William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

exposure?
    Not that he knew that Ballinger's guest this morning had anything to do with Phillips, but the possibility would not leave his mind. Ballinger had made clear that the client was someone to whom he owed loyalty, whatever the nature of his client's problem.
    Rathbone was troubled as he rode through the bustling Saturday streets with their tall, elegant facades, their carriages with matched pairs, the horses’ coats gleaming, footmen in perfect livery, fashionable ladies. Who else could Jericho Phillips call upon, if he felt threatened by Monk's continuing investigation? And what power might such men have, and be willing to use, to save their reputations?
    And, colder and closer to him than that, whose side would Margaret be on, if any of it came into the open, or at the very least, into family hostility? Her father of a lifetime, or her husband of a year? He did not wish to know the answer to that. Either would be painful, andhe hoped profoundly that she would never be put to that test. And yet if she were not, wouldn't he still wonder?
    Monk took a brief respite over the weekend. He and Hester walked in the park, climbing the slow rise and standing close to each other on the top in the sun. They stared down at the brilliant light on the river below them, watching the boats ply up and down, like long-legged flies, oars dipping and rising. Monk knew exactly the sound the water would make off the blades, if he were close enough to hear it. From this distance, the music drifted in snatches and the breeze was cool, rustling the leaves, mellowing the sharp smell of the tide with the sweetness of grass.
    But Monday was different. He was met by Orme on Princes Stairs, on his own side of the river, even before he got on the ferry to take him over to the Wapping Police Station. His uniform was immaculate, but his face was weary, as if even at seven in the morning he had already worked long and exhaustingly.
    “Morning, sir,” he said, standing to attention. “I've a ferry here for you, if you like?”
    Monk met his eyes and felt a tightening in his stomach, a slow clench into a knot. “Thank you,” he acknowledged. “Have you learned something since I was in?” He followed Orme to the edge of the dock-side and down the steps to where the ferry was rocking gently in the wash of a passing lighter. They stepped in, and the ferryman set out for the farther bank.
    “Yes, sir,” Orme said quietly, dropping his voice so they would not be overheard above the creak of the oars and the hiss of the water. “I'm afraid charges've been laid against Mr. Durban, though he's dead an’ not here to face them or tell them the truth. And if you ask me, that's a coward's way of getting at a man you didn't ‘ave the courage to face in life.” His voice shook with indignation, and far more powerful than that, a deep, unconcealable pain.
    “Then we'll have to answer for him,” Monk responded instantly, and realized as the words were on his lips just how rash they were. Buthe was prepared to follow through. The cowardice of it was despicable. “What are they charging? And for that matter, who is saying it?”
    Orme's face was stiff. He was a quiet man, gentle, but perhaps lacking in breadth of thought. Once or twice he had hinted at a religious upbringing. Certainly he could be suspicious of laughter, except of the most good-natured sort. He was offended to have to say the words that Monk had asked of him.
    They were pulling out into the mainstream of the river now, bucking a little against the strength of the tide. The slap of the water was louder, and Orme had to raise his voice against it. “Government officer, sir, a couple of magistrates. They're saying that he got hold o’ boys for Phillips in his trade. They're using the same evidence we found as to how Mr. Durban helped some o’ the mudlarks and pickpockets and lookouts and sweeps’ boys turn to honest work. They're saying that he sent them Phillips's way, into use for prostitution, an’ playacting, and photographs.” He swallowed with difficulty.
    Monk could see he was having trouble even framing the thoughts that followed. “Yes?” he prompted, finding his own throat tight.
    “An’ that Mr. Durban fell foul o’ Phillips an’ wanted to put him away so's he could take the business an’ run it for himself,” Orme finished wretchedly. He looked at Monk, his eyes imploring a denial, and the will and strength to fight.
    Monk felt sick. The evidence he had