The Silent Cry

Chapter Nine

Evan knew that Monk had crossed into St. Giles, although of course they were on different cases.

"Wot does 'e want?" Shotts said suspiciously, as they were walking back towards the station.

"To find out who raped the women in Seven Dials," Evan replied. "It's a problem we can't help.”

Shotts swore under his breath, and then apologised. "Sorry, guy.”

"You don't need to be," Evan said sincerely. His father might have been offended, but that case angered him so profoundly the release of shouting and using language otherwise forbidden seemed very natural.

"If anyone can deal with it, it will be Monk," he added.

Shotts gave a snort of derision, edged with something which could have been fear. "If 'e catches the bastards I'll lay they'll wish they were never born. I wouldn't want Monk on my back, even if I hadn't done anything wrong!”

Evan looked at him curiously. "If you hadn't done anything wrong, would he be on your back?”

Shotts looked at him, hesitated a moment on the edge of confiding, then changed his mind.

"Course not," he denied.

It was a lie, at least in intent, and Evan knew it, but it was pointless to pursue. Nor was it the only time Shotts had told him something which he had later learned to be false. There was time unaccounted for, small errors of fact. He glanced sideways at Shotts' stolid face as they crossed the street, avoiding the gutter and the horse dropping awash in the rain, ducked past a coal cart and on to the farther footpath. What else was there that he had not yet learned? Why should Shotts lie to him about anything?

He had a sudden acutely unpleasant feeling of loneliness, as if the ground had given way beneath him and old certainties had vanished without anything to replace them. All around him was grey poverty, people whose lives were bounded by hunger, cold and danger. They were so used to it they could eat and sleep in its midst, laugh and beget children, bury their dead, steal from each other, and practise their trades and their crafts, legal or otherwise. Illegality was probably the least of their problems, except in so much as it trespassed certain safeguards. The cardinal principle was to survive. If he had spoken to them of his father's notion of a just God, one who loved them, he would have been greeted with utter incomprehension. Even good fairy stories had some relevance to fact, some meaning that a person could understand.

They entered an alley too narrow to walk abreast, and Shotts went first, Evan behind him. It was a short cut back to the main thoroughfare. They crossed a tanner's yard stinking of hides, and went through a gate that was loosely chained, and into the footpath.

Evan increased his stride and caught up with Shotts.

"Why did you lie to me?" he said bluntly.

Shotts tripped on the kerb stone then regained his balance and stood still.

"Sir?”

Evan stopped also. "Why did you lie to me?" he repeated, his voice mild, no accusation in it, simply puzzlement and curiosity.

Shotts swallowed. "About what, sir?”

"Lots of things: where you were last Friday when you told me you were questioning Hattie Burrows. You weren't, because I learned afterwards where she was, and it was not with you. About Seven Dials and the running patterer, and hearing from him the case Monk was on.”

"That…" Shotts began. "That was a… mistake…" He did not look at Evan as he was speaking.

"Have you a bad memory?" Evan enquired politely, in the same tone as he would have asked if Shotts liked sausages.

Shotts was caught. To say he had would make him an unsuitable policeman. Above all a policeman needed keen observation and an excellent memory. He had already demonstrated these qualities very effectively.

"Well… pretty good… most of the time… sir," he compromised rather well.

"You need to have a perfect memory to be a good liar," Evan resumed walking at a level pace, and Shotts kept up, but not looking at him.

"Better than yours. Why, Shotts? Do you know something about this murder that you don't want to tell me? Or is it something else altogether that you are hiding?”

Shotts blushed scarlet. He must have felt the heat flush up his face, because he surrendered.

"It's nothing agin' the law, sir, I swear it! I would never do nothing agin' the law!”

"I'm listening," Evan kept his eyes straight ahead.

"It's a girl, sir, a woman. I were seein' 'er well I shouldn't 'ave.

It's me only chance, yer see, wi' all the extra duty I been pullin', withe murder. I was… I was tryin' ter keeper fam'ly out o' it. Not that they're in it…”

Evan attempted to hide his smile, and only partially succeeded.

"Oh! Why the secrecy?”

"Mr. Runcorn wouldn't approve, sir. I mean ter marry 'er, but I 'aven't saved enough money yet, an' I can't afford ter lose me job.”

"Then be a little more efficient with your lying, and Mr. Runcorn won't need to find out. At least be wholehearted in your inventions!”

Shotts stared at him.

Evan kept on walking, coming to the crossroads and aft era brief glance to left and right, striding out, leaving Shotts on the kerb as a rag and bone cart lumbered between them. Now he was smiling widely.

When Evan reached the police station there was a message that Monk wanted to see him, and had information to impart relevant to the Leighton Duff case of a nature which would bring to a conclusion the initial part of the enquiry. That was very strong language for Monk, who never exaggerated, and Evan went out again immediately and took a hansom to Grafton Street, and knocked on the door of Monk's rooms.

