William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

appeared to you to be more interested in this lost child than in any other, Mr. Simmons?”
    “Damn right ‘e did,” Simmons agreed. “Like a dog with a bone, ‘e were. Couldn't ‘ardly think o’ nothing else.”
    “Surely he was equally concerned with the theft, fraud, smuggling, and other crimes that happen on the water, and dockside?” Rathbone said innocently.
    “Not that I saw, no sir,” Simmons replied. “Always on about Phillips, and that boy. ‘Ated him, he did. Wanted to see ‘im ‘anged. ‘E said so.” He glanced up at Sullivan and then away again. “That I ‘eard with me own ears.”
    Rathbone thanked him, and invited Tremayne to take his turn.
    Hester could think of a dozen things to ask in rebuttal. She stared at Tremayne as if by force of will she could prompt him into doing so. She watched him rise, a little of his usual grace lost to tension. What had seemed a certainty was slipping out of his hands. He looked pale.
    “Mr. Simmons,” he began very politely. “You say that Mr. Durban gave you no reason for his eagerness to catch whoever abused, tortured, and then murdered this boy, and as you yourself suggest, perhaps many others like him?”
    Simmons shifted his weight uncomfortably. “No, sir, ‘e didn't.”
    “And you found it hard to understand that he should consider the lives of children much more important than the evasion of customs duty on a cask of brandy, for example?”
    Simmons started to speak, then changed his mind.
    “Do you have children, Mr. Simmons?” Tremayne inquired gently, as one might of a new acquaintance.
    Hester held her breath. Did he? Did it matter? What was Tre-mayne going to make of it? At least some of the jurors would have children, if not all of them. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. She found that she was holding her breath.
    “No, sir,” Simmons answered.
    Tremayne smiled very slightly. “Neither does Sir Oliver. Perhaps that might explain a great deal. It is not everyone who has Mrs. Monk's compassion for the injured and the dead who do not belong to their own family, or even their own social class.”
    There was a distinct rustle in the gallery now. The people on either side of Hester quite blatantly turned to look at her. One even smiled and nodded.
    Simmons blushed furiously.
    Tremayne wisely hid his victory. He inclined his head towards the judge, as if to thank him, and then returned to his seat.
    Rathbone sounded a little less certain as he called his next witness, a dockmaster named Trenton from the Pool of London. He testified to Durban's friendship over several years with the mudlarks, beggars, and petty thieves who spent most of their lives at the river's edge. This time Rathbone was more careful to allow his witness to express his own opinions. Tremayne had scored an emotional victory, but he was going to find it a great deal more difficult to score another.
    “Spent time with them,” Trenton said with a slight shrug. He was a small, squarely built man with a heavy nose and mild manner, but under the respect for authority there was considerable strength, and more than fifty years of ever-hardening opinion. “Talked to ‘em, gave ‘em advice, sometimes even shared ‘is food, or gave ‘em the odd sixpence or the like.”
    “Was he looking for information?” Rathbone asked.
    “If ‘e was, ‘e was a fool,” Trenton answered. “You get a reputation for being a soft touch like that, an’ you'll ‘ave a line o’ folks from Tower Bridge to the Isle o’ Dogs, all ready to tell you anything you want to ‘ear, for a penny or two.”
    “I see. Then what could he have been doing? Do you know?”
    Trenton was well prepared. Tremayne leaned forward, ready to object to speculation, but he did not have the opportunity.
    “Don't know what ‘e was doing,” he said, pushing his lower lip out in an expression of puzzlement. “Never seen another River Police, nor land neither, who spent time with beggars and drifters like ‘e did, not with boys, like. They don't know much an’ won't tell you anything that matters even if they do.”
    “How do you know that, Mr. Trenton?”
    “I run a dock, Sir Oliver. I ‘ave to know what people are doing on my patch, ‘specially if there's a chance it's something as they shouldn't. I kept an eye on ‘im, over the years. There aren't that many bent River Police, but it's not impossible. Not that I'm saying ‘e was, mind you!” he added hastily. “But I watched. Thought