William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

taste of danger, terror, and then release, and known you are totally alive at last? No, of course you haven't! Look atyou! You're desiccated, fossilized before you're fifty. You'll die and be buried without ever having
really
been alive.”
    A world he had never thought of opened in front of Rathbone, a craving for danger and escape, for wilder and wilder risks.
    “And do you feel alive now?” he asked softly. “Helpless to control your own appetites, even when they are on the brink of ruining you? You pay money to a creature like Jericho Phillips, and he tells you what to do, and what not to, and you think that is power? Hunger governs your body, and fear paralyzes your intellect. You have no more power than the children you abuse. You just don't have their excuses.”
    For an instant Sullivan saw himself as Rathbone did, and his eyes filled with terror. Rathbone could almost have been sorry for him, were it not for his complete disregard for the other victims of his obsession.
    “So you went to Ballinger to find a lawyer who could get Phillips off,” he concluded.
    “Of course. Wouldn't you have?” Sullivan asked.
    “Because he's my father-in-law, and I was Monk's friend, and knew him well enough to use the weaknesses that were the other side of his strengths.”
    “I'm not a fool!” Sullivan said waspishly.
    “Yes, you are,” Rathbone told him. “A total fool. Now you have not only Phillips blackmailing you, you have me as well. And the payment I shall require is the destruction of Phillips. That will silence me forever on this issue, and obviously it will get rid of Phillips, on the end of a rope, with luck.”
    Sullivan said nothing. His face was sweating, and there was no color in his skin at all.
    “I won't ruin you now,” Rathbone said with disgust. “I need to use you.” Then he turned and walked away.
    In the morning Rathbone sent a message to the Wapping Station of the River Police, asking Monk to call on him as soon as he was able to. There was no point in going to look for Monk, who could have been anywhere from London Bridge to Greenwich, or even beyond.
    Monk arrived before ten. He was immaculate, as usual, freshly shaved and with a neatly pressed white shirt under his uniform jacket. Rathbone was mildly amused, but too sick inside to smile. This was the Monk he knew, dressed with the careless grace of a man who loved clothes and knew the value of self-respect. And yet there was no lift in his step, and there were shadows of exhaustion around his eyes. He stood in the middle of the office, waiting for Rathbone to speak.
    Rathbone was horribly familiar with the charges against the River Police in general, and Durban and Monk in particular. He had resented it before. Since last night it woke an anger in him that he could hardly contain.
    He wanted the rift between Monk and himself healed, but he avoided words; they only redefined the wound.
    Monk was waiting. Rathbone had sent for him, so he must speak first.
    “The situation is worse than I thought,” he began. He felt foolish for not having seen it from the start. “Phillips is blackmailing his clients, and God only knows who they are.”
    “I imagine the devil knows too,” Monk said drily. “I assume you didn't send for me to tell me that. You can't have imagined that I was unaware. I'm threatened myself, because I've taken in a mudlark, largely for his protection. Phillips is suggesting that I am his partner in procuring.”
    Rathbone felt the heat of guilt in his face. “I know where the money came from that paid me,” he said. “I will donate it to charity, anonymously, I think. I am not proud of the way I obtained the information.”
    A flash of pity lit Monk's eyes, which surprised Rathbone. There was a temperance in Monk he had not seen before.
    “The instructing solicitor was my father-in-law,” he continued. The next was more difficult, but he would not prevaricate or attempt to excuse. “I will not tell you how I learned who his client is. There is no need for the guilt to be anyone's but mine. It is sufficient for you to know that it is Lord Justice Sullivan …” He saw the incredulity on Monk's face, then dawning perception and amazement. His smile was bleak. “Precisely,” he said with bitter humor. “It throws a new light on the trial, does it not?”
    Monk said nothing. There was no anger in his face, no blame, although it would have been justified.
    “I faced him last night,” Rathbone continued.