The Silent Cry

Chapter Ten

After Monk and Evan had left, Corriden Wade remained in the withdrawing room, pacing the floor, unable to be still long enough to sit.

Sylvestra was motionless, staring into space as if all will and strength within her had died. Hester stood by the fire.

"I'm sorry," Wade said passionately, looking at Sylvestra. "I'm so sorry! I had no conception this would happen… it is the most ghastly thing.”

Hester stared at him. Had he seen some darkness in Rhys all the time, and feared disaster, but something less than this, less intense, less irretrievable than death? Looking at his face now, cast in deep shadow, his eyes hollow, his cheeks sombre with draining emotion and lack of sleep, it would be easy to believe he was seeing the realisation of a long-held dread, but something he had been helpless to prevent.

Then another thought occurred to her. Was Corriden Wade the missing link in Evan's chain of evidence? Was it he, perhaps, who had tried to warn Leighton Duff of his son's weakness, his propensity for real vice?

Had it been something Wade had said which had made him ultimately piece together all the sharp words, looks, little facts here and there, and realise the terrible truth?

With a shiver of horror she realised she had accepted within herself that Rhys was guilty. She had fought against it so long, and then in a moment had surrendered without even being conscious of it.

Wade stopped pacing and stared down at Sylvestra.

"You must rest, my dear. I shall give you a draught to help you sleep.

I am sure Miss Latterly will sit up with Rhys should it be necessary, but I doubt it will. You will need your strength." He turned to Hester. "I am sorry to place so much upon you, but I have no doubt both your courage and your compassion are equal to it.”

It was a profound compliment, and gravely given. It was not a time for thanks, only acceptance.

"Of course," she agreed. "Tomorrow we shall begin what is to be done.”

He nodded and at last seemed to relax a fraction. Hester believed it prudent to allow him a few moments alone with Sylvestra. His care for her was apparent. Now, of all times, they should be permitted a privacy to reach towards each other through the tragedy which engulfed them.

"I shall go and see how Rhys is now," she said. "Goodnight." She did not wait for a reply, but turned and went out, closing the door behind her.

Rhys did not call her in the night. Whatever Dr. Wade had given him was sufficient to induce in him not rest, but unconsciousness. She had no idea how long he had been awake when she heard the bell fall on the floor.

She rose immediately. It was full daylight. She grasped her shawl and opened the connecting door.

Rhys was lying facing her, his eyes wide and terrified.

She went in and sat on the bed.

"Tell me again, Rhys," she said quietly. "Did you kill your father?”

He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on her.

"Not even by accident?" she pressed. "Did you fight with him, not realising who he was, in the dark?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. His expression was filled with horror, his lips drawn back, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck corded with tension inside him.

"Could you see in the alley?" she pressed, the evidence heavy in her mind. "If someone accosted you, attacked you, are you sure you would know who it was?”

He gave a curious little jerk. If he had had a voice, it might have been laughter, but bitter, self-hurting. There was some dreadful irony in what he knew, and he could not tell her, even if he would have.

"Could you see?" she asked again.

He stared at her without moving.

There were so many questions. She thought desperately which would be the right one.

"Do you know what happened that night?”

He nodded, still not taking his eyes from hers, although the horror in him was so palpable she could feel coldness creeping through her, and despair so great it consumed and destroyed everything else.

"Rhys…" She put her hand on his arm, holding him hard, feeling the muscle and bone beneath her fingers. "I'll help you in any way I can, but I have to know how to. Can you tell me, somehow, what happened?

You were there, you saw it. If you want to plead against the charge they are bringing, then you must give them something else to believe.”

For seconds he simply gazed back at her, then slowly he closed his eyes and turned away.

"Rhys!”

He shook his head.

She did not know what to think. Whatever had happened, he still could not bear to have anyone know. Even facing arrest, and in time trial for his life, he would not impart it.

But did he understand that? Did he imagine because Evan had not taken him away that somehow it would not happen?

"Rhys!" she said urgently. "It hasn't gone away, you know. You are under house arrest. It is just the same as being in a public cell, or in Newgate. The only reason you are here, not there, is because you are too ill to move. There will be a trial, and if you are found guilty, they will take you to Newgate, no matter how ill you are. They won't care, because they will hang you anyway…" She could not go on. She could not bear it, even though he had not turned back or even opened his eyes. His body was rigid, tears running under his lids, and down his cheeks.

"Rhys," she said softly. "I have to make you realise this is real. You must tell someone the truth, to save yourself!”

Again he shook his head.

