Execution Dock

“Yes I have, and dealt with the kitchen accounts,” she replied, wondering how much all of them knew about the trial and the verdict. It seemed to be quite a lot.

“Wot can I do? The swine is free!” He said the words with a sudden savagery, and she realized with new pain how much she and Monk had let them all down. They had used every avenue they knew and given Hester the information, and she had failed to get Phillips hanged.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “We were so sure he was guilty we weren't careful enough.”

Squeaky shrugged. He had no compunction about hitting a man when he was down. Indeed, it was the safest time to do it! But he could not hit Hester; she was different. He did not want to think how fond he was of her; it was a decidedly serious weakness.

“Oo'd've thought Sir Rathbone'd ‘ave done that?” he demanded. “We could see if we got enough money to ‘ave someone stick a shiv in ‘is gizzard. It'd cost, mind. Get bedsheets for ‘alf the ‘ores in England.”

“Oliver?” She was horrified.

He rolled his eyes. “Gawd, woman! I mean Jericho Phillips! Wouldn't cost nothin’ ter do Sir Rathbone. Except yer'd ‘ave every cop in London after yer, so I s'pose yer'd dance on a rope in the end. An’ that's kind o’ costly. But Phillips'd be another thing. Like as not ‘e'd get yer first. Right nasty piece o’ work, ‘e is.”

“I know that, Squeaky. I'd rather get him legitimately.”

“Yer tried that,” he pointed out. He pushed a pile of papers across the desk, further out of his way. “Don't want ter rub it in like, but yer didn't exactly get ‘im justice, did yer? ‘E's better off now than if yer ‘adn't bothered. Free, ‘e is, the piece o’ turd. Now even if yer could prove it an ‘e confessed, yer can't touch the sod.”

“I know.”

“But mebbe wot you in't thought of, Miss ‘Ester,” he said very seriously, “is that ‘e knows yer after ‘im, an’ ‘e knows ‘oo can tell yer wot, an’ they're go

She shivered, chilled in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps that was the most serious failure of all: the danger to others, lives now shadowed with fear of Phillips's revenge, when they had been promised safety. She did not want to meet his eyes, but it was cowardly to look down. “Yes, I know that too. It is going to be even harder to do it again.”

“In't no point in doin’ it again, Miss ‘Ester!” he pointed out. “We can't ‘ang the bastard anymore! We know ‘e should be ‘ung, drawn, and quartered an’ ‘is guts fed ter the birds! But the law says ‘e's as i

“I know, Squeaky,” she agreed. “And I know we let them down. Not you, Mr. Monk and I. We took too much for granted. We let our anger and pity guide us, instead of our brains. But Phillips still needs dealing with, and we owe it to everybody to do it. We'll have to put him away for something else, that's all.”

Squeaky shut his eyes and sighed in exasperation, but for all the alarm, there was a very faint smile on his face as well. “Yer don't learn, do yer! Gawd in ‘eaven! Wot der yer want now?”

She took it as if it were agreement, or at least acquiescence. She leaned forward on the table. “He is only acquitted of murdering Fig, specifically. He can still be charged with anything else…”

“Not ‘anged,” he said grimly. “An’ ‘e needs ‘angin’.”

“Twenty years in Coldbath Fields would do for a start,” she countered. “Wouldn't it? It would be a much longer, slower death than on the end of a rope.”

He gave it several moments’ thought. “I grant yer that,” he said finally. “But I like certain. The rope is certain. Once it's done, it's done ferever.”

“We don't have that choice anymore,” she said glumly.

He looked at her, blinking. “Yer wonderin’ ‘oo paid ‘im, or d'yer know?” he asked.

She was startled. “Paid?”

“Sir Rathbone,” he replied. “‘E din't do it fer nothin’. Wot did ‘e do it fer, anyway? Does she know?” He jerked his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

“I've no idea,” Hester replied, but her mind was busy with the question of who had paid Rathbone, and why he had accepted the money. She had never considered the possibility of his owing favors before, not of the sort for which such a payment could be asked. How did one incur such a debt? For what? And who would want such payment? Surely anyone Rathbone would consider a friend would want Phillips convicted as much as Monk did.

Squeaky screwed up his face as if he had bitten into a lemon. “If yer believe ‘e done it fer free, there in't much ‘ope for yer,” he said with disgust. “Phillips's got friends in some very ‘igh places. Never reckoned Rathbone was one of ‘em. Still don't. But some of ‘em ‘ave a lot o’ power, one way an another.” He curled his lip. “Never know where their fingers stretch ter. Lot o’ money in dirty pictures, the dirtier, the more money. Got ‘em o’ little boys, an yer can ask yer own price. First for the pictures, then fer yer silence, like.” He tapped the side of his nose and looked at her sourly out of one eye.

She started to say that Rathbone would not have yielded to pressure of any sort, then changed her mind and bit the words off. Who knew what one would do for a friend in deep enough trouble? Someone had paid Rathbone, and he had chosen not to ask why.

Squeaky pursed his lips into an expression of loathing. “Lookin’ at the kind o’ pictures Phillips sells people can affect yer mind,” he said, watching her closely to make sure she understood. “Even people who you wouldn't think. Take ‘em out o’ them smart trousers an’ fancy shirts, an’ they think no different from yer beggar or yer thief, when it comes ter queer tastes. Exceptin’ some folk ‘ave got more ter lose than others, so it leaves ‘em open ter a little pressure now an’ then.”

She stared at him. “Are you saying Jericho Phillips has friends in places high enough to help him before the law, Squeaky?”

He rolled his eyes as if her naiveté had injured some secret part of him. “‘Course I am. Yer don't think ‘e's been safe all these years ‘cause nobody knows what ‘e's doin’, do yer?”

“Because of a taste for obscene photographs?” she went on, disbelief thick in her voice. “I know many men keep mistresses, or conduct affairs haphazardly, and in some unlikely places. But photographs? What pleasure can there be in seeing them that is so powerful that you would compromise your honor, reputation, everything to deal with a man like Phillips?”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Don’ ask me ter explain ‘uman nature, Miss. I in't responsible fer it. But there's some things you can make children do that no adult'd do without lookin’ at yer like yer'd crawled up out o’ the garbage. It in't about love, or even decent appetite, it's about makin’ other people do wot you want ‘em to, an’ tastin’ the power over an’ over like yer can't get enough of it. Sometimes it's about the thrill o’ doin’ something that'd ruin yer if yer was caught, an’ the danger of it makes yer kind o’ drunk. An’ neither of them in't always no respecters o’ persons, if you get my meanin’. Some people need ter be colder an’ ‘ungrier ter think on wot matters.”

She said nothing.

“Goin’ with ‘ores is one thing,” he continued. “Let's face it, it in't all that serious, as Society looks at it. Most married ladies turn the other way an’ gets on wi’ their own lives. Keep the bedroom door locked, likely, ‘cause they don't want ter wake up wi’ no nasty disease, but don't make no scandal about it. Pictures o’ little girls is indecent, an’ it makes a right-thinkin’ person disgusted.”

He shook his head.

“But little boys is summink else altogether. It in't only indecent, it's illegal. An’ that's entirely another thing. If nobody knows about it, most in't goin’ ter go lookin’. We all know that things go on we'd sooner not think about, an’ most folk mind their own affairs. But if yer forced ter know, then yer forced ter do summink. Friend or no friend, yer out o’ yer clubs and yer job, an’ society won't never ‘ave yer back. So yer pays ‘igh, wide, and ‘andsome ter keep it good an’ quiet, see?”