The Silent Cry (38 page)

"And he felt Rhys set a poor example?" Rathbone said gently. "Was he not a good student?”

Sylvestra looked surprised. "Yes, he was excellent. But it was not only in academic studies Joel felt passionately, above all it was moral worth. His school has a very high reputation, and it is largely due to his own example." She looked down at her hands. "Sometimes I think he expected too much of boys, forgetting they cannot have the strength of character one would hope of a man. He did not understand the need of youth to discover boundaries for itself. Rhys was… an explorer…

of thought, I mean. At least…" She gave up suddenly, her lip trembling. "I am not sure what I do mean." She swallowed and regained control with an intense effort. "I am sorry. I know my husband had a deep respect for Joel Kynaston. He believed him a most remarkable man." She hurried on, as if she feared interruption. "I should not be surprised that Joel feels his death profoundly, and cannot forgive anyone who was involved in causing it. I am sorry, Sir Oliver, but you will have to look elsewhere for anyone to help us.”

Before Rathbone could answer her, the door opened and Corriden Wade came in. He looked deeply concerned, his face was gaunt as if he had slept little, and there was a tension in him which was apparent even before he spoke. He looked at Rathbone with surprise and some anxiety.

Sylvestra stood up immediately and went over to him, relief and expectation in her eyes.

"Corriden, this is Sir Oliver Rathbone whom I have engaged to defend Rhys. We are searching for anything whatever which may help. He has spoken to Joel, but it seems he feels Rhys was an unfortunate influence upon Arthur and Duke, and being the man he is, he cannot speak anything but the truth. I suppose I should admire him for that, and if it were of anyone else, I should be the first to applaud him." She bit her lip. "Which proves what a hypocrite I am, because I cannot! I wish desperately that he could bend a little, I suppose be less honourable!

Isn't that a dreadful thing to say? I never thought I would hear myself say such a thing! You will be ashamed of me.”

Wade put his arm around her.

"Never, my dear. It is only human to wish to protect those one loves, especially when there is no one else to do so. You are his mother. I should expect no less of you." He glanced at Rathbone, looking past Sylvestra. "How do you do, sir. I am Corriden Wade, physician to the family, and at present Rhys is in my care for his physical needs." He nodded towards Hester. "And Miss Latterly's, of course. She has done excellently well for him.”

Rathbone had risen when Sylvestra did, now he came forward and bowed in acknowledgement of Wade's introduction.

"How do you do, Dr. Wade. I am very pleased you have come. We shall medically need your assistance when the time comes. I believe you have known Rhys a long time?”

"Since he was a small child," Wade answered. He looked worried, as if he feared what Rathbone might ask him. "I wish more intensely than you can know that I could offer some testimony which would mitigate this appalling tragedy, but I have been unable to think of any." He still had his arm resting lightly on Sylvestra's. "What will be your defence, Sir Oliver?”

"I do not yet know sufficient to say," Rathbone replied smoothly. If he was as frightened as Hester felt, he hid it superbly. She thought he probably was. There was a stiffness to the way he stood, a hesitation in his voice which she had seen before, at the worst times in past cases, when it seemed there was no escape from disaster, no solution but tragedy and failure.

"What more is there to learn?" Wade asked. "Mrs. Duff has told me what the police believe: that Rhys had been keeping company with women of the street, the lowest element in our society, spreaders of disease and depravity, that he had exercised a certain amount of violence in these relationships, and that Leighton had come to suspect as much.

When he followed him and taxed him with his behaviour, they fought.

Rhys was injured, as you know, and Leighton, perhaps being an older man, taken by surprise, was killed. Is it any defence to suggest the fight was not intended to go so far, and that death was accidental?" He looked doubtful even as he said it.

"If two men fight and one of them dies, unless it can be demonstrated that it was accidental," Rathbone replied, 'it will be proved to be murder. For it to be manslaughter, we should have to show that Leighton Duff tripped over by mischance, or fell on some weapon he was carrying himself, or something of that nature. I am afraid that was very clearly not so. The injuries were all inflicted by fist or boot.

