The Silent Cry

Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was it possible he had followed him before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had he thought of authority?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good," he said with his mouth full.

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

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

"Baht eight years. Why?”

"Just wondered." He turned to the sandwich seller. "And you?”

"Twenty-five," he answered. "More or less.”

"Do you know me?”

The man blinked. "Course I knows yer. Wot kinda question is that?”

Monk steeled himself. "Do you remember a raid in a brothel, a long time ago, where a magistrate was caught? He fell downstairs and hurt himself quite badly." He had not finished before he saw from the man's face that he did. It creased with laughter and a rich chortle of pure joy escaped his lips.

"Yeah!" he said happily. "Yeah, course I 'members it! Rotten bastard, 'e were, ol' Gutteridge. Put Polly Thorp away for three years, jus' cos some feller wot she were doin' a service fer said as she'd took 'is money well 'is trousers was orff!" He laughed again, his cheeks puffing out and shining in the lamplight from across the street. "Got caught proper, 'e did… trousers down an' all. Leff the bench arter that. No more 'and in' down four years 'ere an' five years there, an' the boat all over the place. Yer could 'ear 'em laughin' all over the "Oly Land, yer could. I heard Runcorn got the credit for that one, but I always wondered if that was really down ter you, Mr. Monk.

There was a lot o' us as reckoned it were. Yer just wasn't there at the time, so ter speak.”

"Did you?" Monk said slowly. "Well, it's a long time ago now." He wanted to change the subject. He was floundering. He could not afford to show his vulnerability to these people. His skill depended on their fear and respect for him. He pulled the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket and showed it to the sandwich seller. "Have you ever seen this man?”

The sandwich seller tipped it over a little towards the light of the distant streetlamp. He thought for a few moments.

"Yeah, 'e were the geezer wot were done in Water Lane. A rozzer showed me this afore. W'y dyer wanna know fer?”

"Just wondering if he came here any time before that," Monk replied.

The cabby looked at it curiously.

"Ere, jus' a minute!" he said, his voice quickening. "I seen 'im. Not the night 'e were done, I din't, but I see' dim afore that, 'bout a couple o' weeks, or mebbe less. It were the night afore Christmas Eve, I know that! I'd swear ter it.”

Monk felt his body tighten and his heart beat a little faster. It was the scent of victory, familiar and sharp. "The night before Christmas Eve, and he was here, in St. Giles?”

"Yeah! Din't I jus' say so? "E looked rough, real rough then, like 'e'd bin in a fight. Blood on 'is face, there were, an' on 'is sleeves.”

Monk swallowed. "Look carefully. Are you sure?”

"Yeah, I'm sure. Ears, yer see?" He looked at Monk with a smile. "I likes ears. Ears is all different. "Ave yer ever noticed that?”

"Yes! Yes, I have. And what was it about the man's ears that you remember so well?" As he said it he moved his hand over the pictures to obscure the ears.

"Long," the cabby said without hesitation. "Long an' narrer, wi' 'eavy lobes ter 'em. Yer take yer finger orff an' look. I'm right.”

Monk obeyed. The man was right.

"And he had blood on him? Did you see any injury?" He did not want to ask. He almost did not. It was too easily disproved. He could feel the new thread slipping out of his grasp again.

"No, on'y blood. Don't 'ave ter be 'is blood. Could 'a bin someone else's. Looked kind o' drunk, 'e did. Staggerin' abaht a bit, but 'appy enough, like 'e'd just won sum mink So maybe the other geezer got orff a bit worse, eh?”

"Yes, maybe. Was he alone? Did you see anyone else?" Had Rhys been with him, close behind, or left wherever the fight had taken place?

This evidence was almost too good to be true. Perhaps he would be able to take Hester something after all Or rather take Rathbone something.

"Saw someone else," the cabby said thoughtfully. "But couldn't say 'oo. Jus' a shadow. Tall, like, an' thinnish, though it in't easy ter say, in a good coat. Covers a lot, a good coat does.”

