Execution Dock (34 page)

“Ter find out where they sell ‘em pictures wot Phillips takes,” she answered huskily.

“What?” Hester was appalled. “How? Where did she go to? You can't just walk into a shop and ask if they sell pornography! Has she lost her wits?”

Ruby sighed impatiently. “‘Course not. She went dressed like a match seller, all scuffed up an’ dirty, like. She dressed proper, old boots an’ all. I got ‘er an old skirt and shawl from one o’ the women wot comes in ‘ere, an’ greased ‘er ‘air an’ blackened ‘er face, an’ ‘er teeth. Yer'd never ‘ave known ‘er from the real, I promise yer.”

Hester let her breath out slowly, her mind filled with horror. “Oh, God help us!” she said. There was no point in blaming Ruby. “Thank you for telling me the truth. Count the rest of the carrots.”

“She goin’ ter be all right, Miss ‘Ester?” Ruby asked nervously.

Hester looked at her. Her face was twisted with fear, her eyes dark.

“Yes, of course,” Hester said quickly. “We'll just have to go and find her, that's all.” She turned again and left, going rapidly back to her office, her heels clicking on the wooden floor with a sharp, hasty sound.

She was almost at the end of explaining to Squeaky what she had learned when Margaret Rathbone came in. It was obvious from her expression that she had overheard a good deal of the conversation.

“Good morning, Margaret,” Hester said with surprise. “I didn't know you were there.”

“So I gathered,” Margaret replied coolly. She was wearing a flattering green muslin dress and looked as if she had come to do no more than deliver messages. Her clothing contrasted strongly with Hester's blouse and blue-gray skirt, which was obviously made for working in. Margaret came further into the room, nodding to Squeaky but not speaking to him. “Were you going to tell me that Claudine is missing?”

Squeaky looked at her, then turned back to Hester, eyes wide.

Hester was caught off guard. “I hadn't thought about you at all,” she replied honestly. “I was wondering what best to do to find Claudine. Have you some suggestion?”

“My suggestion would have been not to take Claudine into your confidence about your obsession with Jericho Phillips,” she replied. “She admires you so much she would do anything to earn your friendship. She is a Society lady, bred to be charming, entertaining, obedient, and a good wife and hostess. She has no idea about your world of poverty and crime, except the bits she overhears from the street women who come here. She didn't come to the trial, she was too busy keeping the clinic working, and she certainly wouldn't read about it in the newspapers. Decent women don't read such things, and most street women can't read anyway. She is naive about your world, and if you'd taken any proper responsibility you would know that.”

Hester could think of no defense for herself. To argue whether the streets were “her world” was to evade the point. Claudine was naive, and Hester knew it, or she would have, had she bothered to take any thought. She was just as guilty as Margaret had accused her of being.

“Let us hope to hear that it does not end in tragedy,” Margaret added.

There was a movement at the door and they all swiveled round to see Rathbone come in. Presumably he had accompanied Margaret. Perhaps they had come from some function together, or were intending to leave for one.

He looked at each of them in turn, his face grave. His eyes rested on Hester for a moment, then he spoke to Squeaky. “Mr. Robinson, would you be good enough to leave us for a few moments? Thank you.” The last was an acknowledgment as Squeaky glanced at Hester, and at her nod went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Hester waited for Rathbone to endorse Margaret's accusation. Instead, he turned to Margaret. “Your criticism is unhelpful, Margaret,” he said quietly. “And I think it is also unfair. Mrs. Burroughs took whatever action she did from her own belief, and from her desire to help. If it turns out to have been foolish, that is tragic. All we can usefully do now is set out to look for her in the hope that she may be rescued from whatever discomfort or distress she is in. Of course Hester is determined to do whatever is possible within the law to stop Jericho Phillips. It is her fault that he is free from the noose for having killed the boy Figgis. I understand her compulsion to put right that error. We would all do better if we acknowledged our mistakes, instead of making excuses for them, and did everything within our power to put them right. Occasionally we need help in that, which Claudine Burroughs realized. The fact that her assistance may be of more harm than use is regrettable, but it is not stupid, nor is it evil.”

The color drained from Margaret's face, and she stared at him in astonishment.

His expression did not alter. “It takes courage,” he went on. “I think those who have never made any grand mistakes do not realize how much that costs. It is to be admired, not criticized.”

Margaret slowly turned from him towards Hester. Her eyes filled with tears. She swung around and walked out, her head high, her back stiff. She did not speak to either of them.

