an appetite ‘e can't control, an’ needs Phillips ter feed it, an’ yet ‘e's got some kind o’ power to ‘elp Phillips that's so good Phillips ‘as got to keep ‘im sweet too? That's a nice one, Mr. Monk, a very nice one indeed.”
“Yes, it is. And I want a nice answer,” Monk agreed.
Pearly Boy's eyebrows rose. “Or what?” He was shivering very slightly Monk could smell the sweat of fear in the closed air of the room. “What if I can't find out?” He tried a bit of bravado. “Or if I decide not to?”
“I shall see that Phillips knows that you told Mr. Durban about this very interesting client, and are on the point of telling me, when we can agree on a price.”
Pearly Boy was white, the sweat beading on his face. “And what price would that be?” he asked hoarsely.
Monk smiled, showing his teeth. “Future silence, and a certain shortsightedness now and then, where the revenue men are concerned.”
“Dead men are silent,” Pearly Boy said through thin lips.
“Not those who can write, and leave clear instructions behind them. Mr. Durban might have been very nice to you. I won't be.”
“I could ‘ave you killed. Dark night, narrow alley?”
“The Fat Man's dead. I'm not,” Monk reminded him. “Take the easy way, Pearly Boy. You're a receiver, not a murderer. You kill a River Policeman, you'll be tracked down. Do you want to be buried feetfirst in the Thames mud, never come back up again?”
Pearly Boy went even paler still. “You'll owe me!” he challenged, his eyes flickering a little.
Monk smiled. “I told you, I'll forget about you… to a point. I'll put you last on my list to close down, rather than first.”
Pearly Boy said something obscene under his breath.
“I beg your pardon!” Monk snapped.
“I'll find ‘im,” Pearly replied.
Suddenly Monk was gracious. “Thank you. It will be to your advantage.”
But as he left his emotions were tangled. He walked warily along the narrow street, keeping to the middle, away from the alley entrances and the sunken doorways.
What was the difference between one blackmail and another? Was it of kind, or only of degree? Did the purpose justify it?
He did not even have to think about that. If he could save any child from Phillips, he would, without a thought for the morality of his actions. But did that make him a good policeman or not? He felt uncomfortable, unhappy, uncertain in his judgment, and closer to Durban than ever before. But it was a closeness of emotion, rage and vulnerability.
And of course when Durban had died at the turn of the year, the protection of Reilly had disappeared. He had been left naked to whatever Phillips had wanted to do. That thought made him feel sick, even as he came out of the alley into the wind and the sun of the open dock.
EIGHT
Rathbone sat at his own dinner table and felt curiously with-/out appetite. The room was beautiful, greatly improved from its original, rather sparse elegance, since Margaret's advent into the house. He was not quite sure what it was specifically that was changed, but it was somehow warmer than it had been before. The table had the same clean lines of Adam mahogany, the ceiling still had the heavy plaster borders of acanthus leaves. The blue- and-white curtains were different, far less heavy than before. There were touches of gold here and there, and a bowl of pink roses on the table. They gave both warmth and a sense of ease to the room, as if it were lived in.
He drew in his breath to thank Margaret, because of course it was she who had caused the changes, then he let the moment slip, and ate some more fish instead. It would sound artificial, as if he were searching for something polite to say. They should be talking about real things, not trivia like the curtains and flowers.
She was concentrating on her food, looking down at her plate. Should he compliment her on it? It was she who had engaged the cook. What was she thinking about, with that slight frown between her brows? Had she any idea what was turning over and over in his mind? She had been proud of him for winning the Phillips case. He could remember the brightness in her face, the way she had walked, head high, back even a little straighter than usual. Because it was clever? Did skill matter so much, ahead of wisdom? Was it because she was on the winning side, and Hester had lost?
Or had she not been proud at all, but concealed it very well with that small show of defiance? And loyalty? Was that towards him, or her father? Did she even know that it was her father who had represented Phillips, indirectly? Had she any idea what Phillips was really like? Rathbone was only just beginning to appreciate that himself How could she know more? And if she could be loyal, could he not at least do as much?
He finished the fish. “I don't know exactly what the changes to this room are,” he said aloud, “but it is much pleasanter to eat in. I like it.”
She looked up quickly, her eyes questioning. “Do you? I'm glad. It wasn't anything very big.”
“Sometimes it is small things that make the difference between beauty and ordinariness,” he answered.
“Or good and evil?” she asked. “Small to begin with.”
This was becoming a conversation he did not wish to enter.
“That is too philosophical.” He looked down at his plate. “A little heavy for the fish course.” He smiled very slightly.
“Would you prefer it with the meat?” she asked, her voice perfectly steady. The thought flickered into his mind that Hester would have told him not to be pompous, and charged ahead with the conversation anyway. That was one of the reasons he had hesitated to ask her to marry him, and been so much more comfortable with Margaret.
“I am not sure that I know enough about the origins of good or evil to discuss them at all,” he said frankly. “But if you wish to, I suppose I could try.” It was meant to dissuade her. She would defer to him; he had been married long enough to know that of her. It was how her mother had taught her to keep her husband's regard.
Hester would have given him an answer that would have scorched his emotions and left him stinging… and fiercely alive. Perhaps he would not always have trusted her to be the lady that was Mrs. Ballinger's ideal. But… he left the thought there. It must not be pursued, not now. Not ever.
He forced himself to look at Margaret. She had her head bent, but she caught his movement and looked up at him.
“I have compared good and evil enough today, my dear,” he said quietly. “I can see too much of both sides, and the cost of each. I should very much prefer to be able to speak with you of something pleasanter, or at least less full of pitfalls and failures, and mistakes that we see too late to help.”
Her face filled with concern. “I'm sorry. I should prefer something more agreeable as well. I have spent the day trying to raise money for the clinic, mostly from people who have far more than they need, and are still desperate for something further. So many women of high fashion dress not to please the man they love, but to spite the women they fear.”
He had not intended to, but he found himself smiling. Some of the knots inside him eased. They were moving onto surer ground. “I wonder if they have any idea that you have observed them so accurately,” he remarked.
She looked alarmed, although not entirely without a flash of humor.
“My goodness, I hope not! They avoid me rapidly enough as it is, because they know I shall ask them for money, if I can manage it-at times and in places where it will be hard for them to refuse.”
His eyes widened. “I hadn't realized you were so ruthless.”
“You weren't meant to,” she retorted.
A flicker of genuine admiration touched him bringing with it a pleasure he clung to. “I shall immediately forget,” he promised. “Let us speak of other things. I am sure there must be some current event that is worthy of debate.”
The following day was Saturday; no courts were in session. Normally Rathbone would have spent at least the morning looking through documents for the following week. Finally he made up his mind to face the issue that had