It was some time since he had been there, and he was surprised to see how comfortable they were, in fact even inviting. He was too intent on his purpose for calling to notice more than peripherally, but he was aware of personal touches. It was not something he would have associated with Monk, it was too restful. There were antimacassars on the chair backs and a palm tree of some sort in a large, brass pot. The fire was hot, as if it had been lit for some time. He found he was relaxing, in spite of himself.

"What is it?" he asked as soon as his coat was off and even before he sat in the chair opposite Monk's. "What have you found out? Have you proof?”

"I have witnesses," Monk replied, crossing his legs and leaning back, his eyes on Evan's face. "I have several people who saw Rhys Duff in St. Giles at the time leading up to the murder including a prostitute he used there on several occasions. It was definitely him. She identified him from the picture you gave me, and she knew him by name, also Arthur and Duke Kynaston. I even have the last victim of rape, attacked just before the murder, only a few yards from Water Lane.”

"She identifies Rhys Duff?" Evan said incredulously. It was almost too good to be true! How had he and Shotts missed that? Were they really so inferior to Monk? Was his skill, and his ruthlessness, so much greater? He looked across at where Monk sat, the firelight red on his lean cheeks, and casting shadows across his eyes. It was a strong, clever face, but not insensitive, not without imagination or the possibility of compassion. There was a certain darkness in it now, as if this victory destroyed as well as created. There was so much in him Evan did not understand, but it did not stop him caring. He had never been afraid to commit his friendship.

"No," Monk answered. "She described three men, one tall and fairly slight, one shorter and leaner built, and one of average height and thin. She did not see or remember their faces.”

"That could be Rhys Duff, and Duke and Arthur Kynaston, but it's not proof," Evan argued. "A decent defence lawyer would tear that apart.”

Monk linked his fingers together in a steeple and stared at Evan. "When this defence lawyer you have in mind asks why on earth Rhys Duff should murder his father," he said. "He was a decent, well-bred young man who, like any other of his age and class, occasionally took his pleasures with a prostitute. Simply because his father was a trifle straight-laced about such things, even a little pompous perhaps, is not cause for anything beyond a quarrel, and perhaps a reduction in his allowance. This provides their answer: because Leighton Duff interrupted his son and his friends raping and beating a young woman.

He was horrified and appalled. He would not accept it as part of any young man's natural appetites. Therefore he had to be silenced.”

Evan followed the reasoning perfectly. A possible motive had been the one thing lacking before. A quarrel was easy to understand, even a few blows struck. But a fight to the death over the issue of using a prostitute was absurd. The issue of a series of rapes of increasing violence, by three of them together, and caught red-handed, was another matter entirely. It was repellent, and it was criminal. It was also escalating to the degree when sooner or later it would become murder.

To imagine three young men, fresh from the victory of violence against a terrified victim, beating to death the one man who threatened their exposure, was sickening but not difficult to believe.

"Yes, I see," he agreed with a sudden sadness. They were hideous crimes, so ugly he should have been overwhelmed with revulsion and a towering anger against the young men who had committed them. Yet what filled his mind was the picture of Rhys as he had seen him on the cobbles, soaked with blood, insensible, and yet still breathing, still just barely alive.

And then leaping to his mind came the sight of him in the hospital bed, his face swollen and blue with bruising as he opened his eyes and tried desperately to speak, choking in horror, gagging, drowning in pain.

Evan felt no sense of victory, not even the usual loosening of tension inside himself that knowledge brought. There was no peace in this.

"You had better take me to these witnesses," he said flatly. "I presume they will tell me the same thing? Will they swear in court, do you suppose?" He did not know what he hoped. Even if they would not, nothing could alter the truth of it.

"You can make them," Monk answered with impatience in his voice. "The majesty of the law will persuade them. Once in the witness box they have no reason to lie. That is not your decision anyway.”

He was right. There was nothing to argue about.

"Then I'll take it to Runcorn," Evan went on. He smiled with a downward turn of his lips. "He won't be amused that you solved the case.”

A curious look crossed Monk's face, a mixture of irony and something which could have been regret, or even a form of guilt. Evan was aware of uncertainty in him, a hesitation as if there were something else he wanted to talk about, but was unsure how to begin. He was making no move to rise from his comfortable chair.

"I know he refused to pursue the rapes," Evan started. "But with this it's different. No one will bother prosecuting that when there is the murder. That's what we'll charge them with. We will only prove the rapes to establish motive. The ones in Seven Dials will be by implication.”

"I know.”

Evan was puzzled. Why did Monk's contempt for Runcorn run so deep?

Runcorn was pompous at times, but it was his manner of defending himself from the triviality he felt in his life, perhaps the loneliness. He was a man who seemed to know little else but the concern of his work, the value it gave him, even his relationships with others. Evan realised he knew nothing whatever of the man Runcorn was when he left the police station, except that he never spoke of family or other friends, other pastimes. Had Monk ever considered such things?

"Do you still think he should have pressed the cases of rape alone?" he asked, hearing the criticism in his voice.

