Execution Dock Page 0,11

of the relief. "I cannot say how much I appreciate you, Oliver."

Rathbone did not know how to answer; he was even a trifle embarrassed by Ballinger's regard. He directed the conversation towards the practical. "Who am I to defend? You said the charge was murder?"

"Yes. Yes, regrettably so."

"Who is he, and who was the victim?" He knew better than to warn Ballinger not to tell him of any confession, which would jeopardize his standing as an officer of the court.

"Jericho Phillips," Ballinger replied, almost casually.

Rathbone suddenly became aware that Ballinger was watching him intently, but beneath his lashes, as if he could conceal the fact. "The man charged with killing the boy found down the river at Greenwich?" he asked. He had read a little about it, and already he was unaccountably chilled.

"That's right," Ballinger replied. "He denies it. Says the boy ran away, and he has no idea who killed him."

"Then why is he charged? They must have some evidence. River Police, isn't it? Monk is not a fool."

"Of course not," Ballinger said smoothly. "I know he is a friend of yours, or at least he has been in the past. But even good men can make mistakes, especially when they are new to a job, and a little too eager to succeed."

Rathbone felt more stung on Monk's behalf than he would have expected to. "I haven't seen him lately. I have been busy and I imagine so has he, but I still regard him as a friend."

Regret and contrition filled Ballinger's face. "I apologize. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I hope I have not placed you in a position where you will have to question the judgment of a man you like and respect."

"Liking Monk has nothing to do with defending someone he has arrested!" Rathbone said hotly, realizing exactly how much it could, if he allowed it to. "Do you imagine that my acquaintance with the police, the prosecution, or the judge, for that matter, will have any effect on my conduct of a case? Any case?"

"No, my dear chap, of course I don't," Ballinger said with profound feeling. "That is exactly why my client chose you, and why I fully concurred with his judgment. Jericho Phillips will receive the fairest trial possible if you speak for him, and even if he is found guilty and hanged, we will all be easy at heart that justice has been done. We will never need to waken in the night with doubt or guilt that perhaps we hanged him because his style of life, his occupation, or his personal repulsiveness moved us more than honest judgment. If we are fair to the likes of him, then we are fair to all." He rose to his feet and offered his hand. "Thank you, Oliver. Margaret is justly proud of you. I see her happiness in her face, and know that it will always be so."

Rathbone had no choice but to take Ballinger's hand and clasp it, still with a faint trace of self-consciousness because he was not accustomed to such frankness in matters of emotion.

But after Ballinger had gone, he was also pleased. This would be a supreme challenge, and he would not like losing, but it was an honorable thing Ballinger had asked him to do-obliquely, dangerously honorable. And it would be intensely precious to have Margaret truly proud of him.

***

It was several more days before Rathbone actually went to Newgate Prison to meet with Jericho Phillips. By this time he had a much greater knowledge of both the specific crime he was charged with and-far more worrying to him-Phillips's general pattern of life.

Even so, he was still unprepared for the acute distaste he felt when they met. It was in a small, stone room with no furniture other than a table and two chairs. The single window was high in the wall and let in daylight, but there was nothing to see beyond it but the sky. The motionless air inside smelled stale, as if it held a century's sweat of fear that all the carbolic in the world could not wash away.

Phillips himself was little above average height, but the leanness of his body and the angular way he stood made him look taller. He possessed no grace at all, and yet there was a suggestion of power in him in even the simple act of rising to his feet as Rathbone came in and the guard closed the door behind him.

"Mornin', Sir Oliver," Phillips