Rathbone did not go after her. “I know that, because I have made a few myself,” he said with a slightly twisted smile, his voice gentler than before. “Phillips was one of them, and I don't know how to put it right.”

Hester blinked, confused, her mind racing. What he had said was true, but she was astounded that he had expressed it aloud.

She looked at his face, remembering all the battles they had fought together in the past, before ever knowing Margaret. It had been more than friendship; there had been understanding, loyalty, and a belief and a cause shared. It was a bond too deep to break easily. He had made a mistake over Phillips; the thing that mattered was that he had owned up to it. Forgiveness was instant and complete.

She smiled at him, and saw the answering warmth in his face, and a flare of intense gratitude, bright and sweet.

“We must find Claudine,” she said aloud. “Before we think of anything else. Squeaky should be the best person for that.”

Rathbone cleared his throat. “Can I help?”

She looked away. “Not yet, but if you can, I'll ask you.”

“Hester…”

“I will! I promise.” Before he could say anything more, and she was suddenly afraid of what that might be, she brushed past him and went to look for Squeaky.

When Squeaky Robinson left Hester's office he went straight to his own office, intending to wait for her. The discussion between her and Rathbone sounded as if it might become personal, and rather heated. Squeaky had not thought about it much before, but it seemed to him now as if there was a bit more to that friendship than he had supposed. He hoped Hester was not going to get hurt by it. She had already been hurt more than enough by her meddling in the Jericho Phillips affair. Women would be a lot better off, and a lot less trouble, if they had smaller hearts, and bigger brains.

And that certainly went for Claudine Burroughs too. Stupid mare! Now he would have to go and look for her, wherever she had gotten to. And the sooner that was done the better. Dress up as a match seller! Hadn't the wits she was born with! No wonder her husband was as cross as a wet hen. Not that Squeaky knew anything about hens, wet or dry. It was just something he'd heard someone say, and it seemed to fit the kind of pointless and ineffectual temper he imagined of Wallace Burroughs.

It was up to Squeaky to do something sensible. He would do it right now, before Hester could come and tell him differently. He wrote a short note to her and left it on the very top of the ledgers on his desk. “Dear Miss Hester, I know where Mrs. Burroughs might be. Gone to look for her. S. Robinson.”

He went to his bedroom and changed into some far scruffier and more disrespectable clothes than the ones he had taken to wearing in his office recently, and set out from the back door. He picked up a cab in Farringdon Road and asked to be taken to Execution Dock. That was as good a place to start as he could think of.

On the way he tried to let his mind follow what Claudine would have thought. According to what Hester had from Ruby, Claudine was going to look for shops that sold pornographic photographs of little boys. He let out a howl of anguish at the idiocy of such a thing, but fortunately the driver did not hear him, or took no notice. A man could die in here, and no one would care, he thought aggrievedly And yet if the driver had stopped and come to inquire if he was all right, he would have been even angrier.

On arriving he alighted, paid the cabby the fare, and gave him a tuppence tip, then started walking along the dockside to the nearest alley leading inland. The alleys were narrow, stifling in the heat as the sun rose towards midday. He had not been here in some time, and he had forgotten how disgusting they smelled.

He knew where the brothels were, and the shops that sold pornography of all sorts. He began asking, casually at first. He wanted to know if anyone had seen a match seller answering Claudine's description. It was tedious. Many people were disinclined to reply with any degree of honesty.

He had been working at it for two or three hours before he was mimicked, very disrespectfully, by a couple of urchins, and he realized with a shiver of horror how polite he had become. It was appalling. He had changed beyond all recognition from the man he used to be. He sounded like some daft old stranger.

He lunged after one of the boys and caught him by the scruff of the neck. He lifted him right off the ground, feet dangling, and held him in the air.

“Treat yer elders wi’ respect, yer piece o’ vermin,” he hissed at the child. “Or I'll teach yer the ‘ard way, an’ yer'll wish yer ‘adn't been born. Now I'll ask yer nice, one more time, because I don’ like twistin’ children's ‘eads off. Makes me tired, most especial it does on a summer day. Where did the match woman go as was ‘ere two days ago? Tell me no lies, ‘cause if yer do, I'll come lookin’ fer yer, in the middle o’ the night, when no one'll see wot I do ter yer. Got it?”

The boy squealed, his eyes bulging with the savagery of the grip around his collar.

Squeaky dropped him on the ground, and he howled.

“Answer me, or yer'll be sorry,” Squeaky whispered, bending down till his face was close to the boy's. “She's a friend o’ mine, an’ I don't want nothin’ bad to ‘appen to ‘er, got it?”