"Did you kill him?" she whispered.

He shook his head again, very little, but quite unmistakably.

"But you know who did!" she persisted.

He turned back very slowly, meeting her eyes. He lay still for seconds. She could hear the sound of distant feet as a maid crossed the landing.

"Do you?" she said again.

He closed his eyes without answering.

She stood up and went out of the room and down the stairs to the withdrawing room where Sylvestra was moving aimlessly from one idle task to another. A pile of embroidery yarns sat tangled on a small table, linen bunched up near them. A bowl of winter flowers from the hothouse were half arranged, half simply poked into the water. Several letters lay on a salver on the large semi-circular table by the wall, two were opened, the others were not.

She swung around as soon as she heard the door.

"How is he?" she asked quickly, then bit her lip as though unsure what she wanted the answer to be. "I simply don't know what to do. Leighton was my husband. I owe him… everything, not only loyalty but love, respect, decency." Her brow puckered. "How could it have happened? What… what changed him? And don't tell me Rhys hasn't changed…

I've seen the difference in him and it terrifies me!”

She swung away, her hands clenched in front of her. A less controlled woman would have wept, or screamed, thrown something just to release the tension inside herself.

"He never used to be like this, Miss Latterly." Her voice was tight in her throat as if she had difficulty in making herself speak. "He was wilful at times, thoughtless, like most young people, but there was no cruelty in him. I don't understand it. I thought I was so tired last night I would have slept with exhaustion. I wanted to." She emphasised it fiercely. "I wanted simply to cease to be able to think or feel anything. But I lay awake for hours. I racked my brain trying to understand what had changed him, why he had become so different, when it had begun to happen. I found no answer. It still makes no sense to me." She turned back to Hester, her face bleak and desperate.

"Why would anyone want to beat those women? Why rape a woman who is willing anyway? Why would anyone do that? It isn't sane…”

"I don't understand either," Hester said candidly. "But obviously it is not appetite, but rather more a desire for power over someone else, a need to hurt and humiliate…" She stopped. Sylvestra was looking at her with amazement, as though she had said something new and almost inconceivable.

"Haven't you ever wanted to punish, not for justice but for anger?”

Hesterasked her.

"I… I suppose so," Sylvestra said slowly. "But that is hardly…

yes, I suppose I have." She stared at Hester curiously. "Are you saying it is the same thing, hideously magnified?”

"I don't know. I am only trying to imagine.”

The fire settled with a shower of sparks.

"You mean it is not appetite… but… hate?" Sylvestra asked, struggling to understand.

"Perhaps.”

"But why would Rhys hate such women? He doesn't even know them!”

"Maybe it doesn't matter who it is. Anyone will do, the weaker, the more vulnerable, the better…”

"Stop it!" Sylvestra took a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry. It is not your fault. I asked you, and now I do not want to hear the answer.”

Her hands were twisting around one another. She had scratched herself with her nails but she seemed unaware of it. "Poor Leighton. He must have suspected there was something terribly wrong for ages, and at last he had to put it to the test. And when he followed him, and he knew…

." She could not finish. They stood there in the quiet, dignified room, two women imagining the same terrible scene in the alley, father and son face to face over a horror which had to divide them for ever.

And then the son had attacked, perhaps out of rage, or guilt, perhaps out of some kind of fear that he would be caught by the law, and he imagined he could escape the consequences if he fought his way out. And they had beaten and punched and kicked at each other until Leighton was dead, and Rhys was so badly hurt he lost consciousness and lay there on the stones, soaked with his own blood.

And now it was so terrible to him he could not accept that it was he who had done it. It had been another person, another self, one he did not own.

"We must find a barrister for him," Hester said aloud. "He must have some defence when he comes to trial. Do you have someone you wish?”

"A barrister?" Sylvestra blinked. "Will they really try him? He is too ill! He must be mad, won't they realise that? Corriden will tell them…”

"He is not too mad to stand trial," Hester said with absolute certainty. "Whether insanity will be the best defence or not, I cannot say, but you must find a barrister. Do you have someone?”

Sylvestra seemed to find it difficult to concentrate. Her eyes looked without focus. "A barrister? Mr. Caulfield has always dealt with our affairs. Of course I have never spoken to him. Leighton handled business, naturally.”

"Is he a solicitor?" Hesterasked, almost sure of the answer. "You need a barrister for this, someone who will appear in court to represent Rhys. He must be engaged through Mr. Caulfield, but if you do not have any preferences, I am acquainted with Sir Oliver Rathbone.

He is the best barrister there is.”

