The Silent Cry

Chapter Twelve

The trial of Rhys Duff had commenced on the previous day. The court was filled and an hour before it began the ushers closed the doors. The preliminaries had already been conducted. The jury were chosen. The judge, a handsome man of military appearance and the marks of pain in his face, called the court to order. He had come in with a pronounced limp and sat a trifle awkwardly in his high, carved chair in order to accommodate a stiff leg.

The prosecution was conducted by Ebenezer Goode, a man of curious and exuberant appearance, well known and respected by Rathbone. He was unhappy with proceeding against someone as obviously ill as Rhys Duff, but he abhorred not only the crime with which he was charged, but the earlier ones which had provided the motive. He willingly made concession to Rhys's medical needs by allowing him to sit in the dock, high above the body of the court and railed off, in a padded chair to offer what comfort there was for his physical pain. He also had made no demur when Rathbone had asked that Rhys not be handcuffed at any time, so he might move if he wished, or was able to, and sit in whatever position gave him the least discomfort.

Corriden Wade was in court and could be called should he be needed, and so was Hester. They were both to be allowed immediate access to the prisoner if he showed any need for their attention or assistance.

Nevertheless as the testimony began, Rhys was alone as he faced a bitterly hostile crowd, his accusers and his judges. There was no one to speak for him except Rathbone, standing a solitary figure, black-gowned, white-wigged, a fragile barrier against a tide of hatred.

Goode called his witnesses one after the other: the women who had found the two bodies, Constable Shotts and John Evan. He took Evan carefully step by step through his investigation, not dwelling on the horror but permitting it to be passionately conveyed through Evan's white face and broken, husky voice.

He called Dr. Riley who spoke quietly and in surprisingly simple language of Leighton Duffs terrible wounds and the death he must have suffered.

"And the accused?" Goode asked, standing in the middle of the floor like a great crow, his arms dangling in his gown. His aquiline face with its pale eyes reflected vividly the horror and the sense of tragedy he felt unmistakably deeply.

Hester had liked him ever since first meeting him in the Stonefield case. Staring around the courtroom, more to judge the emotion of the crowd than to note who was present, she was lent a moment's real happiness to see Enid Ravensbrook, her face smoothed of its earlier suffering, her eyes gentle and bright as she watched Goode, a smile on her lips. Hester looked more closely, and saw there was a gold wedding band on her hand, not the one she had worn earlier, but a new one. For an instant she forgot the present ache of fear and tragedy.

But it was brief. Reality returned with Riley's answer.

"He was also very severely injured," he said quietly.

There was barely a sound in the room. There were faint rustles, tiny movements, a sigh of breath. The jurors never took their eyes from the proceedings.

"A great deal of blood?" Goode pressed.

Riley hesitated.

No one moved.

"No…" he said at last. "When a person is kicked and punched there are terrible bruises, but the skin is not necessarily broken. There was some, especially where his ribs were cracked. One had pierced the skin. And on his back. There the flesh had been ripped.”

There was a gasp of indrawn breath in the room. Several of the jurors looked very white.

"But Sergeant Evan said that the accused's clothes were soaked in blood, Dr. Riley," Goode pointed out. "Where did that come from, if not from his injuries?”

"I assume from the dead man," Riley replied. "His wounds were more severe, and there were several places where the skin was broken. But I am surprised he bled so badly.”

"And there were no wounds on the accused to account for such blood?”

Riley pressed.

"No, there were not.”

"Thank you, Dr. Riley.”

Rathbone rose. It was a forlorn hope, but he had nothing else. He must try anything, no matter how remote. He had no idea what Monk would produce, and there were always the possibilities that involved Arthur and Duke Kynaston.

"Dr. Riley, have you any way of knowing whose blood it was on Rhys Duffs clothes?”

"No, sir," Riley answered without the least resentment. The smooth expression of his face suggested he had no conviction in the matter himself, only a sadness that the whole event should have happened at all.

"So it could belong to a third, or even a fourth person, whom we have not yet mentioned?”

"It could… were there such a person.”

The jury looked bemused.

The judge watched Rathbone anxiously, but he did not intervene.

"Thank you," Rathbone nodded. "That is all I have to ask you, sir.”

Goode called Corriden Wade, who reluctantly, pale-faced, his voice barely heard, admitted that Rhys's injuries could not have produced the blood described on his clothes. Not once did he look up to the dock where Rhys sat motionless, his face twisted in an unreadable expression, a mixture of helpless bitterness and blazing anger. Nor did Wade appear to look towards the gallery where Sylvestra sat next to Eglantyne, both of them watching him intently. He kept his eyes undeviatingly on Goode, confirming that the events of that night of his father's death had rendered Rhys incapable of communication, either by speech or by writing. He was able only to nod or shake his head. He expressed the deepest concern for his well-being, and would not commit himself to any certainty that he would recover.

Goode hesitated, as if to ask him further as to his knowledge of Rhys's personality, but after the vaguest of beginnings, he changed his mind.

There was nothing for him to prove but the facts, and to explore the growth of motive only opened the way for Rathbone to suggest insanity.

He thanked Wade and returned to his seat.

Rathbone took his place. He knew Wade was as sympathetic a witness as he would get, apart from Hester, whom he could find no excuse to call.

And yet he had nothing to ask Wade which would not do more harm than good. He needed something from Monk as desperately as he ever had, and he did not even know what to hope for, let alone to seek, or to suggest. He stood in the middle of the floor feeling alone and ridiculous. The jury were waiting for him to say something, to begin to fight back. He had done nothing so far except make a gesture about the blood, one which he knew no one believed.

Should he ask Wade about the deterioration of Rhys's character, and lay grounds for a plea of insanity… at least in mitigation? He thought it was what Sylvestra wanted. It was the only thing which was comprehensible for such an act.

But it was not a defence in law, not for Rhys. He may be evil, acting from a different set of moral beliefs from anyone else in this crowded room, but he was not insane in any sense that he did not understand either the law, or the nature of his acts. There was nothing whatever to suggest he suffered delusions.

"Thank you, Dr. Wade," he said with confidence he was far from feeling. "I believe you have known Rhys most of his life, is that correct?”

"I have," Wade agreed.

"And been his physician, when he required one?”

"Yes.”

"Were you aware of there being a serious and violent disagreement with his father, and if so, over what subject?”

