Rathbone responded quickly before Tremayne could object, or Sullivan sustain him.
“You mean his behavior gave you reason to think there was a personal dislike, above the matter of the crime? What behavior was that, Mr. Simmons?”
Tremayne half rose, then changed his mind and sank back again.
Sullivan looked at him inquiringly, a sharp interest in his face, as if he were watching a personal battle beneath the professional one, and it interested him intensely, almost excited him. Was this why he loved the law, for the combat?
Simmons was struggling with his answer, his face furrowed. “It were personal,” he said at length. “I can't really say ‘ow I know. Look on ‘is face, way ‘e spoke about ‘im, language ‘e used. ‘E'd sometimes let go of other things, but never Phillips. ‘E were real torn up with the way the boy ‘ad been used, but ‘e were still glad to ‘ave a reason ter go after Phillips.”
There was an almost indiscernible ripple of appreciation around the room.
Lord Justice Sullivan leaned sideways a little to face the witness, his face earnest, one hand clenched on the beautiful polished surface in front of him.
“Mr. Simmons, you may not state that the accused is guilty of having murdered the boy, unless you know of your own observation that he did so. Is that the case? Did you see him kill Walter Figgis?”
Simmons looked startled. He blinked, then he went white as the full import of what he had been asked dawned on him. “No, me lud, I didn't see it. I weren't there. If I ‘ad been, I'd've said so at the time, an’ Mr. Durban wouldn't've needed to ride me like ‘e did. I don't know for meself ‘oo killed the poor little devil, nor any o’ them other kids up and down the river what go missing and get beaten, or whatever else ‘appens to ‘em.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying that Mr. Durban 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 at first ‘e might be a kidsman.”
“A kidsman?” Rathbone inquired, although of course he knew the word. He asked for the benefit of the jury.
Trenton understood. “A man who gets kids to do ‘is stealing for ‘im,” he replied simply. “Mostly it's silk handkerchiefs, bits o’ money, things like that. A good leather purse, maybe. But ‘e weren't, of course.” He shrugged again. “Just River Police with more interest in kids than anyone else.”
“I see. Did he ask you about Jericho Phillips?”
Trenton rolled his eyes. “Over and over, till I was sick of telling ‘im that as far as I know ‘e's just a petty thief, a chancer. Maybe does a bit of smuggling, although we've never caught ‘im at it. Per'aps a bit of informing, but that's all.”
“Did Mr. Durban accept that answer?”
Trenton 's face darkened. “No, ‘e didn't. Obsession ‘e ‘ad, and got worse towards the time ‘e died. Which was a shame,” he added quickly.
“Thank you.” Rathbone released him.
Tremayne looked indecisive from the moment he stood up. His face and his voice reflected exactly the fears that were beginning to touch Hester. Could they have been mistaken about Durban? Had he been a man who committed one marvelous act of nobility in an effort to redeem a life otherwise deeply flawed? Had they come in at the end, and thought all the rest was the same, when in fact it was not at all?
Tremayne was floundering, and he was acutely aware of it. It had been a decade since he had last been so subtly set off balance. There was nothing in Trenton 's evidence to contest, nothing he could grasp firmly enough to turn or twist to any other meaning.
Hester wondered if he was beginning to have doubts as well. Did he wonder if Monk had been naive, driven by loyalty to a man he had known only a short time, a matter of weeks, and whose real character he had only guessed at?