The boy whispered out a reply. Squeaky thanked him and walked away, leaving him to scramble to his feet and make for the nearest alley.

Squeaky set out in the direction suggested, feeling guilty and a little self-conscious. What on earth was happening to him? He used to behave like that all the time. He had not actually hurt the child at all. In the past he might well have cuffed him round the ear until his head had buzzed. Was this what working for Hester Monk had done for him, made him soft? He would not be able to go back to the streets even if he wanted to. He was ruined!

That wasn't the worst of it. He loped along the narrow footpath at alarming speed, always deeper into the warren of alleys, dead ends, and tunnels bending back on themselves towards the river again. But worse than actually becoming respectable was the secret knowledge he would admit to no one: he rather liked it.

He asked more people: peddlers, shopkeepers, pawnbrokers, beggars. Some he threatened, some he bribed-which was really very painful indeed, because it was his own money.

He traced her as far as the tobacconist and bookseller, where she had apparently collapsed and knocked into a man buying postcards, sending them all on to the floor. What on earth was the stupid woman playing at? But through his anger, which was really fear, he knew exactly what she was doing.

With a little more threat, bribing, and invention he heard about her sudden hysterical flight, but no one knew where she had gone after two or three twists. Mad woman, they said. Who could explain anything she did? Drunk, most like. He wanted to knock them over for that. Claudine would never be drunk! Might be happier if she were, now and then.

It was getting dark, and the clammy air of the day was cooling off Where the devil in hell was the woman? Anything could have happened to her in these miserable alleys. At the very least she would be frightened, possibly worse than that. Another night was coming on. He began to lose his temper with people more genuinely. Perhaps the old Squeaky wasn't so completely lost, just a little submerged under layers of newfound habits in politeness. That thought did not make him as happy as he had expected it to.

It took him another hour of questions, tracking down strangers, and several false hopes and misidentifications before finally, close to eleven o'clock, he found her sitting in a heap on the steps of a tenement off the Shadwell High Street. What on earth was she doing here? She looked utterly wretched. Had he not been looking for her specifically he would never have recognized her.

He stopped squarely in front of her, blocking her chance to get up and run away. He saw the fear in her face, but she was too tired to move, and she simply stared at him, defeated, not even knowing who he was.

The words of anger died on his lips. He was horrified at himself at how relieved he was to see her-if not well, at least alive and uninjured. He swallowed and drew in his breath.

“Well,” he said to her. Then he lost his temper. “Wot the bleedin’ ‘ell are yer doin’ ‘ere, yer daft cow?” he shouted. “Scared the bleedin’ daylights out of us, yer did! ‘Ere!” He thrust out his hand to help her up. “Well, come on then! Wot's the matter with yer? Broken yer bleedin’ legs?” He waved his hand, almost jabbing it at her. Now he was afraid that she really was hurt in some way. What on earth was he going to do if she was? He couldn't carry her; she was a substantial woman, built the way women were supposed to be.

Very cautiously she grasped his hand. He heaved to pull her up, overcome with relief when she stood. He was about to shout at her again when he saw the tears in her eyes, and the gratitude.

He sniffed and turned away, to avoid embarrassing her. “Well, come on then,” he said gruffly. “We better be gettin’ ‘ome. If we're lucky we might find some sort of a cab in the ‘ Igh Street. Can yer walk in them great ugly boots?”

“Of course I can,” she said stiffly, and promptly stumbled. He had to catch hold of her and support her weight to stop her from falling. He made no remark about it, and tried hard to think of some other subject to talk about.

“Why din't yer go ‘ome then?” he demanded.

“Because I was lost,” she replied, not looking at him.

They walked in silence for another fifty yards.

“Find any pictures?” he asked. He was not sure if that was a good thing to say or not, but perhaps it was worse to take her failure for granted.

“Yes, I did,” she said immediately. She named the shop and the exact address. “I have no idea which boys they were.” She shuddered violently. “But it was the sort of thing that Phillips does, I imagine. I would prefer not to know any more about it.”

“Really?” Squeaky was surprised. He had not expected her to succeed at all. That must have been when she knocked the cards out of the man's hand. “So you din't really faint then?”

She stopped abruptly. “How do you know about that?”

“Well, ‘ow d'yer think I found yer?” he demanded. “I been askin’! D'yer think I just ‘appened ter be wanderin’ along ‘ere, fer summink ter do, then?”

