William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

phrase. “They leave port on the next ship out, and are maybe years gone. In fact, they may never come back.”
    “I see.” Tremayne looked pale himself. Perhaps he had sons. “Then why would this not happen to Fig?”
    “It might have been intended to,” she answered, for the first time moving her glance from Tremayne and looking at Rathbone. She sawmisery and revulsion in his face, and wondered what could possibly have happened that had compelled him to defend Jericho Phillips. Surely he could not ever have done it willingly? He was a civilized man, offended by vulgarity, an honorable man. She had once thought him too fastidious in his passions for him to love her with the totality that she needed.
    “Mrs. Monk?” Tremayne prompted her.
    “He might have rebelled,” she completed her thought. “If he caused trouble he would be less easy to sell. He might have been a leader of the younger boys, and been murdered as an example of discipline. No quicker way to suppress a rebellion in the ranks than to execute the leader.” She sounded cynical, even to her own ears. Did the crowd, the jury, Rathbone himself, realize that she spoke so to hide a pain of understanding that was unbearable?
    Was Rathbone being pressured by someone into doing this? Was it possible that he had not realized how repulsive the reality was? Did he even think how the money was earned that he took in payment? If he had, how could he accept it?
    “Thank you, Mrs. Monk,” Tremayne said softly, his face bleak and lips tight as if the grief of it were clenched inside him. “You have shown us a very terrible picture, but one that is tragically believable. May I commend you for your courage and pity in the work you do.”
    There was a murmur of approval. Two of the jurors nodded and one blew his nose fiercely.
    “The court is obliged to you, madam,” Lord Justice Sullivan said quietly. His face was a mask of disgust, and there was high color in his cheeks, as if the blood burned beneath his skin. “You are excused for today. No doubt tomorrow Sir Oliver Rathbone will wish to question you.” He glanced at Rathbone.
    “May it please the court, my lord,” Rathbone affirmed.
    The court was duly adjourned and Hester climbed down from the witness stand, grasping the railing. She felt drained, even a little dizzy. One of the ushers offered her his arm, but she declined it, thanking him.
    She was in the hall outside the courtroom when she saw Rathbone coming towards her. She had deliberately chosen that way of leaving in hope of meeting him. She wished to ask him, face-to-face, what hadmade him take such a case. If he were in some kind of trouble, why had he not asked Monk for help? It could hardly be financial. Destitution could hardly be worse than descending to this.
    She moved to the center of the hall so he could not avoid encountering her.
    He saw her and faltered in his step, but he did not stop. She did, waiting for him to reach her, his eyes on hers.
    He moved steadily forward. He was only a few yards from her, and she was about to speak when another man, older, came out of one of the side rooms. His face was familiar, but she could not immediately place him.
    “Oliver!” he called.
    Rathbone turned, his relief at escape momentarily undisguised. “Arthur! Good to see you. How are you?”
    Of course: Arthur Ballinger, Margaret's father. There was nothing Hester could do now. The conversation she wished for could only be held in absolute private, even from Margaret. In fact, perhaps most of all from Margaret. She did not wish her to ever know how close Hester and Rathbone had once been. What she might guess was one thing; knowledge was another.
    She lifted her chin a little higher, and kept walking.

THREE
    athbone's cross-examination of Hester began as soon as ‘court resumed the next morning. She took her place again in the witness stand. She was wearing a plain, blue-gray dress, not unlike the sort of uniform a nurse would wear, but more flatteringly cut, and she knew it made the most of her fair coloring and steady wide gray eyes. She wanted to appear both competent and feminine, and of course respectable. Tremayne had mentioned this to her, quite unnecessarily. She understood what a jury wanted and what kind of person they would believe. During Monks many cases there had been times when she had testified, or seen others do so, and watched the faces of the jurors.
    “May I add my admiration to that of the court, Mrs. Monk,”