It was a question to which Wade would find it extremely difficult to answer in the affirmative. If he admitted it, it would seem incompetent that he had not done anything to forestall this tragedy. It would seem like wisdom after the event, and Sylvestra would see it as a betrayal, as indeed so might some of the jury.

"Dr. Wade?" he prompted.

Wade raised his head and stared at him resolutely.

"I was aware of a certain tension between them," he answered, his voice stronger, full of regret. "I thought it the normal resentment a son might have for the discipline a father naturally exerts." He bit his lip and drew in a deep breath. "I had no idea whatever it would end like this. I blame myself. I should have been more aware. I have had a great deal of experience with men of all ages, and under extreme pressure, during my service in the Navy." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth and then vanished. "I suppose closer to home, in people for whom one has affection, one is loath to recognise such things.”

It was a clever answer, honest and yet without committing himself. And it earned the jury's respect. Rathbone could see it in their faces. He would have been wiser not to have asked, but it was too late now.

"You did not foresee it?" he repeated.

"No," Wade said quietly, looking down. "I did not, God forgive me.”

Rathbone hesitated on the brink of asking him if he thought Rhys insane, and decided against it. No answer, either way, could help enough to be worth the risk.

"Thank you, Dr. Wade. That is all.”

Goode had already established the violence of the fight, and the fact that Leighton Duff and Rhys had been involved, and there was no reason to suspect anyone else being there. He called the Duff household servants, deeply against their will, and obliged them to testify to the quarrel the evening of Leighton Duffs death, and the time both men had left the house. At least he spared Sylvestra the distress of testifying.

All the time Rhys sat propped up in the dock, his skin ashen pale, his eyes seeming enormous in his haggard face, a prison warder on either side of him, perhaps more to support him than to restrain. He did not look capable of offering any resistance, let alone an attempt to escape.

Rathbone forced himself to put the thought of him out of his mind. He must use intelligence rather than emotion. Let anyone else feel all the compassion they could, his brain must be clear.

There seemed no way of casting the slightest doubt, reasonable or unreasonable, on Rhys's physical guilt, and he was struggling without a glimmer of hope to think of any mitigation.

Where was Monk?

He dared not look at Hester. He could imagine too clearly the panic she must be feeling.

Through the afternoon and the next day Goode brought on a troop of witnesses who placed Rhys in St. Giles over a period of months. Not one of them could be cast doubt upon. Rathbone had to stand by and watch. There was no argument to make.

The judge adjourned the court early. It seemed as if there was little left to do but sum up the case. Goode had proved every assertion he had made. There was no alternative to offer, except that Rhys had been whoring in St. Giles, and his father had confronted him, they had quarrelled and Rhys had killed him. Goode had avoided mentioning the rapes, but if Rathbone challenged him that the motive for murder was too slender to believe, then he would undoubtedly bring in the beaten women, still bearing their scars. He had said as much. It was only Rhys's desperate condition which stayed his hand. Fortune had already punished him appallingly, and the conviction for murder would be sufficient to have him hanged. There was no need for more.

Rathbone left the courtroom feeling he had been defeated without offering even the semblance of a fight. He had done nothing for Rhys.

He had not begun to fulfill the trust Hesterand Sylvestra had placed in him. He was ashamed, and yet he could think of nothing to say which would do Rhys the slightest service.

Certainly he could harass witnesses, object to Goode's questions, his tactics, his logic, or anything else; but it would serve no purpose except to give the effect of a defence. It would be a sham. He knew it, Hester would know it. Would it even be of comfort to Rhys? Or offer him false hope?

At least he should have the courage to go to Rhys now, and not escape, as he would so much rather.

When he reached Rhys, Hester was already there. She turned as she heard Rathbone's step, her eyes desperate, pleading for some hope, any hope at all.

They sat together in the grey cell below the Old Bailey. Rhys was in physical pain, muscles clenched, broken hands shaking. He looked hopeless. Hester sat next to him, her arm around his shoulders. Rathbone was at his wits end.

"Rhys!" he said tensely. "You have got to tell us what happened! I want to defend you, but I have nothing with which to do it!" His own muscles were knotted tight, his hands balled into fists of frustration.

"I have no weapons! Did you kill him?”

Rhys shook his head, perhaps an inch in either direction, but the denial was clear.

"Someone else did?”

Again the tiny movement, but definitely a nod.

"Do you know who?”

A nod, a bitter smile, trembling-lipped.

"Has it anything to do with your mother?”

A very slight shrug of the shoulders, then a shake. No.

"An enemy of your father's?”

Rhys turned away, jerking his head, his hands starting to bang on his thighs, jolting the splints.

Hester grabbed his wrists. "Stop it!" she said loudly. "You must tell us, Rhys. Don't you understand, they will find you guilty if we cannot prove it was someone else, or at least that it could have been?”

He nodded slowly, but would not face her.

There was nothing left but the violence of the truth.

"They will hang you," Rathbone said deliberately.

Rhys's throat moved as if he would say something, then he swung away from them again, and refused to look at them any more.

Hester stared at Rathbone, her eyes filled with tears.

He stood still for a minute, then another. There was nothing to say or do. He sighed, and left. As he was walking along the passage he passed Corriden Wade going in. At least he might be able to offer some physical relief, or even a draught of some sort strong enough to give a few hours' sleep.

Further along he encountered Sylvestra, looking so distraught she seemed on the verge of collapse. At least she had Fidelis Kynaston with her.

Rathbone spent the evening alone in his rooms, unable to eat or even to sit at his fire. He paced the floor, his mind turning over one useless fact after another when his butler came to announce that Monk was in the hall.

"Monk!" Rathbone grasped at the very name, as if it had been a raft for a drowning man. "Monk! Bring him in… immediately!”

Monk looked tired and pale. His hair dripped and his face was shining wet.

"Well?" Rathbone demanded, finding himself gulping air, his hands stiff, a tingling in his arms. "What have you?”

"I don't know," Monk answered bleakly. "I have no idea whether it makes things better, or even worse. Leighton Duff was one of the rapists in Seven Dials, and then later in St. Giles.”

Rathbone was stunned. "What?" he said, his voice high with disbelief. It was preposterous, totally absurd. He must have misunderstood. "What did you say?”

"Leighton Duff was one of the rapists in both areas," Monk repeated. "I have several people who will identify him, in particular a cabby who saw him in St. Giles on the night before Christmas Eve, with blood on his hands and face, just after one of the worst rapes. And Rhys was in Lowndes Square at a quiet evening with Mrs. Kynaston, Arthur Kynaston and Lady Sandon and her son.”

