Execution Dock Page 0,21

were alone. He spoke quickly, so as not to be overheard by others passing close to them. "It has not gone as well as I had hoped, in fact, rather as I had taken for granted. It is proving harder to make the connections between Phillips and the victims of his depravity than I had expected."

He must have seen the surprise on her face. "Sir Oliver is one of the most brilliant attorneys in England, far too clever to attack us openly," he said. "I knew there was something wrong when he played up the horror of the crime. It should have warned me of what he was doing."

She felt a chill of dismay. "What is he doing?"

Tremayne blushed, and the last shred of irony vanished from his face, replaced by gentleness. "Did you not know he was defending this case, Mrs. Monk?"

"No." Then instantly she saw the understanding in his face and wished she had not admitted it. He must have known or have sensed something of her friendship with Rathbone, and had seen her sense of betrayal.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly "How clumsy of me. He is suggesting that the police were moved as much by pity and outrage as by logic. They proved the crime was committed, but forgot the finer elements of connecting it unarguably with Jericho Phillips."

He took a sip of his wine, his eyes not leaving hers. "He has made it obvious that so far we have provided no motive for him to have tortured and murdered one of his own boys-assuming we can ever prove Figgis was one of his. And he is quite right that we have not so far done that beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Who could doubt it?" she said hotly. "It all fits together and makes the most excellent sense. In fact, it is the only answer that makes sense at all."

"On balance of probability it does," he agreed. He leaned across the table a little. "The law requires that it be beyond all reasonable doubt, if we are to hang a man for it. You know that, Mrs. Monk. You are not a novice at the law."

Now she was shivering, in spite of the heat inside the stuffy room with its gleaming tankards on the bar, its sawdust floor muffling footsteps, and the smells of ale, food, and too many people crushed together.

"You don't mean he's going to get away with it?" she asked huskily. It was a possibility she had not even considered. Phillips was guilty. He was brutal, sadistic, and profoundly corrupt. He had abused numberless children, and murdered at least one. He had nearly murdered a lighterman, simply to divert the river police so he could escape. Monk and Orme had seen him do it.

"No, of course not," Tremayne assured her. "But I will have to describe some very violent and offensive scenes, and ask you to relive on the witness stand things that I am sure you would rather forget. I apologize for it, because I had hoped to spare you."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Tremayne," she said sharply. "I don't care in the slightest what you question me about, or whom! If it is unpleasant, or discomfiting, what on earth does that matter? We are talking about the misery and death of children. What kind of person is concerned about such trivialities as comfort at such a cost?"

"Some people will allow others to pay almost anything, in order to avoid embarrassment to themselves, Mrs. Monk," he replied.

She did not consider that worthy of an answer.

She took the stand, climbing up the steep, curving steps carefully so as not to trip over her skirt. She faced the court, seeing Tremayne below her in the open space reserved for the lawyers. Lord Justice Sullivan sat in his high, magnificently carved seat to the right. The twelve somber jurymen were opposite in their double row under the windows. The public gallery was behind the lawyers' tables.

She was not afraid to look ahead to where Jericho Phillips sat in the dock, above the whole proceedings. His face was jagged: the high-boned nose, sharp cheekbones, crooked eyebrows, and hair that even water would not make lie straight. She recognized no emotion whatever in his face. Perhaps it was in locked hands or a shivering body behind the high ledge, out of sight.

She did not look to where Rathbone sat quietly, waiting his turn, nor did she try to see if Margaret was in the public gallery behind him. Just at