"I… suppose so…" Sylvestra was uncertain. Hester was not sure if it was her shock at the turn of events, or if now she doubted whether she wished to engage an unknown barrister, at unknown expense, to defend Rhys, when she feared him guilty. Maybe it was simply too big a decision for her to make alone. She was not used to decision.

She had always had her husband to see to such things. He would find and assess the information. His word would be final. She would probably not even be expected to contribute an opinion.

It was up to Hester to see Rhys was defended. Possibly no one else would.

"I'll speak to Sir Oliver, and ask him to come to see you." She chose not to make it a question, so Sylvestra could not so easily refuse. She smiled encouragingly. "Will it be reasonable if I go first thing in the morning?”

Sylvestra drew in her breath, but could not make up her mind.

"Thank you," Hesteraccepted, her voice gentle, full of an assurance she was far from feeling.

She was in Rathbone's office at nine o'clock. She waited until his first client had been and gone, then she was ushered into his office, the clerk advised that the next client should be handsomely entertained and informed that Sir Oliver was regrettably kept by an emergency, which was at least half true.

She did not waste his time with preamble. She was sufficiently conscious of the fact that he had seen her without an appointment, and she was presuming on his regard for her to ask a favour. She hated doing it, the more so since their last encounter, and her belief as to his feelings towards her. Had Rhys's life not depended upon it, she would not have come. Sylvestra's solicitor could have briefed whomever he wished.

"They have arrested Rhys for the murder of his father," she said bluntly. "They have not removed him, of course, because he is too ill, but they will bring him to trial. His mother is at her wits' end, and not in a position or a state of mind to find for him the best barrister for his defence." She stopped, acutely aware of his dark eyes on her and his expression of concern leaping ahead of what she had already told 'him.

"I think you had better sit down and tell me the facts of the case, so far as you know them." He indicated the chair opposite his desk, and moved around to sit at the one behind it. He did not yet reach for the quill to make notes.

She tried to compose her mind so that she could tell him sensibly, so that she could make it comprehensible, without overweighing it with emotion.

"Rhys Duff and his father, Leighton Duff, were found in Water Lane, an alley in the area of St. Giles," she started to explain. "Leighton Duff was beaten to death. Rhys was severely injured, in a similar manner, but he survived, although he is unable to speak, and both his hands are badly broken, so neither can he hold a pen. That is important, because it means he cannot communicate, except by a nod or a shake of his head.”

"That is an added complication," he agreed gravely. "I have read something of the case. It is impossible to pick up a newspaper and not at least be aware of it. What evidence is there that leads the police to presume that Rhys killed his father, rather than the more natural assumption that both of them were attacked, and possibly robbed, by thieves or general ruffians of the area? Do you know?”

"Yes. Monk has found evidence which ties them to the rape cases in Seven Dials…”

"Just a minute!" he interrupted, holding up his hand. "You said "them". Who are we talking about? And what rape cases in Seven Dials?

Is he charged with rape as well?”

She was not being as clear as she had intended after all She had seen the fractional change in his face when she had mentioned Monk's name, and she felt guilty. What had he seen in her eyes?

She must speak intelligently, in an orderly fashion. She started again.

"Monk was engaged by a woman from Seven Dials to discover who had been first cheating, then with increasing violence raping and beating factory women, amateur prostitutes in Seven Dials…” she stopped.

He was frowning. Did he disapprove of Monk, or of the women, or did he fear it made Rhys's case even worse?

"What is it?" The words were out before she intended.

"It is a very ugly crime," he said quietly. "But it is one the courts will not pursue… for a dozen different reasons, both social…”

He wrinkled his nose very slightly in a wealth of distaste, subtle and deep. "And legal impossibilities also," he added. "Rape is a difficult crime to prove. Why did Monk pursue it? Whatever else he has forgotten, he must be aware of these things!”

"I argued it with him," she said with a very slight smile. "It is not what you fear." She hoped as she was saying it that it was the truth, not merely her wish. "He intended only to expose them to their own society, not to provoke the people of St. Giles to take their revenge.”

Rathbone's lips curled in a faint, ironic smile. "That sounds like Monk. A nice irony using society's hypocrisy to make it punish its own for the very crime it pretends does not exist, and will not strengthen the law to judge." He kept his eyes on her face. "But what has this to do with Rhys Duff, and the death of his father?”