Rathbone felt a sense of shock so great the room seemed to sway around him.

"You are sure?" he said, and the instant the words were off his tongue he knew how foolish they were. It was plain in Monk's face. Anyway, he would not have come with such news were he not certain beyond any doubt at all.

Monk did not bother to answer. He sat down uninvited, close to the fire. He was still shivering and he looked exhausted.

"I don't know what it means," he continued, staring past Rathbone at the empty chair opposite him, but mostly at something he could see within his own mind. "Perhaps Rhys was not involved in that rape, but he was in some or all of the others," he said. "Perhaps not. Certainly Leighton Duff did not follow his son in any sense of outrage or horror at what he had done, and then in righteous indignation confront him with it." He turned to Rathbone who was still standing on the same spot. "I'm sorry. All it means is that we have misunderstood the motive. It doesn't prove anything else. I don't know what you want to make of it. How is the trial going?”

"Appallingly," Rathbone replied, at last moving to the other chair and sitting down stiffly. "I have nothing to fight with. I suppose this will at least provide ammunition with which to open up the whole issue as to what happened. It will raise doubts. It will certainly prolong the trial…" He smiled bitterly. "It will shake Ebenezer Goode!" A well of horror opened up inside him. "It will shatter Mrs. Duff.”

"Yes, I know that," Monk replied very quietly. "But it is the truth, and if you allow Rhys to be hanged for something of which he is not guilty, none of us can then undo that, or call him back from the gallows and the grave. There is a certain kind of freedom in the truth, whatever it is. At least your decisions are founded on reality.

You can learn to live with them.”

Rathbone looked at him closely. There was at once a pain and the beginning of a kind of peace in his face which he had not seen before.

His weariness held within it the possibility of rest.

"Yes," he agreed. "Thank you, Monk. You had better give me the names of these people, and all the details… and of course your account. You have done very well." Deliberately he blocked from his mind the thought of having to tell Hester what he now knew. It was sufficient for the night that he should work out his strategy for Rhys.

Rathbone worked until six in the morning, and after two hours' sleep, a hot bath and breakfast, he faced the courtroom again. There was no air of expectation. There were even some empty seats in the spectators' gallery. It had degenerated from high drama into simple tragedy. It was not interesting any more.

Rathbone had had messengers out all night. Monk was in court.

In the dock Rhys looked white and ill. He was obviously in physical pain as well as mental turmoil, although there was now an air of despair about him which made Rathbone believe he no longer hoped for anything except an end to his ordeal.

Sylvestra sat like a woman in a nightmare, unable to move or speak.

Beside her on one side was Fidelis Kynaston, on the other Eglantyne Wade. Rathbone was pleased she would not be alone, and yet possibly to have to hear the things she was going to in the company of friends would be harder. One might wish to absorb such shock in the privacy of solitude, where one could weep unobserved.

Yet everyone would know. It was not as if she could cover it, as one can some family secrets. Perhaps better they heard it in court than whispered, distorted by telling and re-telling. Either way, Rathbone had no choice in the matter. He had not told Sylvestra what he expected to uncover today. She was not his client, Rhys was. Anyway, he had had no time, no opportunity to explain to her what it was he knew, and he could not foresee what his witnesses would testify, he simply had nothing to lose on Rhys's behalf.

"Sir Oliver?" the judge prompted.

"My lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "The defence calls Mrs. Vida Hopgood.”

The judge looked surprised, but he made no remark. There was a slight stir of movement in the crowd.

Vida took the stand looking nervous, her chin high, her shoulders squared, her magnificent hair half hidden under her hat.

Rathbone began immediately. He was hideously unsure of her, but he had had no time to prepare. He was fighting for survival and there was nothing else.

"Mrs. Hopgood, what is your husband's occupation?”

"E 'as a fact'ry," she replied carefully. "Wot makes shirts an' the like.”

"And he employs women to sew these shirts… and the like?" Rathbone asked.

In the gallery someone tittered. It was nervousness. They could not be any more highly strung than he was.

"Yeah," Vida agreed.

Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet.

"Yes, Mr. Goode," the judge forestalled him. "Sir Oliver, has Mr.

Hopgood's occupation got anything to do with Mr. Duffs guilt or innocence in this case?”

"Yes, my lord," Rathbone replied without hesitation. "The women he employs are profoundly pertinent to the issue, indeed they are the true victims in this tragedy.”

There was a ripple of amazement around the room. Several of the jurors looked confused and annoyed.

In the dock Rhys moved position and a spasm of pain twisted his face.

The judge also seemed unhappy. "If you are going to demonstrate to the court that they were abused in some way, Sir Oliver, that will not help your client's cause. The fact that they can or cannot identify their assailants will distress them, and give you nothing. In fact it will only damage your client's sympathies still further. If it is your intention to plead insanity, then practical evidence is required, and of a very specific nature, as I am sure you know very well. You have pleaded "not guilty". Are you now wishing to change that plea?”

"No, my lord." Rathbone heard his words drop into a well of silence, and wondered if he had just made an appalling mistake. What was Rhys himself thinking of him? "No, my lord. I have no cause to believe that my client is not of sane mind.”

"Then proceed with questioning Mrs. Hopgood," the judge directed. "But come to your point as rapidly as you are able. I shall not allow you to waste the court's time and patience with delaying tactics.”

Rathbone knew how very close to the truth that charge was.

"Thank you, my lord," he said graciously, and turned back to Vida.

"Mrs. Hopgood, have you suffered a shortage of workers lately?”

"Yeah. Lot o' sickness," she replied. She knew what he wished. She was an intelligent woman, and articulate in her own fashion. "Or more like injury. Took me a fair bit o' argy-bargy, but I got it aht of 'em wot 'ad 'appened." She looked questioningly at Rathbone, and then, seeing his expression, continued with feeling. "They do a bit o' dolly mop stuff on the side… beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean takes the odd gent 'ere an' there teradd a bit extra… well their children is 'ungry, or the like.”

"We understand," Rathbone assured her, then explained for the jury.

"You mean they practise a little amateur prostitution, when times are particularly hard.”

"In't that wot I said? Yeah. Can't blame 'em, poor cows. "Oo's gonna watch their children starvin', and not do sum mink abaht it?