She started to walk again, hobbling a bit because her feet were so sore. She said nothing for quite a long time. Eventually all the words she could find were “Thank you. I am grateful to you.”

He shrugged. “It's nothin’,” he replied. He did not mean that it was of no importance to him, he meant that she did not owe him any debt. He wondered if she understood that, but it was far too awkward to explain, and he did not know where it might lead.

“Mr. Robinson,” she said about a hundred yards later. They were in the Shadwell High Street, but there were no cabs in sight, only the usual traffic of carts and drays.

He looked at her to indicate his attention.

“I saw some customers go in and out of that shop,” she said a little hesitantly. “I recognized one of them,” she went on. “That was why I ran away.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Oo was it?” He was not sure if it would matter, and who could possibly recognize her, looking like this?

“Mr. Arthur Ballinger,” she replied.

He stopped abruptly, catching her arm and swinging her to a halt as well. “Wot? Ballinger, as Lady Rathbone were?” he said incredulously.

“Yes.” Her eyes did not waver. “He is her father.”

“Buyin’ pictures o’ little boys?” His disbelief sent his voice up almost an octave.

“Don't look at me like that, Mr. Robinson,” she said sharply, her voice catching in her throat. “I am acquainted with Mr. Ballinger. I ran because he looked at me very closely indeed, and I was afraid that he had also recognized me.”

“Where d'yer know ‘im from?” he asked, still dubious.

She shut her eyes, as if her patience were exhausted. Her voice was flat and tight when she answered. “It is part of my duty, and I suppose my privilege, as Mr. Burroughs's wife, to attend a great many social functions. I met him at several of those, along with Mrs. Ballinger, of course. Much of this time the ladies are separate from the gentlemen, but at dinner we will all sit where we are directed, according to rank, and I have had occasion to sit opposite Mr. Ballinger, and listen to him speak.”

It was an unknown world to him. “Listen ter ‘im speak?” he asked.

“It is not appropriate for ladies to speak too much at table,” she explained. “They should listen, respond appropriately, and ask after interests, welfare, and so on. If a gentleman wishes to talk, and usually they do, you listen as if fascinated, and never ask questions to which you suspect he does not know the answer. He will almost certainly not listen to you, but he will certainly look at you closely, if you are young and pretty.”

He caught a sadness in her voice, possibly even a shadow of real pain, and felt an upsurge of anger that startled him.

“Ask opinions or advice,” she continued, lost in memory. “That is flattering. But it is unbecoming to offer either. One is not supposed to have them. But I am quite sure it was Ballinger. I have listened to him on several occasions. One has to listen, or one cannot ask appropriate questions. Sometimes it is even moderately interesting.” She stopped suddenly.

For a moment he was not sure if it was because she was still remembering something of the past that alarmed her, or if it was simply that her feet pained her too much to continue. Then he realized that they had reached an intersection of two fairly busy streets, and she was hoping at last to find a cab.

When he had hailed one and they were at last sitting side by side, necessarily rather close together, she spoke again.

“If Mr. Ballinger is involved in this business,” she said, looking towards him in the dark, her voice anxious, “it is going to be… very distressing.”

That was an understatement, he thought. It would be monumental. Lady Rathbone's father!

“It may even reflect upon Sir Oliver,” she added. “Since he was the one to defend Phillips. There will be many people who will not accept that he had no idea of the connection. He may be accused of participating in the profit, being… tainted by it. Mrs. Monk will be very unhappy.”

He said nothing. He was thinking of just how awful it would be. The few moments of conflict in Hester's office would be a summer's day compared with what might be to come.

“So I would be very grateful, Mr. Robinson, if you would say nothing about my seeing Mr. Ballinger, at least not yet. Please?”

It would be the honorable thing to do, the right thing. “No,” he agreed without hesitation. “No, I won't tell ‘er. Yer say when yer ready.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence for quite a while. He was not sure, but he thought she might even have gone to sleep. Poor creature, she must be so tired she would have slept on her feet, now that she knew she was safe. Guaranteed she was hungry too, and would like a clean, hot cup of tea more than anything in the world, except maybe a bath. Funny how women liked a bath.

When they arrived at Portpool Lane it was after midnight but Hester was still there. She had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the big entrance hall where they first saw people as they arrived. She was curled up with her feet half underneath her, her boots on the floor. She woke as soon as she heard their footsteps, jerking her head up, blinking. She recognized Squeaky before she realized that it was Claudine with him. She scrambled to her feet and ran across to throw her arms around Claudine, then with flushed face and eyes shining with relief, she thanked Squeaky profoundly.