"For some time Rhys had been keeping company with women of whom his father did not approve, and to the exclusion of suitable young ladies,” she explained. "At least that is what his mother believed." She was twisting her hands in her lap without realising it. "Perhaps in fact he had some idea of what Rhys was really doing. Anyway, on that particular evening they quarrelled, Rhys left the room, and apparently the house. Leighton Duff left about half an hour afterwards, when he realised that Rhys had gone, and perhaps suspected to where." She looked at him to make sure he was following her explanation.

"Proceed," he directed. "It is all perfectly clear so far.”

"One woman was raped and beaten in St. Giles that night," she went on.

"Within a few yards of Water Lane. A short time after that, the bodies of Rhys and his father were found in Water Lane itself. Rhys was insensible, and has not spoken since. Leighton Duff was dead.”

"And the assumption," he concluded, 'is that Leighton Duff caught up with Rhys and his friends, while it was still apparent they were the rapists of the woman… either they were in the act, or they had just completed it. He was furious, endeavoured to reason with them or apprehend them, and one, or all of them, attacked him. He drove off the other two quite quickly, but Rhys, knowing he would not escape the matter, fought until he had killed him.”

"Yes… more or less." It was a terrible admission, and she could not make it easily. Her voice sounded tight and brittle.

"I see." He sat silently for several moments, deep in thought, and she did not interrupt him. He looked up. "Have they anything to link Rhys or his companions who are they, do you know?”

"Yes, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston. They answer the descriptions given, and one girl, who actually named Rhys, named them also, Arthur and Duke. He is known as Duke.”

"I see." He nodded very slightly. "Were they injured at the time Rhys was, do you know?”

"Yes, I do know, and no, they do not appear to have been." She realised what he was thinking. "But that only makes them cowards as well!”

"I am afraid so. But can anyone place any of the three in Seven Dials, or connect them to the earlier rapes?”

"Not so far as I know.”

"And is there evidence to prove these rapes are not random, committed by several people? There must be many rapes in London in a week.”

"I don't think many are carried out by three men together, answering the descriptions of one tall and slight, one average and one slender, and all three gentlemen, arriving and leaving by hansom," she said bleakly.

He sighed. "You sound as if you believe him guilty, Hester. Do you?”

She did not want to answer. Now that the question was put so bluntly, and she faced Rathbone's clever, subtle gaze which would not permit evasion, and to whom she could not lie, she must make a decision.

He waited.

"He says he didn't," she answered very slowly, choosing her words. "I am not sure what he remembers. It frightens him, horrifies him. I think maybe when he says that, he is saying what he wishes were true.

Perhaps he does not entirely know.”

"But you think physically, for whatever reason, he committed the act,” he said.

"Yes… yes, I think so. I can't avoid it.”

"Then what is it you wish me to do?”

"Help him… I…" Now she realised how much she was being emotional rather than rational, not only regarding Rhys, but in her plea to Rathbone. Still she could not turn aside from doing it, even now she was aware. "Please, Oliver? I don't know how it happened, or why he should have let himself fall into such a desperate situation. I… I can't argue anything in mitigation for him… I don't know what there is, I just have to believe there is something." She looked at his face with its humour and intelligence, sometimes so cool and just now, gazing back at her, so gentle.

She forced herself to think of Rhys, his terror, his helplessness.

"Maybe it is not justice I'm asking for, but mercy? He needs someone to speak for him…" She gave a painful little laugh. "Even literally! I don't believe he's purely evil. I've spent too many hours with him, close to him. I've watched his pain. If he did these things, there must be some reason, at least some cause, which explained it to him! I mean…”

"You mean insanity," he finished for her.

"No, I don't "Yes, you do, my dear." His voice was very patient, trying not to hurt her more than he had to. "A young man doesn't rape and beat women he doesn't know, then murder his father because he found out, if he is anything that ordinary men and women would recognise as sane. Whether the law will make the same nature of distinction I don't know. I very much doubt it." His eyes were filled with sadness. "It is precise as to what insanity is, and the fact that Rhys attacked his father suggests he knew very well that his violence against the women was wrong, which is what the law will view. He knew what he was doing, and that is the crucial factor.”

"But there must be something else!" she said desperately. "I can't let it go at that! I've watched him too often, too long…”

He rose to his feet and came around the desk towards her. "Then let me make arrangements to come and see him for myself, that is if Mrs. Duff wishes me to represent him…”

"He's not underage!" she said hotly, rising also. "It is if he wants you to!”

He smiled with dry, rueful amusement. "My dear Hester, if he cannot speak or write, and has no occupation of his own, he will not only have very little power to defend himself, he will have no financial means.”

"His father was wealthy! He will have been left provided for!" she protested.