In't 'uman." She drew breath. "Like I said, some of 'em was doin' a bit on the side, like. Well, first orff they got cheated outa pay. Got no pimps ter look arter 'em, yer see." Her handsome face darkened with anger. "Then it got worse. These geezers don't on'y cheat, they started roughin' 'em up, knockin' 'em around, like. First it were just a bit, then it got worse." Her expression twisted till the anger and pain in it were stark to see. "Some of 'em got beat pretty bad, bones broke, teef an' noses broke, kicked some of 'em were. Some of 'em was on'y bits o' children their selves So I got a bit o' money tergether an' 'ired me self someone ter find out 'oo wos doin' it." She stopped abruptly, staring at Rathbone. "D'yer want meter say 'oo I got, an' wot 'e found?”

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hopgood," Rathbone replied. "You have laid an excellent foundation for us to discern from these poor women themselves what occurred. Just one more thing…”

"Yeah?”

"How many women do you know of who were beaten in this way?”

"In Seven Dials? Abaht twen'y-odd, as I knows of. They went on ter St. Giles "Thank you, Mrs. Hopgood," Rathbone interrupted. "Please tell us only your own experience.”

Goode rose again. "All we have heard so far is hearsay, my lord. Mrs.

Hopgood has not been a victim herself, and she has not mentioned Mr.

Rhys Duff. I have been extraordinarily patient, as was your lordship.

All this is tragic, and abhorrent, but completely irrelevant.”

"It is not irrelevant, my lord," Rathbone argued. "The prosecution's case is that Rhys Duff went to the area of St. Giles to use prostitutes there, and that his father followed him, chastised him for his behaviour, and in the resulting quarrel, Rhys killed his father, and was severely injured himself. Therefore what happened to these women is fundamental to the case.”

"I have not claimed that these unfortunate women were raped, my lord,”

Goode contradicted. "But if they were, then that only adds to the brutality of the accused's conduct, and the validity of the motive. No wonder his father charged him with grievous sin, and would have chastened him severely, possibly even threatened to turn him over to the law.”

Rathbone swung around to face him. "You have proved only that Rhys used a prostitute in the area of St. Giles. You have not proved violence of any sort against any women, in St. Giles, or in Seven Dials!”

"Gentlemen!" the judge said sharply. "Sir Oliver, if you are determined to prove this issue, then you had better be absolutely certain you are aiding your client's cause, and not further condemning him, but if you are satisfied, then prove your point. Proceed with dispatch.”

"Thank you, my lord." He dismissed Vida Hopgood, and one by one called half a dozen of the women of St. Giles whom Monk had found. He began with the earliest and least severely injured. The court sat in uncomfortable near-silence and listened to their pathetic tales of poverty, illness, desperation, journeys out on to the streets to pick up a few pence by selling their bodies, and the cheating, then the violence which had followed.

Rathbone loathed doing it. The women were grey-faced, almost inarticulate with fear, and in some cases also shame. They despised themselves for what they did, but need drove them. They hated standing in this handsome courtroom facing exquisitely gowned and wigged lawyers, the judge in his scarlet robes, and having to tell of their need, their humiliation and their pain.

Rathbone glanced at the jurors' faces and read a sense of different emotions in them. He watched how much their imaginations conceived of the lives that were being described. How many of them, if any, had used such women themselves? What did they feel now? Shame, anger, pity or revulsion? More than half of them looked up to the dock at Rhys whose face was twisted with emotion, but what aroused his anger it was impossible to say, or the revulsion which was so plain in his features.

Rathbone looked also at Sylvestra Duff and saw her lips puckered with horror as a world opened up in front of her beyond anything she had imagined, women whose lives were so utterly unlike her own they could have belonged to a different species. And yet they lived only a few miles away, in the same city. And her son had used them, could even, for all she knew, have begotten a child upon them.

Beside her Fidelis Kynaston looked pale, but less shocked. There was in her already a knowledge of pain, of the darker side of the world and those who lived in it. This was only a restatement of things she already knew.

On her other side, Eglantyne Wade was motionless as wave after wave of misery passed over her, things she had never imagined were rehearsed before her in sickening detail.

The following day the stories became more violent. The witnesses still carried the marks of beatings on their blackened and swollen faces, showed their broken teeth.

Ebenezer Goode hesitated before questioning each one. None of them recognised their assailants. Every brutal act only added to his case.

Why should he challenge any of it? To demonstrate that the women were prostitutes anyway was unnecessary. There was not a man or woman in the room who did not know it, and feel their own emotions regarding their trade and its place in society, or in their own personal lives. It was a subject of emotion rather than reason anyway. Words were only a froth on the surface of the deep tide of feeling.

A particular wave of revulsion and anger swelled when the thirteen-year-old Lily Barker testified, still nursing her dislocated shoulder. Haltingly she told Rathbone how both she and her sister had been beaten and kicked. She repeated the grunted words of abuse she had heard, and how she had tried to crawl away and hide in the dark.

Fidelis Kynaston looked so ashen Rathbone thought she suffered more in hearing it than Sylvestra beside her.

The judge leaned forward, his own face tight with distress.

"Have you not established all you need, Sir Oliver? Surely no more can be necessary. This is a horrifying matter of escalating violence and brutality. What more do you require to show us? Make your point!”

"I have one more victim of rape, my lord. This one was in St.

Giles.”

"Very well. I realise you need to establish that your assailants have moved into the relevant area. But make it brief.”

"My lord." Rathbone called the woman who had been raped and beaten on the night before Christmas Eve. Her face was bruised purple and swollen. She had difficulty speaking through her broken teeth. Slowly, her eyes closed as she refused to look at the people who were watching her as she rehearsed her terror and pain and humiliation. She began to describe being accosted by three men, how one of them had taken hold of her, how all three had laughed, then one had thrown her to the ground.

In the dock Rhys was grey-skinned, his eyes so hollow one could almost visualise the skull beneath the flesh. He leaned forward over the rail, his splinted hands stiff, shivering.

The woman described how she had been taunted by the men, called names.

One of them had kicked her, told her she was filth, should be got rid of, the human race cleansed of her sort.

In the dock Rhys started to bang his hands up and down on the railing.

One of the warders made a move to stop him, but the muscles of his body were knotted so hard he did not succeed. His face was a mask of pain.

No one else moved.

The woman in the witness stand went on speaking, slowly, each word forced between her lips. She told how they had knocked her over till she was crouching on the cobbles.

"They were 'and, an' wet," she said huskily. "Then one of'em leaned on top o' me. "E were 'cavy, and 'e smelled o' sum mink funny, sort o' sharp. One o' the others forced me knees up and tore me dress.