Monk shrugged. "No." He sounded reluctant. "He was right. It would have put the victims through more of an ordeal than the offenders…

presuming they would even have testified… which they probably wouldn't. I would not ask any woman I cared for to do that. We would be pursuing it far more for our own sense of vengeance than anything to do with the well-being of the women, or even justice. They would suffer and the men would go free. We wouldn't even be able to try them again, even if we eventually found proof, because they would have been vindicated by the law.”

There was anger in his face, but it was for the situation, not for Runcorn.

"Rape is not a crime for which we have any answer even remotely just, or compassionate," he went on. "It strikes at a part of the emotions which we don't exercise honestly, let alone govern with rationality. It is even more primitive than murder. Why is that, Evan? We deny it, excuse it, torture logic and twist facts to pretend it did not happen, that somehow it was the victim's fault, and therefore not the crime we named it.”

"I don't know," Evan said, even as he was thinking. "It is something to do with violation…”

"For God's sake! It is the woman who is violated!" Monk exploded, his face dark.

"Yes, it is," Evan agreed wryly. "But the violation we get so upset about is our own. Our property has been spoiled. Someone has taken something to which only we have the right. The rape of any woman is a reminder that our own women can also be spoiled that way. It is a very intimate thing.”

"So is murder!" Monk retorted.

"Murder is only your own life." Evan was still thinking aloud. "Rape is the contamination of your posterity, the fountainhead of your immortality, if you look at it that way.”

Monk's eyebrows rose. "Do you look at it that way?”

"No. But then I believe in a resurrection of the body." Evan had thought he would apologise to Monk for his faith, but he found himself speaking with a perfectly calm and untroubled voice, as his own father would have done to a parishioner. "I believe in an individual soul which travels through eternity. This life is far from all there is, in fact it is a minute part, simply an antechamber, a deciding place where we choose the light from the dark, where we come to know what we truly value.”

"It's a place of bloody injustice, inequity and waste!" Monk said hoarsely. "How can you possibly walk around St. Giles, as you have been doing, and even imagine a God that is fit for anything but fear, or hate? Better for your sanity to think it is random, and simply do what you can to redress the worst monstrosities.”

Evan leaned forward, all the energy of his spirit in his words, fragments half remembered returning to his tongue. "Do you want a just world, where sin is punished immediately, and virtue rewarded?”

"Why not?" Monk challenged. "Is there something wrong with that? Food and clothing for everyone, health, intelligence, a chance to succeed?”

"And forgiveness, and pity, and courage?" Evan pressed. "Compassion for others, humility, and faith?”

Monk frowned, the beginning of a doubt in his mind. "You say that as if the answer were not a certainty! Why not? I thought they were the qualities you valued most. Aren't they?”

"Do you value them?”

"Yes! I may not always behave as if I do, but yes, certainly.”

"But if the world were always just, and immediately so, then people would choose to be good, not out of compassion or pity, but because it would be idiotic to be anything else," Evan reasoned. "Only a fool would counsel any act he knew he would be punished for immediately and certainly.”

Monk said nothing.

"Courage against what?" Evan went on. "Do the right thing, and there can be nothing to fear. Virtue will always be rewarded, straight away.

There will be no need for humility or forgiveness either. Justice will take care of everything. For that matter neither will there be need for pity or generosity, because no one will need it. The remedy for every ill will lie with the sufferer. We would be full of judgement for each other…”

"All right!" Monk cut across him. "You have made your point. Perhaps I would rather accept the world as it is, than change it for the one you paint. Although there are times when I find this one almost beyond bearing, not for me, but for some of those I see." He rose to his feet. "Your father would be proud of you. Perhaps you are wasted on a police beat instead of a pulpit." He was frowning. "Do you want me to take you to these witnesses?”

Evan rose also. "Yes, please.”

Monk fetched his overcoat and Evan put his back on again, and together they went out into the dark, cold evening, walking side by side towards Tottenham Court Road and a hansom.

Inside, rattling towards St. Giles, Monk spoke again, his voice uncertain, as if he were struggling for words, seizing the opportunity of the temporary blindness of the night to voice some troubling thought.

"Does Runcorn ever speak to you about the past… about me?”

Evan could hear the emotion in his voice and knew he was searching for something of which he was afraid.

"Now and then, but very little," he answered as they passed the Whitefields Tabernacle and continued down towards Oxford Street.

"We used to work St. Giles together," Monk went on, staring straight ahead of him. Evan could not see his face, but could judge from the sound of his voice. "Back before they rebuilt any of it. When it was known as the "Holy Land".”

"It must have been very dangerous." Evan spoke to fill the silence.

"Yes. We always went in with at least two at a time, usually more.”

"He hasn't spoken of it.”

"No. He wouldn't." Monk's voice dropped at the end of the sentence, betraying a sense of loss, not for Runcorn's friendship, but for whatever it was which had destroyed it. Evan understood what it was that disturbed him, but it was too delicate to speak of between them.

Monk wanted to know what it had been, but only step by step, so he could withdraw again if it became too ugly. It was his own soul he was exploring, the one territory from which there was no escape, the one enemy which must always be faced, sooner or later, more certain than anything else in life or death.