"Not if he killed his father, Hester. You know that as well as I do.

If he is convicted for the crime, he cannot inherit.”

She was furious. "You mean he cannot have a defence because if he is found guilty he will not be able to pay? That is monstrous!" She was so angry she almost choked on the words. "It's…”

He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her so firmly she was obliged to face him.

"I did not say that, Hester! I think you know me better than to imagine I work only for money…”

She swallowed. She had cause to be ashamed. She had come to plead with him to take on an impossible case, because she believed he would.

"I am sorry.”

"But I do work within the law," he finished. "In the circumstances I shall have to speak first to his mother." His lips twisted with genuine humour. "Although I imagine that with you in the house, and doubtless in charge, I shall find her co-operative.”

She blushed. "Thank you, Oliver.”

He said nothing, but made a little sound of acquiescence.

It was mid-evening before Rathbone arrived at Ebury Street. Hester had informed Sylvestra of his willingness at least to consider the case, and Sylvestra had been too confused and unhappy to argue. She had consulted her own solicitor, a mild man skilled in the matters of property, inheritance and finance, and totally out of his depth where the criminal law was concerned. He was to brief anyone recommended to him, and willing to undertake such an unpromising cause.

"Sir Oliver Rathbone," the butler announced, and Rathbone came into the withdrawing room almost on his heels. He was as elegant as always with the ease of someone who knows his own power and feels no need to impress.

"How do you do, Mrs. Duff," he said with a very slight smile. "Miss Latterly.”

"How do you do, Sir Oliver," Sylvestra replied with a commendable calm she could not have felt. "It is good of you to have come. I am not sure what you can do for my son. Miss Latterly speaks most highly of you, but I fear our situation may be beyond any help. Please do sit down." She indicated the chair opposite and he accepted.

Hester sat on the sofa, a little removed from them, but where she could watch both their faces.

"One does not always know what a defence will be until one begins, Mrs.

Duff," he replied calmly. "May I assume that you wish your son to have any assistance that is possible, in his present tragic circumstances?" He looked at her patiently, gently, as if his words had been a simple question and without pressure.

"Yes…" she said slowly. "Yes, of course. I…" Her face was composed, but it was plain from the shadows under her eyes and the fine lines of stress around her lips that it cost her very dearly. It would be inconceivable that it should not.

Rathbone smiled immediately. "Of course you cannot yet see what can be done. I admit, neither can I, but that is not unusual. Whatever the truth of the matter may prove to be, we must see that, as much as possible, both justice and mercy are served. That cannot be unless Mr.

Duff is represented by someone who will fight as hard for him as if they believed him valuable, capable of hope and of pain, and deserving every opportunity to explain himself.”

Sylvestra frowned. "You are already a brilliant advocate for him, Sir Oliver. I could not possibly disagree with anything you have said. No one could." She sat without moving, a touch of immobility in spite of the emotion which must be tearing inside her. It was an extraordinary self-discipline, learned over the years to have the strength to apply now. "What confuses me is why you should wish to represent my son,” she continued. "And it is obvious from your presence here, let alone your words, that you do. I know better than to imagine you are some young man seeking to make a career and a name for himself… not that you would choose this case if you were. Nor are you so hungry for business that you would pursue any case at all. Why my son, Sir Oliver?”

Rathbone smiled, and there was a very faint touch of colour in his cheeks.

"For Miss Latterly's sake, Mrs. Duff. She feels very strongly for Rhys's plight, regardless of whether he should prove guilty of this or not. She persuaded me that he needs the best defence he can obtain.

With your agreement, I shall do all in my power to see that he has it.”

Hester felt the blood burn up her own face and she looked away, avoiding Rathbone's eyes, in case he should glance in her direction.

She had used his feeling for her, perhaps even misled him, because she was uncertain of her own emotions. She was guilty, but she did not regret it. She would do the same again. If she did not fight for Rhys, there was no one else who could.

Sylvestra relaxed at last, the rigidity easing out of her shoulders.

"Thank you, Sir Oliver, both for your honesty and for your compassion for my son. I fear there will be few others, if any at all, who will feel the same for him. He… he will be regarded… I think… as a monster." She stopped abruptly, unable to go on. The words were too hard, too painfully true, and it was a future which loomed within days, not weeks. It would be the pattern of life from now on. The world would be changed for ever.

Hester wanted to argue, just to offer any comfort at all, but it would be a lie, and they all knew it. Anything she said would only belittle the truth and imply that she did not understand.

