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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.