"He never mentions family," Evan said aloud. "He didn't marry.”

"Didn't he…" Monk's tone was remote, as if the remark were meaningless, but the tension in his body belied that.

"I think he regrets it," Evan added, remembering casual references made, and the momentary grief in Runcorn's face, instantly hidden.

There had been a sergeant's wedding anniversary, everyone had wished him well, spoken of their own families. For an instant Evan had seen the pain in Runcorn's eyes, the knowledge of loneliness, of exclusion.

He was not a man gifted by his nature or temperament to fill his own emptiness. He would have been happier with someone there, someone to encourage him when he failed, admire him, be grateful for his support, someone with whom he could share his successes.

Had Monk, with his greater inner strength, his natural courage, intentionally or not, robbed Runcorn of that? Monk feared he had blocked Runcorn's professional success, stood in his path, taken credit for some victory that rightly belonged to him. The inner loss was the one Evan feared, the confidence, the hope, the courage to put fate to the test, and abide the consequences, that was what nestled cold in Evan's mind. Could one man really rob another of that? Or merely fail to help?

Monk could not bear the silence.

"Did he… want to? I mean, was there someone, do you know?”

Evan recalled a fragment of conversation, a name.

"Yes, I think so. But it was several years ago, fifteen or sixteen or more. Her name was Ellen, I think.”

"What happened?”

"I don't know.”

The cab swung round into Oxford Circus, jolting and lurching as the dense traffic caused it to change course. In a few moments they would be there. After that it would be on foot, all alleys and yards, steps up and down, icy rooms while Monk retraced his questions and Evan made notes for evidence. There was no more time for conversation.

Monk drew in his breath and let out a sigh.

The next afternoon Evan had all he needed. As Monk had told him, it was inescapable. He sent up a message that he wished to see Runcorn, and at five minutes to three he knocked on the office door.

"Come in," Runcorn called from inside.

Evan opened the door, went into the warmth that filled the room from the fire, but the chill that he carried with him did not ease.

"Yes?" Runcorn looked up from the papers he had been reading. "This news had better be definite. I don't want any more feelings. Sometimes you are too soft for your own good, Evan. If you want to be a preacher you should have stayed at home.”

"If I had wanted to be a minister, sir, I would have!" Evan replied, meeting Runcorn's eyes boldly. He recognised in himself the same shortness of temper he saw in Monk, the same desire to win, the temptation to fight for the sake of it. Runcorn brought out the least admirable traits in him as they did in Monk.

"Come to the point," Runcorn pursed his lips. "What do you have? I assume we are talking about the murder of Leighton Duff? You are not off on some crusade for Monk?" His eyes were hard, as if part of him actually wanted to catch Evan in the trespass. He wanted to like Evan.

Instinctively he did. And yet his closeness to Monk so often soured it.

"Yes, sir." Evan stood to attention, or as nearly as possible for a man of his natural ease. "I have witnesses to Rhys Duff and his two friends using prostitutes in St. Giles. His picture had been recognised by one of the women. I have her statement. She also names him. Rhys is not a common Christian name, sir.”

Runcorn leaned forward, the other papers pushed aside.

"Go on…”

"I also have testimony from the last victim of rape, sir, on the night of the murder. She describes three men who answer the physical characteristics of Rhys Duff and his two friends, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston.”

Runcorn let out his breath slowly and sat back, linking his fingers across his stomach.

"Any proof that the Kynaston brothers were involved in the murder? I mean proof, not reasonable supposition. We have to be absolute.”

"I know that, sir. And no, no proof. If we can convict Rhys Duff, then the others may follow." It infuriated him to have to allow their freedom until then. Whoever had actually killed Leighton Duff, the other two were guilty of the string of crimes which had precipitated it. If they had run away at the final moment, it was an act of cowardice, not compassion or honour. Decency of any kind at all would have intervened and prevented the ultimate tragedy.

"Can you place them there?" Runcorn questioned sharply.

"I can place them whoring in St. Giles with Rhys, but not that night, not by name. He was with two other men who answer their descriptions.

That is all… so far. The worst thing is that they neither of them seem to be hurt, which would indicate they were not involved in the last fight with Leighton Duff.”

"Well, we're not charging them with rape!" Runcorn said decisively.

"That is not a possibility, so dismiss it. What we have is evidence that three young men, of whom Rhys Duff was one, have been beating and raping women in St. Giles, specifically on the night on which Leighton Duff was murdered." Outside in the passage someone's footsteps stopped, and then went on. Runcorn did not seem to hear them. "Did Rhys and his father go separately or together, do you know?" he asked.

"Separately, sir. We have cab drivers' testimony to that.”

"Good. So apparently on this occasion Leighton Duff followed his son.

Presumably he had cause to suspect what he was doing. It would be excellent if you could know what that was. The wife may know, but I imagine it will take some skill to elicit it from her." His face did not betray the imagination to conceive of her suffering. Evan hardly dared think of what such knowledge would do to her. He hoped profoundly that she did have some relationship of tenderness with Dr.