Rathbone rose to his feet. "It will be my task to see that everything that can be said for him is put as eloquently as possible, Mrs. Duff.

Now I would like to speak to Rhys myself. Perhaps you would allow Miss Latterly to take me upstairs.”

Sylvestra rose also, taking a step forward.

Rathbone held up his hand in a very slight gesture.

"If you please, Mrs. Duff, I require to see him in effect alone.

What passes between a barrister and his client is privileged and must be confidential. Miss Latterly will be party to it only in her capacity as his nurse, in case he should become distressed and need her. She will be bound by the same absolute rules.”

Sylvestra looked taken aback.

"It is necessary," he assured her. "Otherwise I cannot proceed.”

Reluctantly she fell back, her face still filled with uncertainty, her eyes moving from Rathbone to Hester.

"I shall see he is not distressed more than is absolutely necessary in order to learn what we must," Hester promised.

"Do you really think…" Sylvestra began, then faltered. She was afraid. It was stark in her eyes, afraid of the truth. She hesitated on the brink of telling Rathbone not to seek it. She turned to Hester.

Hester smiled at her, pretending she did not understand, and walked to the door.

She led Rathbone upstairs and aft era knock on Rhys's door, merely as a courtesy, she led him in.

"Rhys, this is Sir Oliver Rathbone. He is going to speak for you in court.”

Rhys stared at her, then at Rathbone. He was lying on his back, propped up on pillows as she had left him, his splinted hands on the covers in front of him. He looked frightened and stiff.

"How do you do," Rathbone said with a smile and an inclination of his head, as if Rhys had replied quite normally. "May I sit down?”

Rhys nodded, then looked at Hester.

"Would you pre ferme to leave?" she asked. "I can go next door and you can knock the bell off if you need me.”

He shook his head immediately and she could sense his anxiety, his loneliness, his feeling almost of drowning under the weight of confusion inside him. She retreated to the corner of the room and sat down.

"You must be honest with me," Rathbone began quietly. "Everything you tell me will remain in confidence, if you wish it. I am bound by law not to act other than in your interests, as long as I remain honest myself. I cannot lie, but I can and will keep anything secret, if that is what you wish.”

Rhys nodded.

"The same applies to Miss Latterly. That is her bond as well as mine.”

Rhys stared at him.

"Do you know what happened the night your father was killed?”

Rhys winced and seemed to shrink within himself, but he did not move his eyes from Rathbone's face, and he nodded slowly.

"Good. I know you can indicate only "yes" or "no". I shall ask you questions and if you can answer them so, then do. If you cannot, then wait, and I shall re-word it." He hesitated only a moment. "Did you go with your friends, Arthur and Duke Kynaston, to the area of St.

Giles, and when there use the services of prostitutes?”

Rhys bit his lip, and then nodded, a dull flush of pink in his cheeks.

His eyes remained steady on Rathbone's face.

"Did you at any time injure any of these women, fight with them, even accidentally?”

Rhys shook his head violently.

"Did either Arthur or Duke Kynaston do so?”

Rhys remained still.

"Do you know if they did or not?”

Rhys shook his head.

"Did you also go with them to Seven Dials?”

Rhys nodded very slowly, uncertainly.

"You want to add something?" Rathbone asked. "Did you go often?”

Rhys shook his head.

"Only a few times?”

He nodded.

"Did you injure any women there?”

Again he shook his head, sharply, his eyes angry.

"Did your father go with you?”

Rhys's eyes widened in amazement.

"No," Rathbone answered his own question. "But he knew you went, and he did not approve?”

Rhys nodded, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. There was rage in it and hurt and a blazing frustration. He tried to speak, his throat muscles knotting, his head jerking forward.

Hester started up from her chair, then realised she must not interrupt.

She might protect him for the moment, and damage him for all the future. Rathbone must learn all he could, however painful.

"Did you quarrel about it?" Rathbone continued.

Rhys nodded slowly.

"Here at home?”

He nodded.

"And when you went to St. Giles the night of his death?”

Again the sharp, violent movement of denial, and the jolt forward as if he would laugh, had he the power.

"Did you quarrel about something else?”

Rhys's eyes filled with tears and he banged his broken hands up and down on the bedclothes, his body locked in an inner pain far worse than the sickening jolting of the bones.

Rathbone turned to Hester, his face white.

She moved forward.

"Rhys!" she said sharply. She sat down on the bed and took hold of his wrists, trying to force him to be still, but his muscles were clenched so hard she could not. He was stronger than she had expected, and his whole body was caught in the emotion. "Rhys!" she said again, more urgently. "Stop it! You'll move the bones again. I know you think you don't care, but you do! Please…”

He unclenched his hands slowly, and the tears spilled over his cheeks.