Such things are not accidental.”

Wade nodded. "That is what I had feared. Sir Oliver, do you think we might continue this discussion in private. It can only be most distressing for Mrs. Duff to listen to.”

"No," Sylvestra said sharply. "I will not be excluded from…

something which may affect my son's life! Anyway, if it is evidence, I shall hear it in court. I should prefer to hear it now, and at least be prepared.”

"But, Sylvestra, my dear…”

"I am not a child, Corriden, to be protected from the truth. This will happen, whatever I choose to ignore or pretend. Please give me the dignity of bearing it with some courage, not running away.”

Wade hesitated, his face dark.

"Of course," Rathbone said with admiration. "Whatever the outcome, you will have peace of mind only if you know that you failed in nothing that could conceivably have been of help.”

Sylvestra looked at him, a moment's gratitude in her eyes.

"So the charge will be murder, Sir Oliver?”

"Yes. I am afraid there is no possible defence of accident.”

"And it is not imaginable that Leighton attacked Rhys or that Rhys in any way was defending himself," Wade continued gravely. "Leighton may have been appalled by Rhys's behaviour, but the most he would have done would be to raise his hand. He may have struck Rhys, but many a father chastises his son. It does not end in murder. I know of no son who would strike back.”

"Then what defence can there be?" Sylvestra said desperately. For a moment her eyes flashed to Hester, then back to the men. "What else is left? Who else is there? Not Arthur or Duke, surely?”

"I am afraid not, my dear," Wade said, dropping his voice. "Had they been involved they would be injured also, very profoundly so. And you and I both know that they were not. Unless the police can find two or three ruffians in St. Giles, there was no one. And if they could have done that, they would not have come here to accuse Rhys." He took a deep breath. "I am truly grieved to say this, but I think the only defence that is believable is that the balance of Rhys's mind has been affected, and simply he is not sane. That, surely, will be the path you will follow, Sir Oliver? I know of excellent people who may be prevailed upon to examine Rhys, and give their opinions, in court of course.”

"Insanity is not easy to prove," Rathbone answered. "Rhys appears very rational when one speaks to him. He is obviously of intelligence, and conscience.”

"Good God, man!" Wade said with an explosion of emotion. "He beat his father to death, and very nearly at the cost of his own life! How can any sane person do that? They must have fought like animaL! He must have been frenzied to… to do such a thing! I saw Leighton's body…

." He stopped as abruptly as he had begun, his face white, eyes hollow. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in a sigh. "I'm sorry, Sylvestra. I should never have said that. You did not need to know… to hear it like that. I'm so sorry! Leighton was my best friend… a man I admired enormously, with whom I shared experiences I have with no one else. That it should end like this is… devastating!”

"I know," she said quietly. "You have no need to apologise, Corriden.

I understand your anger and your grief." She looked at Rathbone. "Sir Oliver, I think Dr. Wade could be right. I should be obliged if you would make every effort you can to find evidence, testimony, which will substantiate Rhys's imbalance of mind. Perhaps there were signs beforehand, but we did not understand them. Please call upon the best medical men. I am informed that I have funds to meet any such expenses. It…" she laughed jerkily, painfully. "It seems preposterous that I am using the money Leighton left for us to defend the son who killed him. If that is not insane, I wonder what is? And yet I have to! Please, Sir Oliver…”

"I will do all I can," Rathbone promised. "But I cannot go beyond what is provably true! Now I am sure you wish to see your patient, Dr.

Wade, and I would like to take my leave and consider my next step forward.”

"Of course," Wade agreed quickly. He turned to Hester. "And you, Miss Latterly. You have been of extraordinary strength and courage in the whole affair. You have worked unceasingly for Rhys's welfare. No one could have done more, in fact I doubt anyone else would have done as much. I will stay with Rhys tonight. Please allow yourself a little time to rest, and perhaps spend it doing something to enjoy yourself.

