His voice changed and became hoarser. “It's wet. In my cell I can hear… dripping.” His body went rigid. “I hate dripping.”
And yet the man chose to live on the river. He must never be away from the slap of the waves and the shifting of the tide. It was only in here, where the walls sweated and dripped, that he could not control his hatred of it. Rathbone found himself looking at Phillips with a new interest, something almost like respect. Was it possible that he deliberately forced himself to face his phobia, live with it, test himself against it every day? That would be a strength few men possessed, and a discipline most would very definitely avoid. Perhaps he had assumed a great deal about Jericho Phillips that he should not have.
“I will look into your accommodation closely,” he promised. “Now let us put our attention to what we have so far.”
Two weeks later, when the morning of the trial came, Rathbone was as ready as it was possible to be. The excitement of the eve of battle fluttered inside him, tightening his muscles, making his stomach knot, burning within him like a fire. He was afraid of failure, full of doubts as to whether the wild plan he had in mind could work-and even in darker moments, whether it ought to. And yet the hunger to try was compulsive, consuming. It would be a landmark in history if he succeeded in gaining an acquittal for a man like Phillips, because the procedure was flawed, well-motivated but essentially dishonest, drawn by emotion, not fact. That path, no matter how understandable in the individual instance, would in the end only lead to injustice, and therefore sooner or later to the hanging of an innocent man, which was the ultimate failure of the law.
He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.
He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove Rathbone, and possibly a desire to know if there were facts to do with someone else's guilt that were being held from him. It was that second possibility that above all compelled him to give Phillips the finest defense he could.
There was a discreet knock on the door. It was the usher to tell him that it was time.
The trial began with all the ceremony the Old Bailey commanded. Lord Justice Sullivan was presiding, a man in his late fifties with a handsome nose and very slightly receding chin. His shock of dark hair was hidden beneath his heavy, full-bottomed wig, but his bristling brows accentuated the somewhat tense expression of his face. He conducted the opening procedures with dispatch. A jury was sworn, the charges were read, and Richard Tremayne, Q.C., began the case for Her Majesty against Jericho Phillips.
Tremayne was a little older than Rathbone, a man with a curious face, full of humor and imagination. He would have appeared much more at home in a poet's loose-sleeved shirt and extravagant cravat. Rathbone in fact had seen him wear exactly that, one evening at a party in his large house whose lawn backed on to the Thames. They had been playing croquet, and losing an inordinate number of balls. The late sun was setting, falling in reds and peaches on the water, bees were buzzing lazily in the lilies, and nobody knew or cared who won.
And yet despite this lack of competition, Rathbone knew that Tremayne both loved and understood the law. Rathbone was not sure at all whether he was a fortunate choice, or an unfortunate one as his opponent.
The first witness he called was Walters of the Thames River Police, a solid man with a mild manner and buttons that had such a high polish they shone in the light. He climbed the steep, curving steps to the witness box and was sworn in.
In the dock, higher up opposite the judge's bench, and sideways to the jury, Jericho Phillips sat between two blank-faced guards. He looked very sober, almost as if he might be frightened. Was that to impress the jury, or did he really believe Rathbone would fail? Rathbone hoped it was the latter, because then Phillips would maintain his appearance without the chance of it slipping and betraying him.
Rathbone listened to see what the river policeman would say. It would be foolish for him to question any of the facts; that was not the tactic he proposed to use. Now all he needed to do was take note.
Tremayne was intelligent, charming, born to privilege, and perhaps a little lazy. He was due for an unpleasant surprise.
“The message came to us at the Wapping Station,” Walters was saying. “Lightermen'd found a body, an’ they reckoned as we should go and look at it.”
“Is that usual, Mr. Walters?” Tremayne asked. “I presume there are tragically many bodies found in the river.”
“Yes, sir, there are. But this one weren't an accident. Poor beggar'd ‘ad ‘is throat cut from ear to ear,” Walters replied grimly. He did not look up at Phillips, but it was obvious from the rigidity of his shoulders and the way he stared fixedly at Tremayne that he had been told not to.
Tremayne was very careful. “Could that have happened accidentally?” he asked.
Walters's impatience sounded in his voice. “‘Ardly, sir. Apart from ‘is throat cut, an’ ‘e were only a boy, there were burn marks on ‘is arms, like from cigars. They called us because they thought ‘e'd been murdered.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Walters?”
Rathbone smiled to himself. Tremayne was nervous, even though he believed his case to be unassailable, or he would not be so pedantic. He was expecting Rathbone to attack at every opportunity. It would be pointless to object to this as hearsay. It would make Rathbone look desperate, because the answer was obvious.
Lord Justice Sullivan's lips curved in a very slight smile also. It seemed he read both of them and understood. For the first time since they began, there was a flash of interest in his eyes. He sensed a duel of equals, not the execution he had expected.
“I know it ‘cause they said so when they asked us to come,” Walters replied stolidly.
“Thank you. Who is the ‘us’ you refer to? I mean, who from the River Police did go?”
“Mr. Durban an’ me, sir.”
“Mr. Durban being your commanding officer, the head of the River Police at Wapping?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rathbone considered asking why Durban was not testifying, although of course he knew, but most of the jury would not.
Lord Justice Sullivan beat him to it. He leaned forward, his expression mild and curious. “Mr. Tremayne, are we to hear from this Commander Durban?”
“No, my lord,” Tremayne said grimly. “I regret to say that Mr. Durban died at the very end of last year, giving his life to save others. That is the reason we have called Mr. Walters.”
“I see. Please proceed,” Sullivan directed.
“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Walters, will you please tell the court where you went in answer to the summons, and what you found there?”
“Yes, sir.” Walters squared his shoulders. “We went down the Limehouse Reach, about level with Cuckold's Point, an’ there was a lighterman, a ferryman, and a couple o’ barges all anchored an’ waiting. One o’ the barges'd caught up the body of a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. The lighterman'd seen it and raised the cry. O’ course you can't stop a barge, still less a string of ‘em, all of a sudden, like. So they'd gone a good ‘undred yards or so before they threw out an anchor an’ got to look at what they ‘ad.” His voice sank even lower, and he was unable to keep the emotion out of it. “Poor kid was in an ‘ell of a mess. Throat cut right across, from one ear to the other, an’ been dragged an’ bashed around so it were a wonder ‘is ‘ead ‘adn't come off altogether. ‘E were caught in some ropes, otherwise, of course, he'd ‘ave gone out with the tide, an’ we'd never ‘ave found him before the sea an’ the fish ‘ad ‘im down to bone.”
On his high seat Sullivan winced and closed his eyes. Rathbone wondered if any of the jurors had seen that small gesture of revulsion or noticed that Sullivan was more than usually pale.
“Yes, I see.” Tremayne gave the tragedy of it full importance by waiting to make sure the court had time to dwell on it also. “What did you do as a result of this discovery?”
“We asked ‘em to tell us exactly what ‘appened, where they were when they reckoned the barge'd run onto the body, ‘ow far they'd dragged it without realizing…”
Sullivan frowned, looking sharply at Tremayne.
