AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Mostly,” she conceded.
“Monk?”
“Used ter be reg'lar p'lice, so I ‘eard. Mean bastard, an’ clever. ‘Ang on ter a case like a bleedin’ bulldog.” She glanced at Snoot sitting at Sutton's feet. “Bulldog,” she repeated.
“But straight?” Sutter insisted.
“Yeah. Leave ‘im alone. Best ‘e never ‘eard of yer.”
“Orme?”
“Straight as a stair rod,” she replied with a sniff.
“Durban?”
“Don't matter. ‘E's dead. Blew ‘isself up on a ship.”
“But was he straight?”
She tilted her head to one side and twisted her mouth until it looked like she had tasted a bad egg. “If yer after Jericho Phillips again, ye're a fool. ‘E ‘ad summink on Durban, same as Durban ‘ad on ‘im. Dunno wot it were, an’ reckon I'm best ter keep it that way. Although I like ter know things. Never say when it might come in useful. But someone ‘ad the bite on Durban. Dunno if it were Phillips ‘isself or just that ‘e knew about it. But I do know that Mr. Durban weren't nothin’ like wot ‘is precious river police thought ‘e were. Got secrets, that one, an’ I never found out wot they were, so it in't no use askin’ me, Mr. Sutton, no matter wot yer thinks I owe yer.”
Sutton had to be content with that, at least from her.
Even when they were outside again, he said nothing to Hester, except to ask her if she wished to continue.
“Certainly,” she replied, although the misery was knotting up inside her. The word of one woman who might be a fence of stolen goods, a brothel keeper, or worse, should not tarnish the reputation of a good man. It was not Nellie's word that disturbed her, it was her own fear as to why Durban had pursued Phillips so relentlessly, then suddenly stopped. Then why had he taken it up again, when nothing they knew of had changed? Rathbone, with his skill, had revealed weaknesses in her reasoning, questions and doubts that she needed to have answered. She was ashamed of it, but that did not still the voices in her mind.
And she was afraid for Monk, because she knew how much of the peace within him that he had finally gained had come because a man like Durban, honest, wise, and possessed of his own inner strength, had bequeathed him the task he himself could no longer perform. Durban had trusted Monk to lead his men, and leading men was something Monk had never done successfully. He was brave, intelligent, imaginative, sometimes ruthless, but never before likable. He had never before inspired loyalty or the ultimate trust of others.
Over the years since the accident, flashes of memory had lit up individual scenes for him, and deduction had filled in many of the surrounding blanks. The picture that emerged was of a man he did not always like. It was too vividly easy to see why others had not.
He had tried hard to change. Durban was the one man who had seen the best in him and placed his trust in it. Now that Oliver Rathbone had suddenly become a stranger, a man they no longer understood, Durban was even more a key to trust.
Hester was afraid of what Monk was going to learn about him, and how deeply it would hurt. Therefore she needed to be the first to know, so she could protect him—or, if that were not possible, at least walk beside him through whatever lay ahead.
She followed Sutton along the dark alley towards the next person he would question on her behalf.
FIVE
onk left home and walked down towards the ferry landing. He was also weighed down with anxiety, and even more with guilt. The view across the river was bright and busy. Heavily laden barges passed in both directions, dark against the sun on the water. All he could think of was that Phillips was free, not only from prison and execution, but from ever being charged again with the murder of Fig. No matter what proof Monk might find now, it could not be used against him. How could failure be more complete?
He crossed Rotherhithe Street and went down the narrow alley to Princes Stairs. The smells of salt and mud were heavy in the a
ir. It was not yet nine in the morning, but at this time of the year the sun had been up for hours, and it was already hot. There was barely any wind to lift the heaviness, and he could hear the shouts of lightermen and stevedores from two hundred yards away. It was high tide; the water was slack and oily-looking. There was not enough current to move the ships at anchor, and the tangles of masts and rigging were motionless against the sky.
He had had the chance to kill Phillips, and it was his own arrogance that had made him so certain he had already won that he had let it go in order to vindicate Durban. And how badly he had wanted to be the one to do this so that all his men would know, and respect him for it. They would see that he had paid his debt to Durban, and earned some kind of right to take his place, instead of merely being given it.
Except, of course, that he had not. Instead he had guaranteed that Phillips was free from paying the price, not just now but forever. Free to go back to his boat with its children, who would be more than ever imprisoned in their wretched lives.
A ferry bumped against the steps and the ferryman called up, breaking Monk's train of thought.
Monk brought himself to attention and went down. He did not need to give directions; he made this journey every day, and most of the men knew him. A nod good morning was all he needed to give. Probably half the river knew the result of the trial. They might pity him for it, but they would despise him too. Phillips had made a fool of him. Or Rathbone had. Or more honestly, he had made a fool of himself. If he had been lucky, he would have gotten away with it, but it would not have altered the fact that he had taken too much on trust, allowed his emotions to cloud his intellect, and as a result made careless mistakes. There was nothing for him to say to the ferryman. There was not really anything to say to anyone, until he could rescue at least something from the ashes.
He paid his fare, got out at the other side at Wapping New Stairs, and climbed up the short way to the top.
There was a boy standing waiting. He was thin and wiry, his face keen. He had a cap jammed on his head, hiding most of his hair. His shirt was ragged and missing several buttons, and his trouser legs were uneven, which complemented his boots, one brown and one black. He appeared to be about ten or eleven. He was the mudlark Scuff, one of the boys who salvaged small items of value from the river to sell. He had helped Monk before, and chose to continue to help him with his knowledge of the dockside and its ways.
“Sorry sight you are,” he said to Monk disparagingly. “Got a face like a burst boot. S'pose you got a right. Made a pig's ear of it, an’ all.” The boy fell into step behind him as Monk turned to walk along the dockside towards the police station. The boy sniffed. “But yer gonna do summink, in't yer?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice that was close to real fear.