"Tall… and thin," Monk said slowly. "And his face? Was he dark or fair? Young or old?" Surely it must have been Rhys? "And was he injured too?”

"Don' rush me!" the cabby protested. "Can't answer more'n one thing at a time.”

"Did you see his face?" Monk said, controlling himself with difficulty.

"Sort o' – 'alf.”

"Dark or fair?”

"Dark. Very dark.”

Monk swallowed. "And was he hurt, that you could see?”

"Yeah, co meter think on it, 'e 'ad blood on 'im too. Not so much, as I could see. But yeah, 'e were messed around. I reckon 'is coat were torn, an' looked sort o' wet. Wy, guy? Wot does it matter now? Yer've got 'im, in't yer?”

"Yes. It's just a matter of tidying it up, for evidence in court. You are positive about the date?”

"Yeah, I told yer.”

"Thank you. You have been a great help. Now will you please take me to Ebury Street. Have another sandwich." He gave the sandwich seller threepence and took two more. "And have one yourself," he added cheerfully. "They're very good." He gave one to the cabby, and set out at a stride to climb up into the hansom. His only regret was he had nothing for the horse.

At Ebury Street he alighted, paid the cabby and thanked him again, then went up the step and rang the bell. When it was answered by Wharmby, looking grim, he asked to see Mrs. Duff.

"I am sorry, sir, but Mrs. Duff is not receiving," Wharmby said firmly.

"Please inform her that I am working for Sir Oliver Rathbone, and I have a question I must ask her regarding the case," Monk replied, equally unflinchingly. "It is important that I receive an answer before I can proceed. It is in Mr. Rhys Duffs interest.”

"Yes, sir, I will tell her." He hesitated. There was nothing more to say, and yet he did not move.

Monk waited. He wanted to prompt him, but he was afraid if he were too direct he could break the moment and lose it.

"Do you remember Christmas Eve, Wharmby?" he said quite casually.

"Yes, sir." Wharmby was surprised.

"And the night before?”

Wharmby nodded. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

"Who was here that night?”

"No one, sir. In the evening Mrs. Duff went with Mrs. Wade to a concert. Mr. Rhys went to the Kynastons' to dinner, and Mr. Duff went out on business.”

"I see." The taste of victory was there again. "And how were they all when they returned home, or the next time you saw them?”

"How were they, sir? Quite normal, considering it was Christmas Eve.”

"Was no one hurt in any way? Perhaps a slight traffic accident, or something of the sort?”

"I believe Mr. Duff had a scratch on his face. He said it had been a flying stone from a carriage going much too fast. Why, sir? Does this mean something? Can you… can you help Mr. Rhys, sir?" His face was crumpled with curiosity, his eyes frightened as if he dreaded the answer. He had been almost too afraid to ask.

Monk was taken aback. Such concern did not fit with the picture of Rhys Duff that Monk had formed. Was the man not more moved by the violent death of his master? Or was it now Sylvestra for whom he grieved, imagining her second loss, so much worse even than the first.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I'm doing everything I can. It is possible this may… mitigate things… a little. Perhaps you do not need to disturb Mrs. Duff. If you say that Mr. Rhys said he was going to the Kynastons' that evening, I can ask them to substantiate that. Can you give me their address?”

"Certainly, sir. I shall write it down for you." And without waiting for agreement, he disappeared and came back a few moments later with a slip of paper, and an address written out in copperplate.

Monk thanked him, and left, seeking another cab.

At the Kynaston house he asked to speak to Mr. Kynaston.

