The Silent Cry (17 page)

She swung round to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.

"I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield, and my own weapons.”

"Bravo," he said softly, his eyes studying her face.

She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.

He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.

She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.

The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.

Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.

Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.

"What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?" she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?

As if he too had seen Monk's face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.

"A society paternity suit," he said with a half-smile. "There is really very little to prove. It is largely a matter of negotiation to limit the scandal. It is an exercise in diplomacy." He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. "I am endeavouring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.”

He shrugged. "If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since…

." He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.

"Since Princess Gisela," she finished for him.

They both laughed. It was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken, and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honour from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.

"And will you win?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "This I will win…" he hesitated.

Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.

"How is your father?" she asked.

"Very well," his voice dropped a little. "He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig where he met a number of interesting people, and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them, about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”

She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened on to the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.

"I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I travelled anywhere.”

"Where would you like to go?”

She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently, with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him, and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.

It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.

"Egypt!" she said with a lift of enthusiasm. "I have just been hearing about Signer Belzoni's discoveries… a trifle late, I know.

But I should love to go up the Nile! Wouldn't you?" Oh God! She had done it again… been far too forthright, and desperately clumsy!

There was no retracting it! Again she felt the tide of colour hot in her face.

This time Rathbone laughed outright. "Hester, my dear, don't ever change! Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signor Belzoni, and what did he discover?”

Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.

It was nearly midnight when they parted in his carriage where it stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a clear night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness.

It had been an island of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. "Thank you, Oliver.”

He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and even as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.

Evan found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw a likeness of both Leighton Duff and Rhys, and he and Shotts had taken them around the area of St. Giles to see if anyone recognised them. Surely two men, a generation apart, would of itself be something noticeable. They had tried pawnbrokers, brothels and bawdy houses, inns and lodging rooms, gambling dens, gin mills even the attics high on the rooftops under the skylights where forgers worked, and the massive cellars below, where fencers of stolen goods stored their merchandise. No one showed the slightest recognition. Not even promise of reward could elicit anything worth having.

"Mebbe it were the first time they came?" Shotts said dismally, pulling his collar up against the falling snow. It was nearly dark.

They were walking, heads down into the wind, leaving St. Giles behind them and turning north towards Regent Street and the traffic and lights again. "I dunno 'oo else terask.”

"Do you think they are lying?" Evan said thoughtfully. "It would be natural enough, since Duff was murdered. No one wants to get involved with murder.”

"No." Shotts nimbly avoided a puddle. A vegetable cart rattled by them, its driver hunched under half a blanket, the snow beginning to settle on the brim of his high black hat. "I know when at least some o' them weasels is lyin'. Mebbe they did come 'ere by accident -got lorst!”

Evan did not bother to reply. The suggestion was not worthy of one.

They crossed George Street. The snow was falling faster, settling white on some of the roofs, but the pavements were still wet and black, showing broken reflections of the gaslights and the carriage lamps as the horses passed by at a brisk trot, eager to get home.

"Maybe they don't recognise them because we are asking the wrong questions," Evan mused, half to himself.

"Yeah?" Shotts kept pace with him easily. "What are the right ones, then?”

"I don't know. Perhaps Rhys went there with friends his own age.

Afterall, one doesn't usually go whoring with one's father! Maybe that is what put people off, the older man.”

"Mebbe," Shotts said doubtfully. "Want meter try?”

"Yes… unless you can think of something better? I'm going to the station. It's time I reported to Mr. Runcorn.”

Shotts grinned. "Sooner you'n me, sir. "E won't be 'appy. I'll get sum mink ter eat, then I'll go an' try again.”

Runcorn was a tall, well-built man with a lean face and very steady blue eyes. His nose was long and his cheeks a little hollow, but in his youth he had been good-looking, and now he was an imposing figure.

He could have been even more so, had he the confidence to bear himself with greater ease. He sat in his office behind his large, leather, inlaid desk and surveyed Evan with wariness.

"Well?”

"The Leighton Duff case, sir," Evan replied, still standing. "I am afraid we do not seem to be progressing. We can find no one in St.

Giles who ever saw either of the two men before…”

"Or will admit to it," Runcorn agreed.

"Shotts believes them," Evan said defensively, aware that Runcorn thought he was too soft. It was partly his vague, unspecific anger at a young man of Evan's background choosing to come into the police force. He could not understand it. Evan was a gentleman, something Runcorn both admired and resented. He could have chosen all sorts of occupations, if he had not the brains or the inclination to go up to university and follow one of the professions. If he needed to make his living, then he could quite easily have gone into a bank or a trading house of some description.