Then I felt 'im come in terme It was like I were tore inside. It 'urt sum mink terrible. I…”

She stopped, her eyes wide with horror as Rhys wrenched himself from the warders, his mouth gaping, his throat tortured with the sound it could not make, as if inside himself he screamed again and again.

A warder made a lunge after him and caught one arm. Rhys lashed at him, his face a paroxysm of terror and loathing. The other warder made a grab and missed. Rhys overbalanced, hysterical with fear, teetered for a moment on the high railing, then swivelled and fell over the edge.

A woman shrieked.

The jurors rose to their feet.

Sylvestra cried out his name and Fidelis clasped her arms around her.

Rhys landed with a sickening crash and lay still.

Hester was the first to move. She rose from her seat in the back of the gallery, on the edge of the row where she could be reached were she needed, and ran forward, falling on her knees beside him.

Then suddenly there was commotion everywhere. People were crying out, jostling one another. Others had been hurt, two of them badly. Press reporters were scrambling to force their way out to pass on the news.

Ushers were trying helplessly to restore some form of order. The judge was banging his gavel. Someone was shouting for a doctor for a woman whose leg had been broken by an overturned bench.

Rathbone swung around to make his way towards where Rhys was lying.

Where was Corriden Wade? Had he been seized to tend to the woman?

Rathbone did not even know if Rhys was still alive or not. With the height of the fall he could easily be dead. It is not difficult to break a neck. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it would be a merciful escape from a more prolonged and dreadful end.

Was it even suicide, in hearing the full horror of his crime told from the victim's view, her feelings of shame, humiliation, helplessness and pain? Was this the nearest he could come to some kind of redemption?

Was this Rathbone's final failure, or perhaps the only thing he had truly done for him?

Except that Rhys had not raped the woman! He had been playing cards with Lady Sandon. It was Leighton Duff who had first raped and then beaten her. Leighton Duff… and who else?

The uproar in the courtroom was overwhelming. People were shouting, trying to clear the way for a stretcher. Someone was screaming again and again, uselessly, hysterically. All around him people were pushing and shoving, trying to move one way or another.

Bent over Rhys's body, Hester, for one desperate moment, had the same thought that passed through Rathbone's mind… was this Rhys's escape at last from the pain of body which afflicted him, and from the greater agony of mind which haunted even his sleep? Was this the only peace he could find in a world which had become one long nightmare?

Then she touched him and knew he was still alive. She slid her hand under his head, feeling the thick hair. She felt the bone gently, exploring. There was no depression in the skull. She pulled her hand clear. There was no blood. His legs were twisted, but his spine was straight. As far as she could tell he was concussed, but not fatally injured.

Where was Corriden Wade? She looked up, peering around, and saw no one she recognised, but there was a huddle of people where the bench was overturned and someone was lying on the floor. Even Rathbone was beyond the crowd jostling beside and in front of her.

Then she saw Monk and felt a surge of relief. He was elbowing his way forward, angry, white-faced. He was shouting at someone. A large man clenched his fist and seemed intent on making a fight of it. Someone else began pulling at him. Two more women were crying for no apparent reason.

Monk finally forced his way through and knelt beside her.

"Is he alive?" he asked.

"Yes. But we've got to get him out of here," she responded, hearing her voice sharp with fear.

He looked down at Rhys who was still completely insensible. "Thank God he can't feel this," he said quietly. "I've sent the warder for one of those long benches. We could carry him on that.”

"We've got to get him to a hospital," she said desperately. "He can't stay in the cell! I don't know how badly he's hurt!”

Monk opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. One of the warders had come downstairs from the dock and was pushing people aside to reach Rhys.

"Poor devil," he said laconically. "Best for 'im if 'e'd killed is self but since 'e in't dead, we'll do for 'im what we can. "Ere, Miss, let me get 'im up onter the bench wot Tom's bringin'.”

"We'll take him to the nearest hospital," she said, rising shakily and only just avoiding falling over her own skirts.

"Sorry, Miss, but we gotta take 'im back to 'is cell. "E's a prisoner…”

"He's hardly going to escape!" she said furiously, all her helplessness and pain welling up in useless anger for a moment. "He's totally insensible, you fool! Look at him!”

"Yes, Miss," the warder said stolidly. "But the law is the law. We'll put 'im back in 'is cell, an' yer can stay wif 'im, if yer don' mind bein' locked in wif 'im? No doubt they'll send a doctor well they get one.”

"Of course I'll stay with him!" she choked. "And fetch Dr. Wade, immediately!”

"We'll try, Miss. Is there any fink as yer want for 'im? Water, like, or a little brandy? I'm sure as I could get a little brandy for yer.”

She controlled herself with an effort. The man was doing his best.

"Thank you. Yes, get me both water and brandy, please.”

The other warder appeared along with two more men carrying a wooden bench. With surprising gentleness they picked Rhys up and laid him on it, then carried it out of the courtroom, pushing past onlookers, and out through the doors and down the hallway toward the cells.

Hester followed, hardly aware of the people around her, of the curious stares and the mutters and calls. All she could think of was how badly was Rhys hurt, and why had he thrown himself over? Was it an accident as he tried to escape the warders, and they attempted to restrain him, or had he intended to kill himself? Had he lost every last vestige of hope?

Or had he been lying all the time, and he had both Mlled his father, and raped and beaten those women?

She refused to believe that… not unless and until she had to. As long as there was a nicker of any other possibility, she would cling to it. But what possibility? What other conceivable explanation was there? She racked her imagination and her memory.

Then one occurred to her, one so extreme and so horrible she stumbled as she followed the warders, and all but fell. She was shaking. She felt cold and sick, and her mind raced for any way at all in which she could learn if it were true, and prove it. And she knew why Rhys could not speak, why even if he could… he would not.

She ran a step or two to catch up with them, and as soon as they were at the cells she swung round to face the warders.

"Thank you. Bring me the brandy and water, then leave us alone. I will do what I can for him." It was a race against time. Dr. Wade, or some other physician, would be bound to come soon. If she was right, it must not be Corriden Wade. But she must know. Anyone interrupting what she now meant to do would be horrified. She might even be prosecuted. Certainly she would jeopardise her career. If it was Corriden Wade, she might even lose her life.

The warder disappeared, leaving the door open, and his companion waited just outside. How should she begin, to save time?

"Yer all right, Miss?”