He was received, reluctantly, in the library. There was no fire burning, but the ashes were still warm. Joel Kynaston came in and closed the door behind him, looking Monk up and down with distaste. He was a highly individual man with thick, very beautiful hair of an auburn colour, a thin nose and unusual mouth. He was of average height and slight build, and at the moment he was short of patience.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he said briskly. "My butler informed me you wish to make an enquiry about Rhys Duff, to do with the forthcoming trial. I find the whole matter most disturbing. Mr. Leighton Duff was a close personal friend, and his death is a great tragedy to my whole family. If I can assist the cause of justice, then it is my public duty to do so, and I do not shirk from it. But I must warn you, sir, I have no desire and no intention of involving myself in further hurt to the Duff family, nor will I injure or cause unhappiness to my own family in your interest. What is it you wish of me?”

"Did Mr. Rhys Duff visit your home on the evening of the day before Christmas Eve, Mr. Kynaston?”

"I have no idea. I was not at home myself. Why is it important?

Leighton Duff was perfectly well and unharmed at that time. What affair is it of yours if Rhys was here?”

Monk could understand his desire to protect his sons, whom he might well fear had been involved deeply and tragically with the Duff family.

He might feel he was to blame for not having been aware of their behaviour, as apparently Leighton Duff had been. But for chance, had he been the one to know instead, he could have been beaten to death in Water Lane, and Monk could have been asking these questions of Leighton Duff. It was not difficult to see Mr. Kynaston was tense, unhappy, and unwilling to have Monk, or anyone else, prying further into the wound. Perhaps he was owed some explanation.

"It seems to me possible that the night of Mr. Duffs death may not have been his first quarrel with his son over his conduct," Monk replied. "There is evidence to suggest they met and had some heated disagreement on the night before Christmas Eve. I would like to know if that is true.”

"I cannot see why," Kynaston said with a frown. "It seems tragically apparent what happened. Leighton realised what Rhys was doing, that his behaviour was unacceptable by any standards at all, let alone those of a gentleman. His temper and self-indulgence had gone beyond all control, his latest weaknesses had slipped into open vice. His father followed him and remonstrated with him, at which Rhys became vicious with rage and attacked him… with the consequences which we know only too well.”

"Did Rhys always have a temper, Mr. Kynaston?”

"I am afraid so. When he was a boy it was held in check. He was never permitted to lose it while in my charge. What he was allowed at home, of course, I do not know. But his father was concerned about him. He confided that much to me. I do not wish to speak ill of the poor woman who, God knows, has more grief than any person should be asked to bear, but Mrs. Duff has indulged the boy over the years. She hated to discipline him, and his character has suffered for it.”

"I see. Is there someone I could ask if Rhys was here on that evening?”

"You might ask my wife, I suppose. She was at home, as I believe were my sons.”

Monk was disconcerted, but not set out of countenance. It was just possible Rhys had gone alone on this occasion. Or more likely Kynaston was wrong about all of them.

"Thank you," Monk accepted, uncertain whether Mrs. Kynaston's word would satisfy him. As soon as Kynaston turned to the door, Monk made to follow him.

Kynaston stopped. "You are on my heels, Mr. Monk. I should prefer if you were to wait here, and I shall ask my wife, and inform you of the answer.”

"Possibly," Monk agreed. "Then I shall have to inform Sir Oliver that I was not permitted to speak to Mrs. Kynaston personally, and he may feel the necessity to call her to testify in court." He looked at him squarely and coldly. "However, if I speak to her myself, and to your sons, then that may prove sufficient.”

Kynaston stiffened. "I do not appreciate being threatened, Mr.

Monk!”

"Few of us do," Monk said with a thin smile. "But most of us take heed.”

Kynaston looked at him a moment longer, weighing his nerve and his intent, then swung on his heel and led the way.

Monk was startled by Fidelis Kynaston. He had not had any particular expectations of Kynaston's wife, but this woman of extraordinary composure, with her asymmetrical face and her calm, very lovely voice, took him utterly by surprise. The inner repose of her fascinated him.

"This is Mr. Monk," Kynaston said tersely, without looking at him. "He requires to ask you a question about Rhys Duff. It is probably advisable that you answer him.”

