William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

on the steps shivering with rage, but also fear. She could not refute a single thing Phillips had said. She felt helpless, and so cold in the summer night that she might as well have fallen in the dark, swift-moving water.
    The ferry was now bumping on the steps, the oarsman waiting.
    “Yer want ter leave it, Miss ‘Ester?” Squeaky asked.
    She could not see his face; they had their backs to the light now. How could she read his emotions from his voice? “Can it get any worse?” she asked. “Hasn't anything got to be better than accepting this?”
    “‘Course it can!” he said instantly. “It can get a lot worse. Yer could find out that Durban killed Reilly, an’ Phillips can prove it.”
    “No, he can't,” she said with a sudden burst of logic. “If he could prove that, he would have done so already, and destroyed Durban's evidence without having to hope Rathbone could discredit us. It would have been much safer.”
    “Then if yer want, I'm ‘appy ter go on. Nailin’ that bastard'd be better than a bottle o’ Napoleon Brandy.”
    “Do you like Napoleon Brandy?” she said in surprise.
    “No idea,” he admitted. “But I'd like ter find out!”

NINE
    ester slept late the next morning, and was far less disturbed than usual to find that Monk had already left. There was a note from him on the kitchen table. Scuff was nowhere to be seen, so she assumed that he had gone with Monk.
    However, she was halfway through her breakfast of tea and toast when the boy appeared in the doorway looking anxious. He was already dressed and had obviously been out. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. He seemed uncertain whether to offer it to her or not. She knew he could not read, but she did not want to embarrass him by referring to the fact.
    “Good morning,” she said casually. “Would you like some breakfast?”
    “I ‘ad some,” he replied, coming a couple of steps into the kitchen.
    “There is no reason not to have some more, if you would like it,” she offered. “It's only toast and jam, but the jam is very good. And tea, of course.”
    “Oh,” he said, eyes following her hand with the toast in it. “Well, I don't mind if I do.”
    “Then come and sit down, and I will make it for you.” She finished her own toast and raspberry jam, holding it in one hand while she cut and toasted more bread with the other.
    They sat at opposite sides of the table and ate in silence for some time. He took apricot jam, twice.
    “May I look at your newspaper please?” she asked at length.
    “‘Course.” He pushed it over towards her. “I got it fer yer. Yer in'tgonna like it.” He looked worried. “I ‘eard ‘em talkin’ around the newsboy, that's why I got it. They're sayin’ bad things.”
    She reached for the paper and looked at the headlines, then opened it and read inside. Scuff was right, she did not like it at all. The suggestions were veiled, but they were not so very far from the sort of thing that Phillips had said on the dockside the previous evening. There were questions about the River Police, their record of success suspiciously high. But were the figures honest? How had they come to recruit a man as obsessed with personal vengeance as Durban had been—and apparently not just once, but twice? Was the new man, William Monk, any better? What was known about him? For that matter, what was known about any of them, including Durban?
    It was a dangerous state of affairs for the nation when a body of men such as the River Police had the kind of power they did, and there was no check upon the way they used it, or abused it. If the members of Parliament who represented the constituencies along the river were doing their duty, there would be questions asked in the House.
    She looked up at Scuff. He was watching her, trying to judge what the paper said from her expression.
    “Yes, they are saying bad things,” she told him. “But so far it is just talk. I need to know whether they are true or not, because we can't deal with it until we know.”
    “Wot'll ‘appen to us if it's true?” he asked.
    She heard the fear in his voice, and the inclusion of himself in their fate. She wondered if he had meant her to notice that or not. She would be very careful to reply in the same tones, equally casually.
    “We'll have to face it,” she answered. “If we can, we'll prove that we're not like that, but if we aren't given the chance, then we'll have to find some other job. We will, don't worry.