Mrs. Duff and I can manage here, I promise you.”

"Thank you," Hesteraccepted hesitantly. She felt a trifle uncertain about leaving Rhys. Sylvestra was obviously more comforted by Wade than anything Hester could do for her. And she would dearly like to go with Rathbone to persuade Monk to accept the case. She had every confidence in Rathbone's powers of argument, but still she wished to be there. There might be something, a thought, an emotional persuasion she could try. "Thank you very much. That is most thoughtful of you.”

She looked at Sylvestra, just to make sure she agreed.

"Please…" Sylvestra added.

There needed no more to be said. Hester bade them goodnight, and turned to leave with Rathbone.

"What?" Monk said incredulously as he stood in the middle of his room facing Hesterand Rathbone. It was very late, the fire was almost dead, and it was pouring with rain outside. Rathbone and Hester's coats were both dripping on to the carpet, even though they had come directly from Ebury Street in a hansom.

"Investigate the case to see if there is any evidence whatsoever to mitigate what Rhys Duff has done," Rathbone repeated.

"Why, for God's sake?" Monk demanded, looking at Rathbone and avoiding Hester's eyes. "Isn't it plain enough what happened?”

"No, it isn't," Rathbone said patiently. "I have undertaken to defend him, and I cannot begin to do that until I know every whit of truth that I can…”

"You can't anyway!" Monk cut across him. "It is as indefensible as a human act can be! The only possible thing you can say to procure anything except the rope for him is that he is insane. Which may be true.”

"It is not true," Rathbone replied, keeping calm with some difficulty.

Hester could see it in the muscles of his jaw and the way he stood. His voice was very soft. "In any legal sense, he is perfectly rational and not apparently suffering any delusions. If you refuse to take the case on the grounds that it horrifies and appals you, then say so. I shall be obliged to accept that." He also did not look at Hester. There was anger in him, almost as if he would provoke the very answer he did not want.

Monk heard the sharpness. He swivelled to look at Hester.

"I suppose you put him up to this?”

"I asked him to defend Rhys," she replied.

Rathbone's acceptance and Monk's refusal hung in the air, like a sword between them.

Hester thought of a dozen things to say. She wanted to excuse Rathbone. He had undertaken an impossible case because she had prevailed upon him. She had persuaded him to see Rhys, to feel some of her own pity and the protectiveness for him. She felt guilty for it, and she admired him for not placing his own reputation, and the failure he faced, before it.

She wanted Monk to feel the same compassion, and accept it, not for her, but for Rhys! No… that was not wholly true. She wanted him to accept it for her also, as Rathbone had. And she would be ashamed of herself if he did.

And all that ought to matter was Rhys. It was his life.

"You were finding out about the rapes," she said to Monk. "Now you could find out about Rhys himself, and his father. Discover if Leighton Duff did know what he was doing, and follow him to try to stop him.”

"That will hardly help your case," Monk pointed out bitterly. "Not that I can think of anything that will!”

"Well, try!" Suddenly she was shouting at him, helplessness, anger and pain welling up inside her. "I don't believe Rhys is wicked, or mad. There has to be something else… some pain, some… I don't know… just something! Look for it!”

"You're beaten, Hester," Monk said, surprisingly gently. "Don't go on fighting any more. It is not a kindness to anyone.”

"No, I'm not…" She wanted to cry. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes and throat. It was ridiculous. "Just… try! There has to be something more we can do!”

He looked at her steadily. He did not believe it, and she could see it in his face. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

"All right, I'll try," he acceded with a little shake of his head. "But it won't help.”

"Thank you," Rathbone said quickly. "It is better than doing nothing.”

Monk let out his breath in a sigh. "Stop dripping on the floor, and tell me what you know…”

Monk was convinced that any attempt to find mitigating circumstances to explain Rhys Duffs behaviour was doomed to failure. He was a young man whose lack of self-control, first of his appetites, then of his temper, had led him from rape to the situation of murder which he now faced.