He stared at her, then turned away, and she saw only the back of his head.

"Rhys," she said firmly. "Did you kill your father?”

There was a long silence. Neither Hester nor Rathbone moved. Then slowly he turned back to her and shook his head, his eyes intent on her face.

"But you know who did?" she pressed.

This time he refused to answer even by a look.

She turned to Rathbone.

"All right, for now," he conceded, standing up. "I will consider what to do. Try to rest and recover as much as you can. You will need your strength when the time comes. I will do everything I can to help you, that I promise.”

Rhys looked at him without blinking and Rathbone looked back for a long moment, then with a slight smile, not of hope but only of a kind of warmth, he turned and left the room.

Outside on the landing he waited until Hester had joined him and closed the door.

"Thank you," she said simply.

"I may have been a little rash," he acknowledged with a tiny shrug, his voice so low she could only just hear him.

Her heart sank. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope. She realised just how much she trusted him, how deep her confidence ran that he could accomplish even the impossible. She had not been fair to lay such a burden on him. She had seen people do it to doctors, and then they had struggled under the weight of impossible hope, and then the despair which followed, and the guilt. Now she had done the same thing to Rathbone, because she wanted it so much for Rhys.

"I am sorry," she said humbly. "I know there may not be anything to be done.”

"There'll be something," he replied with a tiny frown between his brows, as if he were puzzled. "I am confused by him. I went in persuaded by circumstance and evidence of his guilt. Now that I have spoken to him, I don't know what to think. I am not even sure what other possibilities there are. Why will he not answer as to who killed his father, if it was not him? Why will he not say what they quarrelled over? You saw his face when I asked!”

She had no suggestions to give. She had lain awake and racked her brains night after night searching for the same answers herself.

"The only thing I can imagine is that he is defending someone," she said quietly. "And the only people he would defend are his family or close friends. I cannot see Arthur Kynaston doing this, and his only family here is his mother.”

"What do you know of his mother?" he asked, glancing towards the hall below them as he heard footsteps crossing it and fading away in the direction of the baize door through to the servants' quarters. "Is it conceivable she has done something for which Rhys is willing to suffer even this to protect her?”

She hesitated. At first she had thought to deny even the possibility.

She could recall far too vividly Rhys's anger with Sylvestra, the joy he had taken in hurting her. Of course he could not be protecting her!

Then she realised that neither love nor guilt were always so clear. It was possible he loved and hated her at the same time, that he knew something which he would never betray, but that he still despised her for it.

"I don't know," she said aloud. "The more I think of it, the less sure I am. But I have no idea what.”

He was looking at her closely. "Haven't you?”

"No! Of course not. If I knew I would tell you!”

He nodded. "Then if we are to help Rhys, we are going to have to know more than we do now. Since he cannot tell us, and I imagine Mrs. Duff either cannot or will not, we shall have to employ some other means." A flicker of amusement touched his lips. "I know of none better than Monk, if he will consent to it, and Mrs. Duff is prepared to agree.”

"Surely she cannot refuse?" Hester said, fearing as she spoke that Sylvestra might very well. "I mean… unless… without suggesting she fears there is something even worse to conceal?”

"I shall frame it so she will find it extremely difficult to refuse,” he promised. "I should also like to speak with Arthur and Duke Kynaston. What can you tell me about them?”

"I find it hard to believe Arthur is the chief protagonist in this,” she said sincerely. "He has honesty in him, an openness I could not but like. His elder brother Marmaduke is a different matter." She bit her lip. "I should find it far easier to imagine he reacted with violence if challenged or criticised, and certainly if he felt himself in any danger. His words are quick enough to attempt to hurt." Honesty compelled her to go on. "But he has been here to visit Rhys, and he certainly was not involved in a fight of anything like the proportions that killed Leighton Duff and left Rhys like this. I wish I could say that he was!”

Rathbone smiled. "I can see that, my dear, and hear it in your voice.

Nevertheless, I shall visit them. I must begin somewhere, apart from engaging Monk. Perhaps we had better go and set Mrs. Duffs mind at ease that at least we shall begin, and give the battle all we have.”

Rathbone did as he had said, and asked Sylvestra's permission to employ someone to learn more of the events, with the view to helping Rhys, not simply finding material proof as the police had done. He phrased his request in such a way she could scarcely refuse him without appearing to wish to abandon Rhys, and to have something of her own to conceal.