"How do you do, Mr. Monk," she said graciously. Unlike her husband, her face was filled with sadness rather than tension or anger. Perhaps she was completely unaware of her sons' part in the crime, or the pattern of behaviour which had led up to it. Kynaston may have shielded her from it, in which case there was more in him to be admired than Monk had supposed. And yet looking at Fidelis' face there was knowledge of pain beneath her composure, and a kind of stillness in her eyes which springs from self-mastery in the experience of deep unhappiness. Was it conceivable that they both knew, and yet each shielded the other, and the whole tragedy was never shared?

"I am sorry to disturb your evening, Mrs. Kynaston," he said sincerely. "But I need to ask you to cast your mind back to the night before Christmas Eve. Can you tell me if you were at home, and if so, who was with you, and until what hour?”

"Certainly," she said with a shadow of puzzlement in her eyes. "I was at home, and my sons were here, and Rhys Duff, and Lady Sandon and her son, Mr. Rufus Sandon. We played cards, and talked a great deal about all manner of things, Egyptian exploration in particular. Rufus Sandon was most enthusiastic about Monsieur Champollion and his deciphering of the Rosetta Stone. Rhys was fascinated. I think he would willingly have listened all night.”

"What time did he leave, Mrs. Kynaston?”

"About two o'clock, I believe," she replied. "It was very late indeed.

But the following day was Christmas Eve, and they intended to lie in, and be late the evening aft eras well. I remember them saying so.

Marmaduke retired to bed earlier. He was less interested, but the rest of us remained long into the night. May I ask why you wish to know, Mr. Monk? Can it in some way help Rhys now?" There was no need to ask if that was something she wished, it was plain in her entire bearing.

"I don't know, ma'am," he answered frankly. "It is not what I had expected you to say. I admit, this throws me into some confusion. You have no doubt whatsoever about the date?”

"None at all. We were discussing the fact that it was Christmas Eve the following day," she affirmed.

"Thank you. I appreciate your courtesy.”

"Then we will not detain you any further, Mr. Monk," Kynaston said abruptly just as Fidelis was about to speak again.

Monk bowed and took his leave, thoroughly puzzled. If Rhys had been at the Kynastons' until two in the morning, then it could not have been he with whom Leighton Duff had fought in St. Giles shortly after midnight. He did not doubt Fidelis, but it would be simple to check with Lady Sandon. He had not asked for her address, but a woman of title would not be difficult to locate.

As soon as he reached his rooms he went to his desk and took out all his notes on the times, dates and places of the rapes he had investigated. They were in chronological order, and it took him only moments to ascertain that his memory was correct. There had been a particularly brutal rape and beating on the night before Christmas Eve, as near as the victim could tell, shortly before midnight, probably two men rather than three.

The conclusion was startling, and inescapable. Rhys could not have been guilty of this one. Leighton Duff had been there, and had been involved in a struggle of some sort. Marmaduke Kynaston could have been there. Arthur Kynaston, like Rhys, could not. He must be absolutely certain. There were more facts to check, with Lady Sandon, and with Sylvestra Duff, and for extra certainty, with the servants in the Duff house.

Had Leighton Duff followed and confronted Marmaduke Kynaston, and his companion in rape, whoever that was… or was he himself the companion? And had Rhys, usually the third, on this occasion been more spellbound by something else, and remained in the Kynaston home, listening to tales of Egypt and the Rosetta Stone?

Was it even possible that the three men who committed the rapes were not always the same ones?

He went to bed with his mind racing, and slept fitfully, haunted by dreams.

In the morning he arose, dressed, and aft era hasty breakfast went out barely feeling the cold. By two in the afternoon he had ascertained his facts. Rhys Duff had been at the Kynaston house until two in the morning, and had returned straight to his own home where he had remained until midday of Christmas Eve. He could not have been in St.

Giles.

Leighton Duff had gone out at half past nine in the evening and had returned at an unknown hour. The footman had not waited up for him.

Mr. Duff was always most considerate and never required the servants to remain out of their beds on his account.