Curiously, it was the beatings for which Monk could not forgive him.

They, of all the crimes, seemed a gratuitous exercise of cruelty.

Nevertheless he would try, for Hester's sake. He had said he would, perhaps in the emotion of the moment, and now he was bound.

Still, as he set out from St. Giles, it was more at the edge of his mind than the centre. He could not rid himself of the memory of the expression of contempt he had seen in the eyes of the people who had known him before, and liked Runcorn better, felt sorry for him in the exchange. Runcorn, as he was now, irritated Monk like a constant abrasion to the skin. He was pompous, small-minded, self-serving. But perhaps he had not always been like that. It was imaginable that whatever had happened between them had contributed to a warping of his original nature.

If anyone had offered it to Monk as an excuse for his own behaviour, he would have rejected it as precisely that an excuse. If he did not have the strength, the honesty or the courage to rise above it, then he should have. But he would soften the judgement towards others where he could not for himself.

He was in Oxford Street and going south. In a moment or two the hansom would stop and let him down. He would walk the rest of the way, he was not yet sure precisely to what goal. The traffic around him was dense, people shouting in all directions, the air filled with the squeal of horses, rattle of harness and hiss of wheels in the rain.

He should turn his attention to Rhys Duff. What could he look for?

What might a mitigating circumstance be? Accident was impossible. It had to have been a deliberate and sustained battle fought until both men were incapable even of moving. Provocation? That was conceivable for Leighton Duff, in the rage and horror of discovering what his son had done. It was not believable the other way around.

Unless there was something else, some other quarrel which happened to have reached a climax in Water Lane. Would that excuse anything? Were there any circumstances in which such violence ending in murder could be understood? He could imagine none. Leighton Duff had not died of a blow to the head which could have been one dreadful loss of control. He had been beaten to death, blow after blow after blow.

The hansom stopped and he alighted and paid the driver, then turned and walked in the rain towards the first alley opening. The smell of dirt was becoming familiar, the narrow greyness of the buildings, the sloping, leaning walls, the sense of imminent collapse as wood creaked, wind flapped in loose canvas or whistled thinly in broken glass.

The "Holy Land' had been like this twenty years ago, only more dangerous. He turned his collar up, then pushed his hands deeper in his pockets. It was useless trying to avoid stepping in puddles; everywhere the gutters overflowed. The only answer was to keep old boots specifically for this purpose.

What had made Leighton Duff follow Rhys on this particular evening? Did he discern something which, with a horrifying shock, made him realise what his son was doing? What could that be, and why had Evan not found it? Had Leighton Duff destroyed it, or taken it with him in order to confront Rhys? If so, then why had it not been found on his body? Rhys had not left. Then had Arthur or Duke Kynaston taken it with them, and presumably destroyed it?

Or did it not exist, and Leighton Duff had known before, or at least suspected? What had decided him that night to follow Rhys?

Was it possible he had followed him before?

He crossed a narrow yard with a smithy in the building on the far side.

He could feel the warmth from the furnace yards away, and smell the fire, the burning metal and the damp hide and flesh of horses.

A new idea occurred to him as he hurried past before the warmth could ensnare him. Might Leighton Duff also have used prostitutes, and that was how he had learned of Rhys's behaviour? And to reason on the subject, how had he learned? Had Rhys returned injured, and been obliged to explain to his father the blood on him, or scratches, bruises? Surely not. He would have sufficient privacy for that not to be necessary, or another, simple explanation to be given. He could pass it off as a bout of boxing taken a little too far, a riding mishap, a scuffle in the street, a fall, a dozen things. He should check with Sylvestra Duff and see if any such thing had happened.