He also asked her for the address of the Kynaston family, and she explained that Joel Kynaston had known Rhys since childhood, and she was certain he would offer any assistance within his power.

After Rathbone had left she turned to Hester, her face pale and tense.

"Is there really anything he can do, Miss Latterly? Or are we simply fighting a battle we must lose, because to do less would be cowardly, and a betrayal of courage and the sense of honour we admire? Please answer me honestly. I would rather have truth now. The time for reassuring lies, however well meant, is past. I need to know the truth in order to make the decisions I must.”

"I don't know," Hester said honestly. "We can none of us know until the case is heard, and concluded. I have seen many trials, several of which have ended far from the way we had expected and believed. Never give up until there is nothing else left to try and it is all over. We are very far from that point now. Believe me, if anyone can mitigate even the worst circumstances, it is Sir Oliver.”

Sylvestra's face softened in a smile, sadness touching her eyes.

"You are very fond of him, aren't you." It was barely a question.

Hester felt the heat in her face.

"Yes… yes, I have a high regard for him." The words sounded stilted and absurd, so very half-hearted, and Rathbone deserved better than that. But the shadow of Monk was too sharp in her mind to allow Sylvestra to misunderstand, as she seemed willing to do. It was not difficult to comprehend. It was one sweet and gentle thing, one thing which led on into the future, in a world which for Sylvestra was full of darkness and violence and the ending of all the peace and hope she knew.

"I…" Hester started again. "I do have a great… regard for him.”

Sylvestra was too sensitive to probe any further, and Hester excused herself, saying she must go up and see how Rhys was.

She found him lying exactly as she had left him, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open. She sat down on the bed.

"We won't give up," she said quietly.

He looked at her, searching her face, then suddenly anger twisted his features and he swung his head away.

She thought of getting up and leaving. Perhaps he would rather be alone. Then she looked at him more closely and saw the despair beneath the anger, and could not leave. She simply sat and waited, silent and helpless. At least he knew she cared enough to remain.

It was the middle of the evening when Rathbone returned. He was shown into the dining room where Hesterand Sylvestra were picking at dinner, pushing it around the plate in an attempt to eat sufficient not to offend the cook.

Rathbone came in looking grave, and immediately both of them stopped.

"Good evening, Sir Oliver," Sylvestra said huskily. "Have you…

learned something? May I offer you something to eat? If you would like to dine… I…" Her voice trailed off and she stared up at him, too frightened of what he was going to say to continue.

He sat down but declined to eat. "No, I have not learned anything new, Mrs. Duff. I have been to speak to Mr. Kynaston, in the hope that he might shed some light on what has happened. He has known your family for twenty-five years, I believe. I also intend to meet his sons, who were with Rhys in St. Giles. I wanted to form some opinion as to whether we should call them to testify. I imagine the prosecution may do that anyway.”

Sylvestra swallowed and seemed almost to choke.

"You speak in the past, Sir Oliver, as if it were no longer true. Do you mean that Joel Kynaston is so… so repelled by what Rhys has done that he will not… that what he says will… will hurt Rhys?”

"It is not favourable, Mrs. Duff," Rathbone said unhappily. "I tell you because I wonder if there is some reason you are aware of why Mr.

Kynaston may have such a view. He expressed the opinion that Rhys has been a poor influence upon his sons, especially the elder, Marmaduke, whom he feels has led a more," he hesitated, searching for the right word,"… libertine life than he would have done without Rhys's example and encouragement.”

Hester was amazed. The arrogance in Duke Kynaston had been so apparent, the natural assumption of leadership, that it was inconceivable to her that Rhys had influenced him, and not the other way around. But then she had not known Rhys before the incident. She hardly knew Duke now. All she had seen of him was a young man's swagger and bravado, and a considerable rudeness to one he felt his social and intellectual inferior.

She looked at Sylvestra to try to judge the surprise in her face.

"Joel Kynaston is a very strict man," Sylvestra said thoughtfully, staring not at Rathbone, but down at her plate. "He believes in great self-discipline, especially among the young. It is the foundation of strong character. It is what courage and honour are built upon, and without it all else may fail, eventually." Her voice was careful, full of long-held, familiar conviction. "I have heard him say so many times. He is much admired for it. It may appear like hardness to others, but in his position if he were to make exceptions, be seen to be lenient towards one, it would invalidate the principles for which he stands." Her face was intent, but there was a slight frown between her brows, as if she were concentrating on what she was saying, and it flowed from memory rather than understanding.

"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…”