Evan had not explained to him that a country parson, with an ailing wife and several daughters to marry, could not afford expensive tuition for their only son. One did not discuss such things. Anyway, the police force interested him. He had begun idealistically. He had not a suit of armour or a white horse, he had a quick mind and good brown boots. Some of the romance had gone, but the energy and the desire had not. He had that much at least in common with Monk.

"Does he?" Runcorn said grimly. "Then you'd better get back to the family. Widow, and the son who was there and can't speak, that right?”

"Yes, sir.”

"What's she like, the widow?" His eyes opened wider. "Could it be a conspiracy of some sort? Son got in the way, perhaps? Wasn't meant to be there, and had to be silenced?”

"Conspiracy?" Evan was astonished. "Between whom?”

"That's for you to find out!" Runcorn said testily. "Use your imagination! Is she handsome?”

"Yes… very, in an unusual sort of way…”

"What do you mean, unusual? What's wrong with her? How old is she?

How old was he?”

Evan found himself resenting the implications.

"She's very dark, sort of Spanish-looking. There's nothing wrong with her, it's just… unusual.”

"How old?" Runcorn repeated.

"About forty, I should think." The thought had never occurred to him until Runcorn had mentioned it, but it should have. It was obvious enough, now that it was there. The whole crime might have nothing to do with St. Giles, that may have been no more than a suitable place.

It could as easily have been any other slum, any alley or yard in a dozen such areas, just somewhere to leave a body where it would be believed to be an attack by ruffians. It was sickening. Of course Rhys was never meant to have been there, his presence was mischance.

Leighton Duff had followed him, and been caught up with… but that did not need to be true either! He had only Sylvestra's word for that.

The two men could have gone out at any time, separately or together, for any reason. He must consider it independently before he accepted it to be the truth. Now he was angry with himself. Monk would never have made such an elementary mistake!

Runcorn let out his breath in a sigh. "You should have thought of that, Evan," he said reprovingly. "You think everybody who speaks well belongs in your country vicarage!”

Evan opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

Runcorn's remark was unfair, but it sprang not from fact, or not primarily, but from his own complex feelings about gentlemen, and about Evan himself. At least some of it stemmed from the long relationship with Monk, and the rivalry between them, the years of unease, of accumulated of fences which Monk could not remember, and Runcorn never forgot. Evan did not know the origin of it, but he had seen the clash of ideals and natures when he first came, after Monk's accident, and he had been here when the final and blazing quarrel had severed the tie, and Monk had found himself out of the police force. Like every other man in the station, he was aware of the emotions. He had been Monk's friend, therefore he could never truly be trusted by Runcorn, and never liked without there always being a reservation.

"So what have you got?" Runcorn asked abruptly. Evan's silence bothered him. He did not understand him, he did not know what he was thinking.

"Very little," Evan answered ruefully. "Leighton Duff died somewhere about three in the morning, according to Dr. Riley. Could have been earlier or later. He was beaten and kicked to death, no weapon used, except fists and boots. Young Rhys Duff was almost as badly beaten, but he survived.”

"I know that! Evidence, man!" Runcorn said impatiently, curling his fist on the desk top. "What evidence have you? Facts, objects, statements, witnesses that can be believed!”

"No witnesses to anything, except finding the bodies," Evan replied stiffly. There were moments when he wished he had Monk's speed of mind to retaliate, but he did not want the ordinary man on the beat to fear him, only respect. "No one admits to having seen either man, separately or together, in St. Giles.”

"Cabbies!" Runcorn said, his eyebrows raised. "They didn't walk there.”

"We're trying. Nothing so far.”

"You haven't got very much!" Runcorn's face was plainly marked with contempt. "You'd better have another look at the family. Look at the widow. Don't let elegance blind you. Maybe the son knows his mother's nature, and that's why he's so horrified that he cannot speak!”

Evan thought of Rhys's expression as he had looked at Sylvestra, of his flinching from her when she moved to touch him. It was a repellent thought.

"I'm going to do that," he said reluctantly. "I'm going to look into his friends and associates more closely. He may have been seeing a woman in that area, perhaps a married woman, and her male relatives may have taken offence at his treatment of her.”

Runcorn let out a sigh. "Possible," he concluded. "What about the father? Why attack him?”

"Because he was a witness to the scene, of course," Evan replied with a lift of satisfaction.

Runcorn looked at him sharply.

"And another thing, sir," Evan went on. "Monk has been hired to look into a series of very violent rapes across in Seven Dials.”

Runcorn's blue eyes narrowed. "Then he's more of a fool than I took him for! If ever there were a profitless exercise, that is it!”