It was confirmed that Duke Kynaston had retired before the end of the party, but whether he had then gone out or not, no one could say. While he was at the Kynaston house, Monk took the opportunity to deliver a warning. He had doubted whether to do so, or to leave justice to fortune. Now as the picture grew even less certain in his mind, the doubt vanished. He asked to see both brothers, and learned that Arthur was out, but Marmaduke could give him a few moments if he cared to come to the morning room.

Duke looked at him with a mixture of interest and scorn.

"A private agent of enquiry, eh?" he said with a lift of the eyebrow.

"What a curious way to make one's living. Still, I suppose it is better than catching rats, or repossessing the furniture of debtors.”

"There are times when it bears a closer resemblance to catching rats than one might wish," Monk answered with a corresponding sneer.

"I hear you were the one who caught up with Rhys Duff," Duke said quickly, cutting across him a little. "Do you think the court will find him guilty?”

"Is that why you consented to see me," Monk asked with amusement.

"Because you think I might know what the outcome will be!”

There was a faint flush on Duke's cheeks. "Do you?" he demanded.

Monk was surprised. Under the bravado, was it possible Duke actually felt some concern, and some responsibility, or guilt?

"No, I don't," Monk said more gently. "I thought I knew the answer without doubt, but I have since discerned some information which makes me less sure.”

"Why did you come here?" Duke frowned. "What do you want from us?”

"When you left the party on the night before Christmas Eve, where did you go?”

"To bed! Why? What does that matter?”

"You did not go to St. Giles with Leighton Duff?”

His utter amazement was too profound to disbelieve.

"What?”

Monk repeated what he had said.

"With Leighton Duff? Have you lost your wits? I've been whoring in St. Giles, certainly, with Rhys, for mat matter, and my brother Arthur. But Leighton Duff. That pompous, dry-as-dust old stick!" He started to laugh, and it was harsh, critical, but as far as Monk could tell, perfectly genuine.

"I take it you think it unlikely Mr. Duff would have gone to St. Giles in search of a prostitute?”

"About as likely as Her Majesty appearing on the stage of the music halls, I should think," Duke replied bitterly. "Whatever gave you that notion? You must be very out of touch with the case. You really have not the least idea, have you!”

Monk took the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket.

"Is that a good likeness of him?”

Duke considered it for a moment. "Yes, it is, actually. It is extremely good. He had just that rather patronising air of self-righteousness.”

"You did not like him," Monk observed.

"A crashing remark of the obvious." Duke raised his eyebrows. "Do you really make a living at this, Mr. Monk?”

"You would be surprised how people betray themselves when they imagine themselves safe, Mr. Kynaston," Monk said with a smile. "But thank you for your concern on my behalf. It is not necessary. What I came for was to warn you, and your brother, that the people of St. Giles, and of Seven Dials as well, are aware of who committed the recent rapes in their areas, and if either of you should return there, it is very probable you will meet with most unpleasant ends. You have been there.

You know or can imagine how easily that could be accomplished, and your bodies never found… at least not recognisable ones.”

Duke stared at him with a mixture of shock and incomprehension, but there was markedly fear in it as well.

"Why do you care if I get murdered in St. Giles?" he said truculently, then passed his tongue over dry lips.

"I don't," Monk replied with a smile, but even as he said it, it was not entirely true. He disliked Marmaduke Kynaston less than when he had come in, for no reason that he would have been prepared to explain.

"I don't want the people of St. Giles to be pursued by a murder enquiry.”

Duke took a deep breath. "I should have known. Are you from St.

Giles?”

Monk laughed outright. It was the first time he had felt like it for days.

"No. I come from Northumberland.”

"I suppose I should thank you for the warning," Duke said casually, but his eyes still held the shock, and there was a reluctant sincerity in his voice.

Monk shrugged and smiled.

He left the house even further confused.

Time was desperately short.