Wade. She would surely need all his support now!

"But you had better try," Runcorn went on. "Be very careful how you question her, Evan. She will be a vital witness when it conics to trial. You will search the house, of course. You may find clothes with bloodstains from his earlier attacks. You must establish that he was out on every occasion you intend to specify. Don't get caught on details! I imagine if he does not confess to it, and there is a major case, then his mother will employ the best Queen's Counsel she can find in his defence." He compressed his lips. "Although why anyone would wish to take on such a battle, I don't know. If you do your job properly, he cannot win.”

Evan said nothing. As far as he was concerned, nobody won.

"What finally led you to it?" Runcorn asked curiously. "Was it just persistence? The right question, eventually?”

"No, sir." Evan did not really know why he took such pleasure in being perverse. It was something to do with the air of satisfaction in Runcorn. "Monk found it, actually. He was following his rape cases, and they led him to Rhys Duff.”

Runcorn's head jerked up and his face darkened. He seemed on the edge of interrupting, then changed his mind.

"He called me yesterday late afternoon, and simply gave me the information," Evan continued. "I checked it myself and spoke to the people, and took their testimony." He looked at Runcorn innocently, as if he had no idea it would annoy him. "As well for us he was so stubborn about it," he added for good measure. "Otherwise I might still have been pressing Mrs. Duff, and looking for a lover.”

Runcorn glared at him, a dull pink rising up his cheeks.

"Monk follows his cases for money, Evan," he said between his teeth.

"Don't you forget that! You follow yours because you are the servant of justice, without fear or favour, with loyalties to no one but Her Majesty, whose law you represent." He leaned forward over the desk, his elbows on its polished surface. "You think Monk is a hell of a clever fellow, and to a certain level, so he is. But you don't know everything. You don't know everything about him, by a long way! Watch him and learn, by all means, but I warn you, don't make a friend of him! You'll regret it!" He said that last with a frown, not viciously, but as a warning, as though he were afraid of something for Evan, not for himself. A shadow of old sadness crossed his face.

Evan was taken by surprise. Runcorn was speaking against Monk, and he should have been angry with him. Instead, he was aware of something lost, a loneliness, and he felt only sorrow, and perhaps a touch of guilt.

"Don't trust him…" Runcorn added, then stopped abruptly. "I don't suppose you'll believe me!" There was anger in his voice, with himself for having spoken so openly, revealed more of his feelings than he intended to, and a thread of self-pity because he did not expect to be believed.

Against his will, Evan did believe him, not because Runcorn said so, but because Monk himself feared it. But it was what he had been, not necessarily what he was now. And what he was in the future lay within his own grasp.

"I don't disbelieve you, sir," he said aloud. "You haven't told me anything, only to be careful. I imagine you are speaking from some experience of your own, or you would not feel as you do, but I have no idea what it is. Monk has never spoken of it.”

Runcorn let out a burst of laughter, hard and almost choking in his throat. It was filled with helplessness and rage and unhappiness which time had never healed.

"He wouldn't! He likes you. He needs you! He may not know how to be ashamed, but he's sense enough to understand what you would think of him!”

Evan did not want to know, he would much rather have kept his ignorance, but he knew Monk himself needed to know.

"For what, sir?”

Runcorn stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back so sharply it teetered on two legs and all but overbalanced. He turned away to the chest of drawers full of files, his back to Evan.

"Go and arrest Rhys Duff for the murder of his father," he ordered.

"You did well in the case. I didn't expect you to be able to solve it. You were wise to take advantage of Monk. Use him, when you can.

Just don't ever let him use you. Don't turn your back on him. Above all, don't trust him. Don't count on him to be behind you when you need him." He swung around, his eyes hard and clear. "I mean that, Evan. I don't want to see you hurt. You're soft, but you're a good man. Think well of him if you want, but never trust him!”

Evan hesitated. It was ugly, very ugly, but it was indefinite, all implications and insubstantial pain. There was nothing he could get hold of to prove… or disprove, nothing to take to Monk for him to retrace his own steps, and understand himself.

"Did Monk betray you, sir?" he said aloud, then instantly wished he had not. He did not want to hear any of it. Now it was unavoidable.

Runcorn stared at him.

"Yes, he betrayed me. I trusted him, and he destroyed everything I ever wanted," he replied bitterly. "He saw the trap in front of me, and he watched me walk right into it.”

Evan drew in his breath to question how much it was fair to blame Monk for such a thing. Maybe he had not seen the pitfall any more than Runcorn himself had. Or maybe he had assumed Runcorn had seen it also.

Then he realised that not only was it pointless to argue over the letter when the spirit was what drove, but that in his heart Monk believed himself guilty.

"I see," he said quietly.

Runcorn faced him. "Do you? I doubt it. But I've done all I can. Go and arrest Rhys Duff. And don't mention anything about the other two men, do you hear me, Evan? I forbid it! You could jeopardise any chance we have of getting them in the future." His eyes betrayed the anger and frustration of his helplessness now. It scalded inside him to see them escape and know it could be for ever.