"Yes, of course I am, thank you. I am a nurse. I have treated many injured men before. I shall just examine him to see where he is most seriously hurt. It will help the doctor when he comes. Where is the brandy? And the water? A little will do, just hurry!" Her hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry. She could feel her heart lurching and knocking in her chest.

Rhys was still completely unconscious. Once he stirred there would be nothing she could do. She must not ask the warder to hurry again, or he would become suspicious.

She unfastened Rhys's collar and took off his tie. She undid the buttons of his shirt and eased it open. Very gently she began to examine the upper part of his body. There were no bandages. There was little one could do for bruising, except ointment, such as arnica. The worst of it was beginning to heal now. The broken ribs were knitted well, even though she knew they still caused him pain, especially if he coughed, sneezed or turned badly in the bed.

Where was the warder with the brandy and the water? It seemed like ages since he had gone!

Carefully she unfastened the waist of his trousers. This was where his worst injuries were, the ones which Dr. Wade had treated, and not permitted her to see, for the sake of Rhys's modesty. She slipped the waist down a few inches, and saw the blue and purple bruising, now fading. The abrasions were still marked where he had been kicked, but the edges were yellowish and far paler. She could feel no bandaging.

"Miss!”

She froze. "Yes?”

"Water, Miss," the warder said quietly. "And a drop o' brandy. Is 'e 'urt bad?”

"I'm not sure yet. Thank you for these." She straightened up and took the dish of water from him, then the brandy. She set them on the small table. "Thank you very much. You can lock me in. I shall be perfectly all right. Come back and let me know when the doctor comes.

Knock on the door, if you will. I shall get him ready.”

"Yes, Miss. Yer sure yer all right? Yer look terrible pale. Mebbe yer should take a sip o' that brandy yerself?”

She tried to smile, and felt it sickly on her face. "Maybe. Thank you.”

"Right, Miss. You knock if yer need ter come out.”

"I will. Yes. Now I had better see what I can do for him. Thank you!”

At last he went and she was left alone. She swung around to Rhys and started immediately. There was no time to be lost. They could return with a doctor any moment. There was no way on earth she could explain what she was doing, if she were mistaken. It would probably ruin her, even if she were right, but could not prove it!

She pulled open his trousers and his underclothes, revealing his body as far as his thighs. There were no bandages at all, no plasters, no lint, no adhesives. There was only the most fearful bruising, as if he had been repeatedly kicked and punched. Sick in her stomach, she rolled him over to lie on his face, and began the examination which would tell her what she needed to know, although the slow trickle of blood even now, and the purplish and torn flesh was enough.

It took her only moments. Then with shaking hands, fumbling, fingers stiff, she pulled the clothes back up and rolled him over, almost knocking him off the narrow bench. She tried to fasten his trousers, but she had them crooked and they would not reach. She snatched his jacket and threw it over him, just as his eyes fluttered open.

"Rhys!" She choked on the word, the anguish inside her spilling out, her throat aching, her hands trembling and clumsy.

He gasped, drawing in his breath. He was fighting her, trying to lash out, force her away.

"Rhys!" She clung on to his arms, above the splints, her fingers digging into his flesh. "Rhys, I know what happened to you! It's not your fault! You are not the only one! I've known soldiers it happened to, brave men, fighting men!”

He started to shake, trembling so violently she could not keep him still, even holding him in her arms, the fierceness of his anger shook her too. He sobbed, great racking, desperate cries, and she rocked back and forth, her arms around him, her hand stroking his head.

It was not until she had been doing so for several minutes, time she could not count, that she realised she could hear him. He was weeping with a voice. Something in his despair, in the fall, or the knowledge that she knew, had returned his speech.

"Who was it?" she said urgently. "You must tell me!" Although she was certain with an aching coldness that she knew. There was only one explanation as to why no one had known before, why Corriden Wade had not told anyone, not told her, or Rathbone. It explained so much, Rhys's fear, his cruelty and rejection of his mother, his silence. She remembered with a sick pain the bell removed to the dresser, out of his reach.

"I'll protect you," she promised fiercely. "I'll see that the warders are with you all the time, or I will be, every moment, I swear. Now tell me!”

Slowly, in agonised and broken words, in a whisper as if he could not bear to hear it himself, he told her of the night his father died.

The door burst open and Corriden Wade came in, bag in his hand, his face haggard, his eyes dark and furious. The two warders were just behind him, looming awkwardly.

"What are you doing, Miss Latterly?" Wade demanded, staring at Rhys's white, strained face and wild eyes. "Leave me to my patient, please. He is obviously deeply distressed." He turned to the warders. "I shall need clean water, several bowls of it, and bandages.

Perhaps Miss Latterly can go and obtain those. She will be aware of my needs…”

"I think not," Hester said abruptly, moving to stand between Rhys and Wade. She looked at the warder. "Please will you fetch Sir Oliver Rathbone, immediately. Mr. Duff wants to make a statement. It is imperative you do this with all possible speed. I am sure you understand the urgency… and the importance.”

"Mr. Duff cannot speak!" Wade said with contempt. "This tragedy has obviously unnerved Miss Latterly, not surprisingly. Perhaps you had better take her out, see if you can…”

"Fetch Sir Oliver!" Hester repeated loudly, facing the warder. "Go!”

The man hesitated. The doctor's authority he understood. He would always obey a man before a woman, any woman.

"Fetch my lawyer," Rhys said hoarsely. "I want to make a statement, before I die!”

The blood drained from Wade's face.

The warder gasped. "Go get 'im, Joe," he said quickly. "I'll wait 'ere.”

The other warder turned on his heel and obeyed.

Hester stood without moving.

"This is preposterous!" Wade began, as if he would push his way past, but the warder took him by the shoulder. Medicine was beyond him, but dying statements he understood.

"Let go of me!" Wade commanded furiously.

"I'm sorry, sir," the warder said stiffly. "But we'll wait for the lawyer, afore we start any treatment on the prisoner. "E's well enough for now. The nurse 'ere saw ter 'im. You jus' stand 'ere patient, like, an' as soon as the lawyer's done 'is bit, you can treat all yer need.”

Wade opened his mouth as if to argue, and saw the futility of it. He stood as if trapped, with no hope of escape.

Rhys looked at Hester.

She smiled back at him, then turned and remained facing Wade and the warder. She felt sick with disillusion.

The minutes ticked by.

Rathbone came in, eyes wide, face flushed.