He took Leighton Duffs picture to Seven Dials and showed it to cabbies, street pedlars, a running patterer, sellers of flowers, bootlaces, matches, glassware, and to a rat catcher and several prostitutes. It was recognised by at least a dozen people, and some without any hesitation at all. Not one of them was prepared to identify Rhys.

By the second night Monk had only one more question in his mind. He returned to St. Giles to pursue the answer, and walked the alleys and courtyards, the dripping passages and up and down the rotting stairs until dawn came grey and bleak at about seven o'clock, and he was exhausted, and so cold his feet were numb and he could not control the shaking of his body. But he knew two things. Rhys Duff and his father had come to St. Giles on the night of the murder from different directions, and there was no proof they had met until the fatal encounter in Water Lane.

The other thing he learned by chance. He was talking to a woman who had been a prostitute in her youth, and had saved sufficient money to purchase a boarding house, but still knew a remarkable amount of gossip. He went to her partly to confirm certain dates and places, but mainly from his compulsion to probe the darkness in his own mind, the fear that gathered every time Runcorn's face came to his thoughts, which it did so often in these dark, slippery paths. It was not Runcorn as he was now, greying at the temples, a little broader at the waist, but a younger, keener Runcorn, shoulders straight, eyes clearer and braver.

"Do you remember the raid in the brothel when the magistrate, Gutteridge, was caught with his trousers down?" He was not sure why he asked, or what he expected the answer to be, only that it lay at the back of his mind, and would not leave.

She gurgled with delight. "Course I do. Why?”

"Runcorn led it?”

"You know that! Can't tell me you've forgot!" She looked at him narrowly, her head on one side.

"Did he set it up?" he asked.

"Wot's this, a game or sum mink You set it up, an' Runcorn took it from yer. Yer let 'im, cos yer know'd poor of Gutt'ridge was gonna be there. Runcorn walked right inter it, daft sod.”

"Why? It was Gutteridge's own fault. Did he expect the police to hold off, just because he was indulging himself?”

Her eyes widened. "Yeah! Course 'e did! Or at least warn 'im! Upset a lot o' people, that did… important people, like. None o' us, mind! Laughed till we creased ourselves, we did!”

"What people?" Monk paused, knowing something eluded him, something that mattered.

"Ere, wot's this abaht?" she said with a frown. "It's all dead an' buried nah! "Oo cares any more? It don't 'ave nuffink ter do wi' them rapes 'ere.”

"I know it doesn't. I just want to know. Tell me," he pressed.

"Well, there was a few gents wot felt their selves a bit exposed like, arter that." She laughed hugely at her own joke. "They'd always trusted you rozzers to keep yer distance from certain 'ouses o' pleasure." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Arter that they din't trust no one. Couldn't! It kind o' soured relations at ween the rozzers and certain people o' influence. On'y time I ever thought as I could like Mr. Runcorn. Bleedin' pain 'e is, most o' the time. Worse'n you! Yer a mean bastard, but yer was straight, and yer weren't full o' cant. I never knowed yer preach one thing an' do another. Not like 'em." She looked at him more closely. "Wot is it, Monk? W'y dyer give a toss abaht a twenty-year-old raid in a bawdy 'ouse?”

"I'm not sure," he said honestly.

"After yer, is 'e?" she asked with a note of something which could even have been sympathy. He was not sure whether it was for him, or for Runcorn.

"Afterme?" he repeated. "Why?" It sounded foolish, but she knew something about it, or she would not have leaped to such a conclusion.

He had to know. He was too close now not to grasp it, whatever it was.

"Well, yer droppedim right in it, din't yer?" she said incredulously. "Yer knew all them folk was there, an' yer never toP 'im. Let 'im charge in an' make a right fool of is self Don't suppose nuffink was said, but they don' never fergive that kind o' thing. Lorst 'is promotion then, an' lorst 'is girl too, cos 'er father were one of 'em, weren't 'e?" She shrugged. "I'd watch me back, if I was you, even arterall this time. "E don' fergive, yer know? Carries a grudge 'and, does Runcorn.”