"Have we any reports that might help?”

"Help Monk?" Runcorn said with disbelief.

"Help solve the crime, sir," Evan answered with only a hint of sarcasm.

"I can solve it for you now!" Runcorn stood up. He was at least three inches taller than Evan, and considerably more solid. "How many were there? Half a dozen?" He ticked off on his fingers. "One was a drunken husband. One was a pimp taking his revenge for a little liberty turned licence. At least two were dissatisfied clients, probably too drunk. One was an amateur who changed her mind and wanted more money when it was too late. And probably one was drunk herself and fell over, and can't remember what happened.”

"I disagree, sir," Evan said coldly. "I think Monk can tell the difference between a woman who was raped and beaten, and one who fell over because she was drunk.”

Runcorn glared at him. He was standing beside the bookshelf of morocco-bound volumes in a variety of profound subjects, including philosophy.

Evan had used Monk's name and the memory of his skill, quicker, sharper than Runcorn's, on purpose. He was angry and it was the easiest weapon. But even as he did it, he wondered what had started the enmity between the two. Had it really been no more than a difference of character, or beliefs?

"If Monk thinks he can prove rape of half a dozen part-time prostitutes in Seven Dials, he's lost the wits he used to have," Runcorn said with a flush of satisfaction under his anger. "I knew he'd come to nothing after he left here! Private agent of enquiry, indeed! He's no good for anything but a policeman, and now he's no good even for that." His eyes were bright with satisfaction and there was a half-smile on his lips. "He's come right down in the world, hasn't he, our Monk, if he's reduced to running after prostitutes in Seven Dials! Who's going to pay him?”

Evan felt a tight, hard knot of rage inside him.

"Presumably someone who cares just as much about poor women as rich ones!" he said with his teeth clenched. "And who doesn't believe it will do them any good appealing to the police.”

"Someone who's got more money than brains, Sergeant Evan," Runcorn retorted, a flush of anger blotching his cheeks. "And if Monk were an honest man, and not a desperate one trying to scrape any living he can, no matt erat whose expense, then he'd have told them there's nothing he can do!" He jerked one hand dismissively. "He'll never find who did it, if anything was done. And if he did find them, who's to prove it was rape, and not a willing one that got a bit rough? And even supposing all of that, what's a court going to do? When was a man ever hanged or gaoled for taking a woman who sells her body anyway? And at the end of it all, what difference would it make to Seven Dials?”

"What difference is one death more or less to London?" Evan demanded, leaning towards him, his voice thick. "Not much unless it's yours then it makes all the difference in the world!”

"Stay with what you can do something about, Sergeant," Runcorn said wearily. "Let Monk worry about rape and Seven Dials, if he wants to.

Perhaps he has nothing else, poor devil. You have. You're a policeman, with a duty. Go and find out who murdered Leighton Duff, and why. Then bring me proof of it. There'd be some point in that!”

"Yes, sir." Evan replied so sharply it was almost one word, then swivelled on his heel and went out of the room, the anger burning inside him.

The following morning when he set out for Ebury Street he was still turning over in his mind his conversation with Runcorn. Of course Runcorn was right to consider the possibility that Sylvestra was at the heart of it. She was a woman of more than beauty, there was a gravity, a mystery about her, an air of something different and undiscovered which was far more intriguing than mere perfection of form or colouring. It was something which might fascinate for a lifetime, and last even when the years had laid their mark on physical loveliness.

Evan should have thought of it himself, and it had never crossed his mind.

He walked part of the way. It was not an unpleasant morning, and his mind worked more clearly if he exerted some effort of body. He strode along the pavement in the crisp, frost-sharpened air. There were rims of white along the roofs where the snow had remained, and curls of smoke rose from chimneys almost straight up. At the edge of Hyde Park the bare trees were black against a white sky, the flat winter light seeming almost shadowless.

He must learn a great deal more about Leighton Duff; what manner of man had he been? Could this, after all be a crime of passion or jealousy, and not a random robbery at all? Was Rhys's presence there simply the most appalling mischance?

And how much of what Sylvestra said was the truth? Was her grief and confusion for her son, and not for her husband at all? Evan must learn very much more of her life, her friends, especially those who were men, and who might possibly now court a fascinating and quite comfortably situated widow. Dr. Wade was the first and most apparent place to begin.

It was a thought which repelled him, and he shivered as he crossed Buckingham Palace Road, running the last few steps to get out of the way of a carriage turning from the mews off Stafford Place. It went past him at a smart clip, harness jingling, horses' hooves loud on the stones, their breath steaming in the icy air.