"Yes, sir. I understand." He turned and walked out, his mind already made up to take Monk with him when he went to Ebury Street. Monk had solved this case, and his own case too. He deserved to be there.

It was cold and growing dark as Monk, Evan and P.C. Shotts arrived in a cab at Ebury Street. Evan had considered taking the police wagon, and decided against it. Rhys was still too ill to be transported in such a vehicle, if he could be moved at all. The fear that he could not was the reason he had brought Shotts. He expected to leave him to guard and watch against the extreme event of Sylvestra trying to smuggle Rhys away.

The cab drew up and they alighted. Evan paid the cabby and, pulling his coat collar up, walked ahead of the other two across the pavement.

He had never made an arrest which gave him less sense of achievement. In fact now that his foot was on the step and his hand stretched towards the bell, he admitted he dreaded it. He knew that Monk, a yard behind him, felt the same, but Monk did so for Hester's sake. He had never met Rhys. He had not seen his face. To him he was only the sum of the evidence he had found, and above all the cause of pain in the women he had listened to, whose bruised lives he had witnessed.

The door opened and the butler's face darkened as soon as he recognised Evan.

"Yes, sir?" he said guardedly.

"I'm sorry," Evan began, then straightened his shoulders and continued.

"But I require to speak to Mrs. Duff. I am aware it may not be convenient, but I have no alternative.”

The butler looked beyond him to Monk and Shotts. His face was white.

"What is it, sir? Has there been another… incident?”

"No. Nothing further has happened, but we now understand more of what occurred the night of Mr. Duffs death. I am afraid we need to come in.”

The butler hesitated only a moment. He had caught the authority in Evan's voice and he knew suddenly the weight of his office.

"Yes, sir. If you will please follow me I shall inform Mrs. Duff you are here." He stood back for them to enter. Evan and Monk did so, leaving Shotts outside as previously agreed. He was there only as a precaution. He expected the possibility of remaining all night, until he was relieved by someone else in the morning. His only release lay in Rhys being deemed sufficiently well to be moved to a place of imprisonment pending his trial.

Inside the hall was warm and bright, a different world from the icy gloom of the street. The butler walked across towards the withdrawing room door.

"Wharmby," Evan said suddenly.

"Yes, sir?”

"Perhaps you had better ask Miss Latterly to come downstairs.”

"Sir?”

"It might be easier for Mrs. Duff to have someone else present, someone who can offer her some… assistance…”

Wharmby turned even paler. He swallowed so his throat jerked.

"I'm sorry…" Evan repeated.

"What… what have you come for, sir?" Wharmby asked.

"To tell Mrs. Duff what we know of how Mr. Duff met his death, and then the duty which follows from that. Tell her we are here, and then please ask Miss Latterly to come.”

Wharmby pulled his jacket down and straightened his back, then opened the withdrawing room door.

"Mr. Evan is here to see you, ma'am, and another gentleman with him.”

He said no more but backed out again, gave Evan one more look, then went to the stairs, leaving them to go in alone.

Sylvestra was standing on the carpet in front of the fire. Naturally she was still dressed in black, with dark hair piled in a great coil on the back of her head and falling to her neck. In the firelight she looked beautiful with her high cheekbones and slender throat.

"Yes, Mr. Evan. What is it?" she asked with a slight surprise arching her brows. She looked beyond him to Monk.

Evan introduced them briefly, without explanation.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk…" she did no more than acknowledge him.

"Ma'am," he inclined his head. To have wished her 'good evening' in return would have been a mockery. He closed the door and came further into the room.

Evan wished there were any way whatever to escape this moment. He was acutely conscious of Monk standing at his shoulder, his mind filled with the cruelty whose results he had seen, the rage smouldering inside him.

"Yes, Mrs. Duff. We have learned a great deal of what happened the night your husband was killed. First I would like to ask you one or two last questions." He ignored the looked of astonishment on her face, and Monk shifting from one foot to the other behind him. "Did Mr. Duff express to you, or in any way show anxiety as to what Mr.

Rhys was doing during the evenings he was away from home, or the company he was keeping?”

"Yes… you know he did. I told you so myself.”

"Did he indicate, either in words or by his behaviour, that he had learned anything recently which troubled him additionally.”

"No! At least, he said nothing to me. Why?" Her tone was getting sharper. "Will you please be plain with me, Mr. Evan? Have you discovered what my husband was doing in St. Giles, or not? I told you when you first came here that I believed he had followed Rhys to try to reason with him about the type of young woman he was associating with.

Are you telling me that is true?" She lifted her chin a little, almost as if challenging him. "That hardly warrants your coming here, with Mr. Monk, at this hour.”

"We also believe we know how he met his death, Mrs. Duff, and we must act accordingly," Evan replied. He had not intended to be cruel, but he realised that by stretching out what he had to say, he was doing so.

A swift blow was better in the end. "We have witnesses who saw Rhys several times in St. Giles, sometimes with others, sometimes alone.