Monk was barely listening. He could not remember doing it, even after her description. But he could remember the feeling of victory, the deep, hot satisfaction of knowing he had beaten Runcorn. Now it was only shame. It was a shabby trick and too deep a revenge for anything Runcorn could have done to him. Not that he knew of anything.

He thanked her quietly and walked out, leaving her puzzled, muttering to herself about how times had changed.

Why? He walked with his head down into the rain, hands deep in his pockets, ignoring the gutters and his wet feet. It was fully light now. Why had he done such a thing? Had it been as deliberate and as calculatedly cruel as everyone else thought? If it had, then no wonder Runcorn still hated him. To lose the promotion was fair enough. That was the fortune of war. But to lose the woman he loved was a bitter blow, and one Monk would not now have dealt to any man.

The trial of Rhys Duff had already begun. The information he had was highly pertinent, even if it offered little real help. He should go and tell Rathbone. Hester would be hurt. How Sylvestra Duff would take the news that her husband was also a rapist, he could not even imagine.

He crossed Regent Street, barely noticing he was out of St. Giles, and stopped to buy a hot cup of tea. Perhaps he should not tell Rathbone?

It did not clear Rhys of the murder of his father, only of one rape, with which he was not charged anyway!

But it was part of the truth, and the truth mattered. They had too little of it to make sense as it was. Rathbone had paid him to learn all he could. He had promised Hester. He needed to cling on to his sense of honour, the integrity, and the trust of the friends he had now. What he had been was acutely painful. He had no memory of it, no understanding.

Did Rhys Duff understand himself?

That was irrelevant. Monk was a grown man, and whether he remembered it or not, he was responsible. He was certainly in possession of all his faculties and answerable now. His only reason for not facing himself was fear of what he would find, and the gall to his pride effacing Runcorn, and admitting his remorse.

Had he what it took courage?

He had been cruel, arbitrary, too hasty to judge, but he had never been a liar, and he had never ever been a coward.

He finished the last of his tea, took a bun and paid for it, then eating it as he went, he started towards the police station.

He was obliged to wait until quarter past nine before Runcorn arrived.

He looked warm and dry in his smart overcoat, his face pink and freshly barbered, his shoes shining.

He regarded Monk soberly, his gaze going from his dripping hair and his exhausted face, hollow eyes, down his wet coat to his sodden and filthy boots. His expression was smug, glowing with rich satisfaction.

"You look on hard times, Monk," he said cheerfully. "You want to come in and warm your feet? Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?”

"I've had one, thank you," Monk said. Only sharp reminder inside himself of his contempt for cowardice kept him there, and the thought of what Hester would think of him if he were to fail the final confrontation now. "But I'll come in. I want to talk to you.”

"I'm busy," Runcorn replied. "But I suppose I can spare you fifteen minutes. You look terrible!" He opened his office door and Monk followed him in. Someone had already lit the fire and it was extremely pleasant. There was a faint smell of beeswax and lavender polish.

"Sit down," Runcorn offered. "But take your coat off first, or you'll mark my chair.”

"I've spent the night in St. Giles," Monk said, still standing.

"You look like it," Runcorn retorted. He wrinkled his nose. "And, frankly, you smell like it too.”

"I spoke to Bessie Mallard.”

"Who is she? And why are you telling me?" Runcorn sat down and made himself comfortable.

"She used to be a whore. Now she has a small boarding house. She told me about the night they raided the brothel in Cutters' Row, and caught the magistrate, Gutteridge, and he fell downstairs…" He stopped.

There was a tide of dull purple spreading up Runcorn's face. His hands on the smooth desk top were curling into fists.

Monk took a deep breath. There was no evading it.

"Why did I hate you enough to let you do that? I don't remember.”

Runcorn stared at him, his eyes widening as he realised what Monk was saying.

"Why do you care?" His voice was high, a little hurting. "You ruined me with Dora. Wasn't that what you wanted?”

