“Naturally,” Sullivan agreed, his face oddly stiff. “But do be careful, Rathbone. Whatever he told you as your client is still confidential, regardless of the fact that the verdict is in, and he is acquitted. I am not the judge hearing the case now, and no privilege pertains to me.”
“None at all,” Rathbone said drily “I was not going to let anything slip, beyond generalities. He has never denied that he makes his living by satisfying the more pathetic and obscene tastes of men who have the money to pay to have their fantasies indulged.”
Sullivan's face reflected a conflict of emotions, fear, contempt, and flickering excitement also. “With such knowledge, it must have cost you dearly to defend him,” he observed.
While they might have pretended amiability, it was now gone completely, and both men knew it. What remained was mutual dislike, and a thin film of disgust.
“A lot of people I defend have practices that revolt me,” Rathbone replied. “I am sure you have conducted cases where both the crime itself, and the character of the accused, offended you profoundly. It would not cause you to recuse yourself from the case, or some cases would never be heard.”
Sullivan gave a slight shrug and half turned away. “I am aware of the difficulties of the law, and justice,” he said without expression. “Is someone accusing blackmail? Or is all this merely theoretical?”
Rathbone steadied his breathing with difficulty. Sullivan was a judge. Rathbone had stolen the information from Ballinger, which he could not afford to have anyone know, for his own sake, for Cribb's, possibly even for Margaret's. But Rathbone had something to learn, and something to redeem. He must lie.
“Regrettably, I believe it to be fact, at least in one case, possibly more. Phillips does nothing unless there is profit for him in it. In the case of supplying boys to satisfy these appetites, there is double profit, first for the satisfaction itself, second to keep silence afterwards, because in some instances, if not all, it is illegal. It seems these men will not, or cannot, control themselves, even when it is of such fearful cost to them.” He watched the blood ebb from Sullivan's skin, leaving his cheeks blotched. His expression did not change in the slightest.
“I see,” he said very quietly, in little more than a whisper.
“I was certain you would,” Rathbone agreed. “Since they are obviously men who can pay blackmail sufficient to keep Phillips's silence, they are wealthy men, and so likely to also be men of power, and even of far-reaching influence. We can have no idea who they are.”
“You do not need to spell it out, Rathbone. I perceive where you are going. It is very grave, as you say. And if you throw around wild and rash accusations, you will place yourself in very great danger indeed. I imagine you realize that?” It was quite definitely a question, and it required an answer.
“Of course I do, my lord,” Rathbone said grimly. “I have taken intense care regarding to whom I spoke about this.” It might not be wise to let Sullivan think he had told no one else. “But I cannot ignore it. The potential for corruption is too great.”
“Corruption?” Sullivan asked, staring at Rathbone. “Are you not exaggerating a trifle? If certain men have… tastes that you deplore, is their private behavior, or the company they keep, really your concern?”
“If they can be blackmailed for money, then I suppose that it is not,” Rathbone replied, measuring every word. “Then they are victims, but until they complain, it is a private suffering.”
A footman passed, hesitated, and moved on. A woman laughed.
“But if they are men of power,” he continued. “And the price is no longer money but the abuse of that power, then it is the business of us all. Most particularly if the power concerned is high office in finance, or government, or most especially in the judiciary.” His eyes met Sullivan's squarely, and it was Sullivan who flinched and looked away.
“What if this man were to pay his blackmail in blindness to bending the law?” he asked. “Or what if he used fraud, embezzlement of money to pay Phillips, after his own funds have run out? Or police authority, to allow or even abet in a crime? Port authorities might overlook smuggling, theft, even murder on the river. Lawyers, or even judges, may corrupt the law itself. Who can say who is involved, or how far it may seep into the fabric of all we believe in, all that separates us from the jungle?”
Sullivan swayed, his face gray.
“Get a grip on yourself, man!” Rathbone said between his teeth. “I'm not going to let this pass. Those boys are beaten and sodomized, and the ones who rebel are tortured and murdered. You and I have both connived to let Phillips get away with it, and you and I are going to put that right!”
“You can't,” Sullivan said weakly “No one can stop him. You've seen that. You were used just as much as I was. If you turn against him now, he'll say you were a customer, and defended him to save yourself That your payment was blackmail.” Hope flickered on his face, pasty and sheened with sweat. He took several steps backwards, but there was nowhere to escape to.
Rathbone followed him, even further away from the crowd. People assumed they were speaking confidentially and left them alone. The crowd swirled around them and away, oblivious.
“How in God's name did this happen to you?” Rathbone demanded. “Sit down, before you fall over and make a complete fool of yourself.”
Sullivan's eyes widened as if the idea appealed to him. Insensibility! There was a way to get out after all.
“Don't entertain it!” Rathbone snapped. “People will think you are drunk. And it will only delay what is inevitable. If you could control yourself, if you could stop, surely to God in heaven, you would have?”
Sullivan shut his eyes to block out the sight of Rathbone's face. “Of course I would have, damn you! It all began… in innocence, before it became an addiction.”
“Really?” Rathbone said icily.
Sullivan's eyes flew open. “I only wanted… excitement! You can't imagine how… bored I was. The same thing, night after night. No thrill, no excitement. I felt half alive. The great appetites eluded me. Passion, danger, romance was passing me by. Nothing touched me! It was all served up on a plate, empty, without… without meaning. I didn't have to work for anything. I ate and left as hungry as I came.”
“I presume you are referring to sexual appetite?”
“I'm referring to life, you smug bastard!” Sullivan hissed. “Then one day I did something dangerous. I don't give a damn about relations with other men. That disgusts me, except that it's illegal.” His eyes suddenly shone. “Have you ever had the singeing in your veins, the pounding inside you, the taste of danger, terror, and then release, and known you are totally alive at last? No, of course you haven't! Look at you! You're desiccated, fossilized before you're fifty. You'll die and be buried without ever having
A world he had never thought of opened in front of Rathbone, a craving for danger and escape, for wilder and wilder risks.
“And do you feel alive now?” he asked softly. “Helpless to control your own appetites, even when they are on the brink of ruining you? You pay money to a creature like Jericho Phillips, and he tells you what to do, and what not to, and you think that is power? Hunger governs your body, and fear paralyzes your intellect. You have no more power than the children you abuse. You just don't have their excuses.”
For an instant Sullivan saw himself as Rathbone did, and his eyes filled with terror. Rathbone could almost have been sorry for him, were it not for his complete disregard for the other victims of his obsession.
“So you went to Ballinger to find a lawyer who could get Phillips off,” he concluded.
“Of course. Wouldn't you have?” Sullivan asked.
“Because he's my father-in-law, and I was Monk's friend, and knew him well enough to use the weaknesses that were the other side of his strengths.”
“I'm not a fool!” Sullivan said waspishly.
“Yes, you are,” Rathbone told him. “A total fool. Now you have not only Phillips blackmailing you, you have me as well. And the payment I shall require is the destruction of Phillips. That will silence me forever on this issue, and obviously it will get rid of Phillips, on the end of a rope, with luck.”
Sullivan said nothing. His face was sweating, and there was no color in his skin at all.
“I won't ruin you now,” Rathbone said with disgust. “I need to use you.” Then he turned and walked away.
In the morning Rathbone sent a message to the Wapping Station of the River Police, asking Monk to call on him as soon as he was able to. There was no point in going to look for Monk, who could have been anywhere from London Bridge to Greenwich, or even beyond.
Monk arrived before ten. He was immaculate, as usual, freshly shaved and with a neatly pressed white shirt