One young woman places him there that evening…”

"Obviously he was there that evening, Mr. Evan," Sylvestra cut across him. "What you are telling me we already know. It is obvious!”

Monk could bear it no longer. He stepped forward into the circle of candlelight from the shadows, his face grim.

"I have been investigating a series of violent rapes, Mrs. Duff. They were committed by three men together. They raped women, sometimes as young as twelve or thirteen years old, then beat them, breaking their bones, kicking them… sometimes into insensibility Her face registered her horror. She stared at him as if he had risen out of the ground, carrying the stench of terror and pain with him.

"The last of the rapes was committed in St. Giles the night your husband was murdered in the same manner," he said very quietly. "It is impossible to escape the evidence he followed Rhys to St. Giles, and caught up with him immediately after the crime was committed. It happened less than fifty yards from the spot where his body was found.”

She was ashen pale. "What… are… you… saying…?" she whispered.

"We have come to arrest Rhys Duff for the murder of his father, Leighton Duff," Monk answered her. "There is no choice.”

"You cannot take him away!" It was Hester. Neither of them had heard her come in behind them. "He is too ill to be moved. If you doubt my word, Dr. Wade will attest to it. I have sent a message for him to come immediately." She glanced at Sylvestra. "I thought his presence might be necessary.”

"Oh, thank God!" Sylvestra swayed for a moment, but regained her composure. "This… this is… absurd! Rhys would… not…”

She looked from Evan to Hester. "Could… he?”

"I don't know," Hester said gravely, coming right into the room. "But whatever the truth of it is, he cannot be taken away from here tonight, or within the near future. He may be charged, but he is not yet proven guilty of anything. To move him from proper medical care might jeopardise his life, and that cannot be permitted.”

"I am aware of his state of health," Evan responded. "If Dr. Wade says he cannot be moved, then I shall leave a constable on duty outside." He turned to Sylvestra. "He will not intrude upon you unless you give him cause to believe you plan to move Mr. Duff yourself. If that should happen, he will naturally arrest him immediately, and place him in prison.”

Sylvestra was speechless.

"That will not happen," Hester spoke for her. "He will remain here, in Dr. Wade's care… and mine.”

Sylvestra nodded her assent.

"I will go up to inform him of his situation," Evan said, turning towards the door.

Hester stood in front of him. For a moment he was afraid she was going to try to bar his way physically, but after an instant's hesitation she went to the door ahead of him.

"I shall come with you. He may need some… help. I…" She met his eyes with both challenge and pleading. "I intend to be there, Sergeant Evan. What you say will cause him great distress, and he is still very weak.”

"Of course," he agreed. "I am not trying to cause him harm.”

She turned and led the way across the hall. It seemed Monk intended to remain with Sylvestra. Perhaps he thought he could elicit some information from her where Evan had failed. He might be right.

Hester went up the stairs and across the landing, opening the door to Rhys's room, then as soon as she was inside, standing away so Evan could face the bed.

Rhys was lying on his back, his broken hands on the covers. He was simply staring at the ceiling. He was propped up on sufficient pillows to be able to meet Evan's eyes without discomfort. He looked surprised to see him, but the blue bruising was gone and the swelling had entirely disappeared. He was a handsome young man, in an unconventional way, nose a little too long, mouth too sensitive, dark eyes dominating his white face.

Evan was reminded sickeningly of when he had found him. He felt responsible. He had been part of willing him to live, bringing him back from the brink of darkness and into this white light of pain. He should have been able to protect him somehow. It was his duty to find a better answer than this.

"Mr. Duff," he began with a dry mouth. He swallowed and felt worse.

"We have traced your movements on the night your father was killed, and on at least three other nights before that. You regularly went to St.

Giles, and there used the services of a prostitute, in fact several prostitutes…”

Rhys stared at him. A faint flush coloured his cheeks. It embarrassed him that that sort of thing should be mentioned in front of Hester, it was plain in his eyes, the way he glanced at her and away again.

"On the night in question, a woman was raped and beaten…" Evan stopped. Rhys had gone ashen, almost grey-faced, and his eyes were filled with such horror Evan was afraid he was suffering some kind of seizure.

Hester moved towards him, then stopped.

The room seemed to roar with the silence. The lights flickered. A coal fell in the fire.

"Rhys Duff… I am arresting you for the murder of Leighton Duff, on the night of January seventh, 1860, in Water Lane, St. Giles." It would be a cruel brutality to warn him that anything he said might be used in evidence at his trial. He could say nothing, no defence, no explanation, no denial.

Hester swung in front of him and sat on the bed between them, taking Rhys's hands in her own and turning him to look at her.

"Did you do it, Rhys?" she demanded, pulling his arms, hurting him to break the spell.

He looked at her. He made a choking sound in his throat almost like a laugh, the tears spilled over his cheeks and he shook his head, a little at first then more and more violently till he was thrashing from side to side, still making the desperate, tearing sounds in his throat.

Hester stood up and faced Evan.