"I don't know. I've told you… I can't remember. But it was a vicious thing to do, and I want to know why I did it.”

Runcorn blinked. He was thrown off balance. This was not the Monk he thought he knew.

Monk leaned forward over the desk, staring down at him. Behind the freshly shaved face, the mask of self-satisfaction, there was a man with a wound to his esteem which had never healed. Monk had done that… or at least part of it. He needed to know why.

"I'm sorry," he said aloud. "I wish I had not done it. But I need to know why I did. Once we worked together, trusted each other. We went to St. Giles side by side, never doubting each other. What changed?

Was it you… or me?”

Runcorn sat silent for so long Monk thought he was not going to answer.

He could hear the clatter of heavy feet outside, and rain dripping from the eaves on to the window sill. Outside was the distant rumble of traffic in the street and a horse whinnying.

"It was both of us," Runcorn spoke at last. "It began over the coat, you could say.”

"Coat! What coat?" Monk had no idea what he was talking about.

"I got a new coat with a velvet collar. You went and got one with fur, just that bit better than mine. We were going out to the same place to dine.”

"How stupid," Monk said immediately.

"So I got back at you," Runcorn replied. "Something to do with a girl.

I don't even know what now. It just went from one thing to another, until it got too big to go back on.”

"That was all? Just childish jealousies?" Monk was horrified. "You lost the woman you loved over a coat collar?”

The blood was dark in Runcorn's face. "It was more than that!" he said defensively. "It was…" He looked up at Monk again, his eyes hot and angry, more honest than Monk had ever seen them before. For the first time he knew, there was no veil between them. "It was a hundred things, you undermining my authority with the men, laughing at me behind my back, taking credit for my ideas, my arrests…”

Monk felt the void of ignorance swallowing him. He did not know whether that was the truth, or simply the way Runcorn excused himself.

He hated it with the blind, choking panic of helplessness. He did not know! He was fighting without weapons. He might have been a man like that! He did not feel it was himself, but then how much had his accident changed him? Or was it simply that he had been forced to look at himself from the outside, as a stranger might have, and seeing himself, had changed?

"Did I?" he said slowly. "Why you? Why did I do that only to you.

Why no one else? What did you do to me?”

Runcorn looked miserable, puzzled, struggling with his thoughts.

Monk waited. He must not prompt. A wrong word, even one, and the truth would slip away from him.

Runcorn lifted his eyes to meet Monk's, but he did not speak immediately.

"I suppose… I resented you," he said at last. "You always seemed to have the right word, to guess the right answers. You always had luck on your side, and you never gave anyone else any room. You didn't forgive mistakes.”

That was the damning indictment. He did not forgive.

"I should have," he said gravely. "I was wrong in that. I am sorry about Dora. I can't take it back now, but I am sorry.”

Runcorn stared at him. "You are, aren't you!" he said in amazement.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "You did well with the Duff case. Thank you." It was as close as he could come to an acceptance.

It was good enough. Monk nodded. He could not allow the lie to remain. It would break the fragile bridge he had just built at such a cost.

"I haven't finished with it yet. I'm not sure about the motive. The father was responsible for at least one of the rapes in St. Giles himself, and he was in Seven Dials regularly.”

"What?" Runcorn could scarcely believe what he seemed to have heard.

"That's impossible! It doesn't make any sense, Monk!”

"I know. But it is true. I have a dozen witnesses. One who saw him smeared with blood the night before Christmas Eve, when there was a rape in St. Giles, and Mrs. Kynaston and Lady Sandon will swear Rhys Duff was with them at the time, miles away.”

"We're not charging Rhys Duff with rape," Runcorn frowned, now thoroughly disturbed. He was a good enough policeman to see the implications.

Monk did not argue further. It was unnecessary.

"I'm obliged," Runcorn said, shaking his head.

Monk nodded, hesitated a moment, then excused himself and went out to go home and bathe and sleep. Then he must go and tell Rathbone.