William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

needs to know, for his own sake, hideous as it will be for him. And he might be able to help; I don't know how.”
    “Poor Oliver,” she said quietly. “But I would tell everybody any truth, if I had to, to get Scuff back.”
    “Claudine thought Ballinger might have recognized her,” Monk said quietly, his voice rasping. “It seems he did, and told Phillips. That's why Phillips has taken Scuff now. They know the net is tightening.” His face was very pale, eyes hollow. “We have to get Scuff back, or get some hostage of our own that will force Phillips to let him go. I'll go to Rathbone …”
    “I'm coming too,” she said instantly.
    “No. I won't shut you out, I promise …”
    “I'm coming! If you go after Scuff, and anyone is hurt, I can domore for them than any of the rest of you.” For the first time her glance took in Orme, pleading. “You know that!”
    Monk turned back and faced her. “Yes, I do know it. I also know that you would not forgive me if anything went wrong and you might have prevented it, and I couldn't live with that. I give you my word that I will not go without you. Or Orme, if you'll come?” he added, looking at the other man.
    “I'll come,” Orme said simply. “I'll get a boat ready, and some pistols.”
    Monk nodded his thanks, and touched Hester's hand in passing. It was just a momentary warmth, skin to skin, and then it was gone.
    Monk went straight to Rathbone's office and asked to see Oliver.
    His clerk, Dobie, was apologetic. “I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, but Sir Oliver is with a client at the moment. I expect him to be free in half an hour, if it is urgent,” he said courteously.
    “It is extremely urgent,” Monk replied. “Unless his client is coming up for trial tomorrow, it cannot wait. Jericho Phillips has kidnapped another child. Please interrupt Sir Oliver and tell him so. Tell him it is Scuff.”
    “Oh, dear,” Dobie said with extreme distaste. “Did you say Scuff, sir?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very well, sir. Would you please wait here?” He did not bother to ask Monk to be seated. He could see very well that he was too distressed to sit down.
    Monk paced back and forth. The seconds seemed drawn out, even the minutest sound ringing in his ears.
    Finally Dobie returned, solemn-faced. “Sir Oliver will see you immediately,” he said. “I shall ask all other clients to wait, until you inform me otherwise.”
    “Thank you.” Monk strode past him and opened Rathbone's office door.
    Rathbone turned, face pale, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” He did not elaborate; there was no need.
    “Yes,” Monk replied, closing the door behind him. “He sent a message to say that if I didn't stop pursuing him, and blacken Durban'sname in public, he'd use Scuff in his trade, and then kill him.” It was difficult to even say the words, as if they gave it a more intense reality. “I'm going to get him back, and I need your help.”
    Rathbone started to say that it was not a legal matter, then realized that of course Monk knew that. He had not yet come to the worst.
    Monk told him quickly, sparing nothing. “Claudine Burroughs dressed as a match woman and went to try to find where they were selling Phillips's photographs. She succeeded in finding at least one shop. The photographs were appalling, but what matters is that she recognized one of the purchasers, because she knew him socially. She is afraid that he also recognized her, and that is why Phillips has attacked.”
    Rathbone frowned. “I don't follow your logic. Why would Phillips do that? He won't care about individual customers, even if Mrs. Burroughs was right.”
    Monk hesitated for the first time. He loathed doing this. “It was Arthur Ballinger,” he said quietly. “I think he warned Phillips that we are closing in on him, and this is Phillips's retaliation. I'm sorry.”
    Rathbone stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He looked as if he had been struck such a blow as to rob him momentarily of thought, or the power to respond.
    Monk wanted to apologize again, but he knew it was futile.
    “It is the only thing that has changed,” he said aloud. “Before that, Phillips was winning, and he knew it. He had no need to do anything but wait us out. Now we have seen Ballinger, and that must matter to him.”
    Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. “I'll do what I can.” His voice was hoarse.
    “I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff,” he said, his voice strained. He stood up and