"All right, Sergeant, you have fulfilled your duty. Mr. Duff has heard your charge, and he has told you he is not guilty. If you wish to wait for Dr. Wade to confirm that he is too ill to be moved, you may do so downstairs, perhaps in the morning room. Mrs. Duff may also need to be alone…”

"It will not be necessary to wait.”

Evan swung round to find Corriden Wade behind him looking exhausted, hollow-cheeked, but absolutely unflinching.

"Good evening, Dr. Wade…”

"Hardly," Wade said drily. "I have been fearing this would happen, but now that it has, I must inform you, officially in my capacity as Rhys's physician, that he is not well enough to be moved. If you do so you may jeopardise not only his recovery, but possibly even his life. And I must remind you that you have made a charge, but you have not yet proved it. Before the law he is still an innocent man.”

"I know that, Dr. Wade," Evan answered calmly. "I have no intention of forcing the issue. I shall leave a constable on duty outside the house. I came only to inform Mr. Duff of the charge, not to attempt to take him into custody.”

Wade relaxed a little. "Good. Good. I'm sorry if I was a little hasty. You must understand it is extremely distressing for me on a personal level, as well as professional. I have been a friend of the family for many years. I feel their tragedies very keenly.”

"I know that," Evan conceded. "I wish my errand were something other.”

"I'm sure." Wade nodded, then walked past him into the room, glancing at Hester with a look of quick appreciation. "Thank you, Miss Latterly, for your pan. I am sure you have been of great strength. I shall remain with Rhys for a while, to make sure the shock of this has not affected him too seriously. Perhaps you would be good enough to be of what comfort you may to Mrs. Duff. I shall be down very shortly.”

"Yes, of course," Hesteragreed, and instantly shepherded Evan out of the room and down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Hester," Evan said, going down behind her. "There really is no alternative. The proof is overwhelming.”

"I know," she answered without turning. "William told me." She was stiff, holding herself upright with an effort, as if once she let go she might never find the strength to regain her composure. She crossed the hallway and went into the withdrawing room without knocking.

Inside Sylvestra was sitting on the sofa near the fire, and Monk was standing in the middle of the carpet. Neither of them had been speaking at that moment.

Sylvestra looked at Hester, her eyes terrified, questioning.

"Dr. Wade is with him," Hester said in answer. "He is distressed, of course, but he is not in any danger. And naturally he will remain here." Her voice dropped. "I asked him if he was guilty, and he shook his head, vehemently.”

"But…" Sylvestra stammered. "But…" She looked at Monk, then at Evan behind Hester.

"That is not helpful, Hester!" Monk said sharply.

Sylvestra looked bemused. Her hands moved as if to grasp at something, and closed on air. Her body was rigid and she moved jerkily, increasingly close to hysteria. At this very moment, her need was greater than Rhys's.

Hester went over to her and touched her, taking her arms.

"There is nothing we can do tonight, but in the morning we must plan ahead. The charge has been made. It must be answered, whatever that answer is. Mr. Monk is a private agent of enquiry. There may yet be more to discover, and naturally you will employ the best legal counsel you can. Just now you must keep up your strength. No doubt Dr. Wade will tell his sister, but I will tell Mrs. Kynaston, if you would find that easier.”

"I… don't know…" Sylvestra was shaking violently and her skin was cold where Hester held her.

Evan moved uncomfortably. He should not be witnessing this agony. His task was completed here. This was an intrusion, as it was for Monk. He looked at Hester. She was absorbed in her feelings for Sylvestra. He and Monk barely touched the periphery of her mind.

"Hester…" It was Monk who spoke, but hesitantly.

Evan looked at him. His face was filled with pity so profound it stood naked, startling, and it was a moment or two before Evan realised it was for Hester, not the woman who had received such a devastating blow.

It was not only pity, there was also in it a burning admiration and a tenderness which betrayed his de fences utterly.

He longed for Hester to turn and see it, but she was consumed by her anguish for Sylvestra.

Evan walked towards the door. He was in the hall when he saw Dr. Wade coming down the stairs. He looked haggard, and he still had the trace of a limp remaining from his accident.

"There will be no possibility of your moving him," he said as he neared the bottom. "Whether he will be fit to stand a trial I cannot say.”

"We will have to have a medical opinion of more than one man to that,”

Evan answered him. He looked at Wade's strained expression, the darkness in his eyes and what he thought might even be fear, or the shadow of fear to come.

"Sergeant…”

"Yes, Doctor?”

"Have…" he bit his lip. What he was about to say seemed to hurt him intensely. He struggled with it, hovered on the edge of decision, and finally summoned the strength. "Have you considered the possibility that he is not sane… not responsible, as you and I understand the term?”

So Wade accepted that he was guilty! Was it simply the evidence they had presented? Or did he know something from Rhys himself, some communication, some long knowledge and perception of his nature over the years?

"No man could do what was done to those women, Doctor, and be what you and I understand as sane," he replied quickly. "Blame is not for us to decide… thank God.”

Wade took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then nodded his acknowledgement, and walked past Evan to the withdrawing room door.