too raw to govern. “We know that Jericho Phillips kept a lot o’ boys, especially young ones, small as five or six years old. Took them in from wherever ‘e found them, and gave them a bed and food. Lot of them lived on a boat, but we'd never find anything there. He had lookouts, and they always knew who we were.”
Rathbone considered objecting that Orme was stating an opinion rather than presenting evidence, but it was hardly worth making a fuss over. He decided against it.
“So you never saw anything amiss on his boat?” Tremayne concluded.
“No, sir.”
“Then why did you raise his name at all?” Tremayne asked gently, as if he were puzzled. “What was it that drew him to your attention, other than a growing desperation to find at least a name for this dead boy?”
Orme let out his breath in a sigh. “An informant came to us and said that Jericho Phillips was keeping a kind o’ cross between a brothel and a peep show on his boat. He ‘ad young boys there and forced them to perform certain … acts …” He stopped, obviously embarrassed. His eyes flickered to the public gallery, aware that there must be women there. Then he looked away again, angry with himself for his weakness.
Tremayne did not help him. It was clear from the expression on his face, the slight downturn of his mouth, that he found the subject repellent, and touched on it only because he owed it to the dead, and to the truth.
“Unnatural acts, with children,” Orme said miserably. “Boys. ‘E used cameras to make pictures, so ‘e could sell them to people. Get more money than just from those who watched.” His face was hot, the color reaching all the way up to his hair.
