Execution Dock Page 0,22

the moment she did not wish to know.

Tremayne began. His voice sounded confident, but she had come to know him well enough over the last few weeks to notice the slightly awkward way he stood and that his hands were restless. He was not as sure of himself as he had been before the trial began.

"Mrs. Monk, is it correct that you have created and now run a clinic situated in the Portpool Lane, for the treatment, at no charge, of street women who are ill or injured, and unable to obtain help any other way?"

"Yes it is."

"Are you financially rewarded for this?"

"No." The answer sounded very bare. She wanted to add something, but could not find the words. She was saved from the attempt by Rathbone rising to his feet.

"If it may please the court, my lord, the defense will stipulate to the fact that Mrs. Monk was an outstanding nurse under Miss Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, and that on her return to this country she worked in hospitals, courageously and tirelessly, endeavoring to bring about some very necessary reforms."

There was a murmur of admiration from the gallery.

"She then turned her attention to the plight of street women," Rathbone continued. "Reduced to prostitution by abandonment, or whatever other crime. She created, at her own expense, a clinic where they could come for treatment of injury or disease. It is now a recognized establishment drawing voluntary help from Society in general. Indeed, my own wife gives much of her time in its cause, both to raise charitable contributions, and to work there at cooking, cleaning, and tending the sick. I can think of no finer work a woman may perform."

Several of the jurors gasped and their faces brightened into uncertain smiles. Even Sullivan was moved to an expression of admiration. Only Tremayne looked nervous.

"Do you have anything to add, Mr. Tremayne?" Sullivan asked.

Tremayne was off balance. "No, my lord, thank you." A little more tight-lipped, he looked up at Hester and resumed his questioning. "In the nature of this work, Mrs. Monk, have you had occasion to learn a great deal more than most of us could know about the business of those who sell their bodies for the sexual indulgence of others?"

"Yes, one cannot help learning."

"I imagine so. In order to avail himself of such knowledge, did Mr. Monk ask for your assistance in discovering more about how Walter Figgis might have lived, been abused, and then killed?"

"Yes. It was far easier for me to gain the trust of those who deal in such things. I knew people who could help me, and take me to speak to others who might never speak to the police."

"Precisely. Would you please tell the court, step by step, what you found out with reference to Walter Figgis?" Tremayne directed. "I regret the necessity of such distasteful material, but I require you to be specific. Otherwise the jury cannot decide fairly what is true, and what we have suggested but failed to prove. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course I do."

Then gently and very clearly he led her through all the long questioning, collecting, deducing, then more questioning, until they had gathered the evidence creating a portion of Fig's life, his disappearance from the riverbank to Phillips's floating brothel, his years there, and finally his death. Every piece of information was gained from someone she could name, although she chose to give only the nicknames by which they were known on the street, and Rathbone did not object.

"If Fig was working as the evidence says," Tremayne continued, "why on earth would Phillips, or any other brothel keeper, wish to harm his property at all, let alone murder it? What use is Fig to him dead?"

Hester knew her face showed her revulsion, but she could not control it. "Men whose taste is in children have no interest in the same person once they begin to show the signs of coming manhood. It has nothing to do with any kind of affection. They are used to relieve a need, as a public lavatory is used."

There was a ripple of disgust around the room, as if someone had opened a door into a cesspit and the smell had drifted in.

Tremayne's own wry, sensitive face reflected it most of all. "Are you suggesting that such men murder all children as they begin to show signs of growing up?" he asked.

"No," she replied as steadily as she could. Reliving her fury and pity in careful words was