But what if Leighton had been there himself, perhaps with one particular prostitute? That could at one stroke explain his knowledge of Rhys's presence in St. Giles, and of the series of rapes and beatings; and also perhaps explain something of Rhys's rage at being chastised by his father. The sheer hypocrisy of it, in his eyes, might infuriate him.

And on a darker note, if he knew of his father's association with such women, might it explain his own violence towards prostitutes, a sense of the violation of his family, especially his mother? That would be the beginning of some kind of mitigation… if it were true… and provable.

The answer was to see if anyone in St. Giles recognised Leighton Duff from any night except that of his death. Was he known in any of the brothels? It would be by sight. A man as sophisticated in the ways of the world was hardly likely to use his own name. While society knew perfectly well that a great many gentlemen took their pleasures in such places, it was still another matter to be caught at it. One's reputation would suffer, perhaps a great deal.

He stopped abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the kerb. He all but overbalanced, memory came to him so sharply. Of course a man could be ruined, become the butt of social jokes, not so much from his carnal weakness as the absurdity of being caught in a ridiculous position. The dignity was shattered for ever. One's inferiors laughed, respect vanished. One could no longer exert authority.

Why had he thought of authority?

A man with a brazier of roasting chestnuts was staring at him curiously. A coster girl giggled and disappeared round the end of the alley into the thoroughfare, carrying a bag in front of her.

A magistrate. It was a magistrate caught in a police raid in a brothel. He had been in bed with a fat, saucy girl of about fourteen.

When the police had gone in, he had come running out of the room in his shirt tails, his hair flying, his spectacles left behind, and he had tripped and fallen downstairs, landing at the police officer's feet with his shirt over his head, very little left to the imagination. Monk had not been there. He had heard about it afterwards, and laughed till he was blind with tears and his ribs aching.

Why did he remember that now? It was still funny, but there was a certain injustice to it, a pain.

Why? Why should Monk feel any guilt? The man was a hypocrite, sentencing women for a crime in which he himself was the abettor, for selling goods which he only too obviously bought.

And yet the sense of regret remained with him as he turned left and crossed the road again. He was unconsciously heading towards one of the bigger brothels he knew of. Was it to ask about Leighton Duff? Or was this where the old raid had happened? Why would the police raid a brothel in St. Giles or the "Holy Land'? It was riddled with them, and no one cared. There must have been some other reason, theft, forgery, perhaps something more serious, kidnapping or even murder. That would justify storming into the place, without warning.

He passed a man with a bundle of walking sticks, threading his way through the alleys to a main street where he would begin to sell them.

A beggar moved into a doorway to shelter himself from the rain. For no particular reason Monk gave him threepence.

It would be more intelligent to go to the police station and get a picture of Leighton Duff from Evan. Thousands of men matched his description. It would be an extremely tedious job to comb St. Giles for someone who had seen Leighton Duff and could recognise him, but he had nowhere else to start. And there was only a day or two before the trial began.

But while he was still here in St. Giles he must see if he could trace his own history here with Runcorn. It was what he needed to know. Vida Hopgood was satisfied. He thought, with a smile, of her face when he had told her about Rhys Duff and his friends. It was less than perfect that Arthur and Duke Kynaston should escape, but it was not necessarily a permanent state of affairs. They would be unlikely to return to Seven Dials, and if they did, they would find a most unpleasant reception awaiting them. Perhaps Monk should go and warn them of that?

It might save their lives, which did not concern him over-much, but it would also free his own conscience from the stain of accessory to murder if they should be foolish enough to ignore him.

He reached the station and found Evan, now engaged in a new case.

"May I borrow your pictures of Rhys and Leighton Duff?" he asked when they were in Evan's tiny room.

Evan was surprised. "What for? Isn't Vida Hopgood satisfied?”

"Yes. This isn't for her." He would prefer not to have told Evan that he was trying to save Rhys Duff, to work in a sense against the case Evan had built.

"Then who?" Evan watched him closely, his hazel eyes bright.