"I want…" Rhys began, then took a shuddering breath. "I want to tell you what happened…”

Silently, Corriden Wade turned and left, although there was nowhere now for him to go.

Court resumed in the afternoon. Rhys was not present, having been taken back to the hospital and put in the care of Dr. Riley, but under a police guard. He was still accused of a fearful crime.

The gallery was surprisingly empty. There were spare seats in every row. People had assumed that Rhys's pitch over the railing had been an attempt at suicide, and therefore a tacit admission of guilt. There was no longer any real interest. It was all over bar the verdict. The three women, Sylvestra Duff, Eglantyne Wade and Fidelis Kynaston, sat together, very clearly visible now. They did not look at each other, but there was a closeness in them, a silent companionship which was apparent to anyone who regarded them carefully.

The judge called the court to order and commanded Rathbone to proceed.

The jurors looked grim but resigned, as if their duty had been taken from them, and they were there only as a matter of form, but purposeless.

"Thank you, my lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "I call Mrs. Fidelis Kynaston.”

There was a murmur of surprise as Fidelis, white-faced, walked across the floor and climbed the steps. She took the oath and looked at Rathbone with her head high, but her hands on the railing were clenched, as if she needed its presence to support her.

"Mrs. Kynaston," he began gently. "Did you have a party in your home on the night before Christmas Eve?”

She had known what he was going to say. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. "Yes.”

"Who was present?”

"My two sons, Rhys Duff, Lady Sandon, Rufus Sandon and myself.”

"At what time did Rhys Duff leave your house?”

"About two o'clock in the morning.”

There was a sudden rustle of sound in the gallery. One of the jurors started forward.

"Are you certain as to the time, Mrs. Kynaston?" Rathbone pressed.

"I am positive," she replied, looking straight ahead at him as if he were an executioner. "If you were to ask Lady Sandon, or any of my household staff, they would tell you the same thing.”

"So the men who raped the unfortunate woman in St. Giles at around midnight could not possibly have included Rhys Duff?”

"No…" she swallowed, her throat tight. "They could not.”

"Thank you, Mrs. Kynaston, that is all I have to ask you.”

Goode considered for a moment or two, then declined his opportunity.

Rathbone called the cabby, Joseph Roscoe.

Roscoe described the man he had seen leaving St. Giles, his hands and face smeared with blood. Rathbone produced a picture of Leighton Duff, and showed it to him.

"Is this the man you saw?”

Roscoe did not hesitate. "Yes, sir, that's 'im.”

"My lord, this is a likeness of Leighton Duff, whom Mr. Roscoe has identified.”

He got no further. The noise in the court was like the backwash of the sea. Sylvestra sat frozen, her face a mask of blank, unbelieving horror. Beside her Eglantyne Wade supported her weight. Fidelis was rigid, still staring at the cab driver.

The jurors stared from the witness to Rathbone, and back again.

The judge was grave and deeply disturbed. "Are you certain of your ground, Sir Oliver? Are you claiming that Leighton Duff, not Rhys Duff, was the rapist in all these fearful cases?”

"Yes, my lord," Rathbone said with conviction. "Leighton Duff was one of three. Rhys Duff had nothing to do with them. He did indeed go to St. Giles, and there use the services of a prostitute. But he paid the price asked, and he exercised no violence whatever. It is a practice about which we may all have our moral judgements, but it is not a crime, and it is certainly not rape, nor is it murder.”

"Then who murdered Leighton Duff, Sir Oliver? He did not commit suicide. It seems apparent he and Rhys fought, and Rhys survived while he did not.”

"I shall explain, my lord, with your permission.”

"You must do more than explain, Sir Oliver, you must prove it to this court and this jury, beyond a reasonable doubt.”

"That is what I intend, my lord. To that end I call Miss Hester Latterly to the stand.”

There was a slight stir of interest. Heads craned as Hester walked across the floor and up the steps, faced Rathbone and took the oath.

"What is your occupation, Miss Latterly?" Rathbone began almost conversationally.

"I am a nurse.”

"Do you presently have a patient?”

"Yes. I have been employed to nurse Rhys Duff since he returned from the hospital after the incident in Water Lane.”

"Was there also a doctor in attendance?”

"Dr. Corriden Wade. He has been the family physician for many years, I understand.”

The judge leaned forward. "Please restrict yourself to what you know, Miss Latterly.”

"I'm sorry, my lord.”

"Have you any experience in the army of men injured in the same manner and degree as Rhys Duff was, Miss Latterly?”

"Yes. I nursed many injured soldiers in Scutari.”

There was a murmur of approval around the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded.

"Did you treat his injuries yourself, or merely nurse him, keep him clean, feed him, attend to his wants?" Rathbone must be careful how he phrased his questions. So far no one else seemed to have the slightest idea what he was seeking to prove. He must not lead her, neither must he leave any doubt in their minds, once he had shown them the truth.

Goode was listening intently.

"I treated those wounds above the waist," Hester replied. "They were bruises, very severe, and the broken bones in his hands, and two broken ribs. There was very little to be done for them. The injuries below the waist Dr. Wade told me he bandaged. This was for the sake of Mr.

Duffs sensibilities.”

"I see. So you never observed them yourself?”

"That is correct.”

"But you accepted Dr. Wade's word for their nature and degree, and that they were healing as well as could be expected?”

"Yes.”

The judge leaned forward again. "Sir Oliver, do the nature or site of Mr. Duffs wounds have any relevance to whether he was responsible for his father's death? I admit, I fail to see it!”

"Yes, my lord, they do." Rathbone turned to Hester. "Miss Latterly, was Mr. Duff subject to any unusual degree of emotional turmoil during the time you cared for him?”

Goode rose to his feet. "My lord, Miss Latterly did not know Mr. Duff before the tragedy. She cannot know if his distress was usual or not.”

The judge looked at Rathbone. "Sir Oliver? Mr. Goode's point is a fair one.”

"My lord, I meant was he subject to emotions extraordinary in a man in his condition. Miss Latterly has nursed many men severely injured. I think she is in a better position than almost anyone else to know what to expect.”

"I agree." The judge nodded. "You may answer, Miss Latterly.”

"Yes, my lord. Rhys had the most appalling nightmares when he would try to cry out, beat his arms, even though his hands were broken and it must have caused him fearful pain, and he would try to scream. And yet when he was awake, he refused absolutely to respond to questions about the incident, and became extremely distressed, to the point of violent reaction against people, especially his mother, when any pressure was placed upon him.”

