Read Online William Monk 16 - Execution Dock by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Perry
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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 making her feel a little queasy. It seemed offensively clinical, although the faces of the jury reflected it as anything but. She drew in her breath. “No, I have been informed that usually they are sold to any merchant captain willing to buy them, and they serve as cabin boys, or whatever is needed.” She permitted her expression to convey the darker meaning of the phrase. “They leave port on the next ship out, and are maybe years gone. In fact, they may never come back.”
“I see.” Tremayne looked pale himself. Perhaps he had sons. “Then why would this not happen to Fig?”
“It might have been intended to,” she answered, for the first time moving her glance from Tremayne and looking at Rathbone. She sawmisery and revulsion in his face, and wondered what could possibly have happened that had compelled him to defend Jericho Phillips. Surely he could not ever have done it willingly? He was a civilized man, offended by vulgarity, an honorable man. She had once thought him too fastidious in his passions for him to love her with the totality that she needed.
“Mrs. Monk?” Tremayne prompted her.
“He might have rebelled,” she completed her thought. “If he caused trouble he would be less easy to sell. He might have been a leader of the younger boys, and been murdered as an example of discipline. No quicker way to suppress a
“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 making her feel a little queasy. It seemed offensively clinical, although the faces of the jury reflected it as anything but. She drew in her breath. “No, I have been informed that usually they are sold to any merchant captain willing to buy them, and they serve as cabin boys, or whatever is needed.” She permitted her expression to convey the darker meaning of the phrase. “They leave port on the next ship out, and are maybe years gone. In fact, they may never come back.”
“I see.” Tremayne looked pale himself. Perhaps he had sons. “Then why would this not happen to Fig?”
“It might have been intended to,” she answered, for the first time moving her glance from Tremayne and looking at Rathbone. She sawmisery and revulsion in his face, and wondered what could possibly have happened that had compelled him to defend Jericho Phillips. Surely he could not ever have done it willingly? He was a civilized man, offended by vulgarity, an honorable man. She had once thought him too fastidious in his passions for him to love her with the totality that she needed.
“Mrs. Monk?” Tremayne prompted her.
“He might have rebelled,” she completed her thought. “If he caused trouble he would be less easy to sell. He might have been a leader of the younger boys, and been murdered as an example of discipline. No quicker way to suppress a
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