Evan would find out sooner or later that Rathbone had taken up the defence. Evan would testify at the trial, he would know then, if not before.

"Rathbone," Monk answered tersely. "He would like to know more about what happened before that night.”

Evan stared at him. There was no anger in his face, no sense of betrayal. In fact if anything he looked relieved.

"You mean Hester persuaded Rathbone to defend Rhys, and you are working to that end," Evan said with something that sounded like satisfaction.

Monk was stung that Evan imagined he was working for Hester, and in a hopeless cause like this one. Worse than that, it was true.

He was tilting at windmills, like a complete fool. It was totally out of character, of everything he knew of himself, and it was to try to ease the pain for Hester when she had to watch Rhys Duff convicted of a crime for which they would hang him, and this time she would be helpless to offer him even the remotest comfort. The knowledge of her pain then twisted inside him like a cramp. And for that alone he could hate Rhys Duff and his selfish, obsessive appetites, his cruelty, his stupidity and his mindless violence.

"I'm working for Rathbone," he snapped at Evan. "It is a total waste of time, but if I don't do it he'll find someone else, and waste poor Mrs. Duffs money, not to mention her grief. If ever a woman did not need a further burden to carry, it is her!”

Evan did not argue. Monk would have preferred it if he had. It was an evasion, and Monk knew that Evan knew it. Instead he simply turned away to his desk drawer with a slight smile and a lift of his shoulders, and pulled out the two pictures. He gave them to Monk.

"I had better have them back when you are finished with them, in case they are required for evidence.”

"Thank you," Monk said rather less courteously than Evan deserved. He folded them up carefully in a piece of paper, and put them in his pocket. He bade Evan goodbye, and went out of the police station quickly. He would prefer it if Runcorn did not know he had been there.

The last thing he wanted was to run into him by chance… or mischance.

It would be a long and cold day, and evening was when he would have the best chance to find the people who would have been around at the time to see either Rhys or Leighton Duff, or for that matter either of the Kynastons. Feeling angry at the helplessness of it, his feet wet and almost numb with cold, he went back towards St. Giles, stopping at a public house for a hot meat pie, potatoes and onions, and a steamed pudding with a plain sauce.

He spent several hours in the area searching and questioning, walking slowly along the alleys and through the passages, up and down stairways, deeper into the older part, unchanged in generations. Water dripped off rotting eaves, the stones were slimy, wood creaked, doors hung crooked but fast closed. People moved ahead of him and behind like shadows. One moment it would be strange, frightening and bitterly infectious, the next he thought he recognised something. He would turn a corner and see exactly what he expected, a skyline or a crooked wall exactly as he had known it would be, a door with huge iron studs whose pattern he could have traced with his eyes closed.

He learned nothing, except that he had been here before, and that he already knew. The police station he had worked from made that much obvious to anyone.

He began with the larger and more prosperous brothels. If Leighton Duff had used prostitutes in St. Giles, they were the most likely.

He worked until after midnight, asking, threatening, cajoling, coercing, and learning nothing whatever. If Leighton Duff had been to any of these places, either the madams did not remember him, or they were lying to protect their reputation for discretion. Monk believed it was the former. Duff was dead, and they had little to fear from answering Monk. He had not lost so much of his old character that he could not wring information from people who made their living on the edge of crime. He knew the balance too well not to use it.

He was walking along a short alley up towards Regent Street when he saw a cabby standing on the pavement talking to a sandwich seller, shivering as the wind whipped around the corner and caught him in its icy blast.

Monk offered a penny and bought a huge sandwich. He bit into it with pleasure. Actually it was very good, fresh bread with a sharp crust to it, and a thick slice of ham, liberally laced with a rhubarb chutney.

"Good," he said with his mouth full.

"Find yer rapists yet?" the cabby asked, raising his eyebrows. He had very sad, rather protuberant eyes of pale blue.

"Yes, thank you," Monk replied, smiling. "You been on this patch long?”

"Baht eight years. Why?”