"And what did you conclude from that?" Rathbone asked.

"I did not conclude anything. I was puzzled. I… I feared perhaps he had indeed killed his father, and the memory of it was unbearable to him.”

"Are you still of that opinion?”

"No…”

"Why not?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

In the courtroom no one moved. Goode was frowning, listening to her intently.

"Because when I saw him fall, this morning," she replied, "I remembered for an instant something I had learned of in the army. It seemed too appalling to be true, but in his cell, where they carried him, I was alone with him for several minutes before the doctor came. I made a very brief examination of his injuries… below the waist." She stopped. Her face was filled with pain.

Rathbone wished he did not have to make her say this, but there was no possible alternative.

She saw it in his eyes, and did not flinch.

"He had been raped," she said very quietly, but very clearly. "Rhys was the rapists' last victim.”

There was a gasp, and then utter silence except for a moan from Sylvestra as such pain of mind tore through her as was beyond bearing.

"Rhys and his father quarrelled because Rhys knew a little of what was happening. His father had criticised him for using prostitutes, and the hypocrisy of it infuriated him, but for his mother's sake he could not be open about it. He flung out of the house and went to St. Giles.

By chance, so did his father.”

She took a breath and her voice became huskier.

"The three of them set on him in Water Lane," she went on, and although it was hearsay, Goode did not interrupt her. His extraordinary face was creased with horror. "They knocked him down and raped him," she continued, 'as they had done the women, and perhaps other young men. We may never know. Then as he struggled and cried out, one of them stopped, realising who he was… it was Leighton Duff, who had just raped and beaten his own son." Her voice was hoarse. "He attempted to defend him from further beating, but his companions had gone too far to retreat. If they let him live, he would stand to accuse them. It was they who killed Leighton Duff, and who believed they had killed Rhys.”

Eglantyne Wade sat helplessly. Fidelis held Sylvestra and rocked her back and forth oblivious of the crowd whose pity welled around them.

"How can you possibly know this, Miss Latterly?" Rathbone asked.

"Because Rhys has regained his speech," she answered. "He told me.”

"And did he know the names of his other assailants?”

"Yes… it was Joel Kynaston, his old headmaster, and Corriden Wade, his physician. That was partial reason why he could not even attempt to tell anyone what had happened to him. The other part was his total shame and humiliation.”

Eglantyne's head jerked up, her eyes wide, her skin ashen. She seemed to choke for breath. There was no outward change in Fidelis, as if in her heart she was not surprised.

"Thank you, Miss Latterly." Rathbone turned towards the judge, about to make a plea, and then stopped. The judge's face was engraved with a horror and pity so deep the sight of it shocked.

Rathbone looked at the jurors, and saw the same emotions mirrored in them, except for the four whose disbelief could not grasp such a thing.

Rape happened to women, loose women who invited it. It did not happen to a man… any man! Men were inviolable… at least in the intimacy of their bodies. The horror and incomprehension left them stunned. They sat staring blindly, almost unaware of the room around them, or of the strange, shifting silence in the gallery.

Rathbone looked at Sylvestra Duff. She was so white she looked barely alive. Eglantyne Wade sat with her head bowed forward, her face covered by her hands. Only Fidelis Kynaston moved. She still held Sylvestra, moving very slightly back and forth. She seemed to be saying something to her, bending close to her. Her expression was tender, as if in this last agony she would bear some of it for her, share both their burdens.

"Have you anything further to add, Sir Oliver?" The judge broke the silence.

"No, my lord," Rathbone answered. "If anyone has doubts, I will have further medical evidence obtained, but I would very much rather not subject Mr. Duff to any more pain or distress than he has already suffered. He has sworn a statement as to what happened in Water Lane the night of his father's death. No doubt there will be further trials at which he will be required to testify, which will be ordeal enough, should he recover sufficiently both his health and his balance of mind.

In the meantime, I am willing to rest on Miss Latterly's word.”

The judge turned to Ebenezer Goode.

Goode rose to his feet, his face grave. "I am familiar with Miss Latterly's nursing experience, my lord. If she will verify for the court upon what she bases her judgement, apart from Mr. Duffs word, I will abide by that.”

The judge turned to Hester.

With a bare minimum of words, very quietly to a silent court, she described the bruising and the tearing she had seen, and likened it to other such injuries she had treated in the Crimea, and what the soldiers themselves had told her.

She was thanked and excused. She returned to the body of the court feeling too numb with pity to be more than dimly aware of the press of people near her. She did not even move immediately when she felt a man close to her, and an arm around her.

"You did the right thing," Monk said gently, holding her with surprising strength, as if he would support her weight. "You could not change the truth by concealing it.”

"Some truths are better not known," she whispered back.

"I don't think so, not truths like this. They are only better learned at certain times and in certain ways.”

"What about Sylvestra? How will she bear it?”

"Little by little, a day at a time, and by knowing that whatever is built upon now will last, because it stands on reality, not on lies.

You cannot make her brave, that is something no one can do for someone else." He stopped, still holding her close.

"But why?" she said almost to herself. "Why did they risk everything to do something so… pointless?" And even as she said it remarks of Wade's came back to her, with utterly different meaning now, remarks about nature refining the race by winnowing out the unfit, the morally inferior. And she remembered Sylvestra's stories of Leighton Duffs love of danger in his steeple chasing days, the excitement of risks, the elation of having taken a chance, and beaten the odds. "What about Kynaston?" she whispered to Monk.

"Power," he replied. "The power to terrify and humiliate. Perhaps the righteous image he created for his pupils' parents was more than he could endure. We'll probably never know. Frankly I don't care. I'm a damned sight more concerned for the families they leave to struggle on… for Sylvestra and Rhys.”

"I think Fidelis Kynaston will help," she replied. "They will help each other. And perhaps Miss Wade too. They all have something appalling to face.”

"Perhaps they will go to India?" she thought aloud. "All of them, when Rhys is better. They couldn't stay here.”

"Maybe," he agreed. "Although it is amazing what you can face, if you have to." He would tell her about Runcorn some other time, later on, when they were alone and it was more appropriate.

"They'd like India," she insisted. "There is a great need for people out there who know something about nursing, especially women. I read it in Amalia's letters.”

"Do they know anything about nursing?" he asked with a smile.

"They could learn!”

He smiled more widely, but she did not see it.

The jury declined to retire. They returned a verdict of 'not guilty'.

Hester slid her hand into Monk's, and leaned even closer to him.