The Silent Cry

Chapter Five

Evan found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw a likeness of both Leighton Duff and Rhys, and he and Shotts had taken them around the area of St. Giles to see if anyone recognised them. Surely two men, a generation apart, would of itself be something noticeable. They had tried pawnbrokers, brothels and bawdy houses, inns and lodging rooms, gambling dens, gin mills even the attics high on the rooftops under the skylights where forgers worked, and the massive cellars below, where fencers of stolen goods stored their merchandise. No one showed the slightest recognition. Not even promise of reward could elicit anything worth having.

"Mebbe it were the first time they came?" Shotts said dismally, pulling his collar up against the falling snow. It was nearly dark.

They were walking, heads down into the wind, leaving St. Giles behind them and turning north towards Regent Street and the traffic and lights again. "I dunno 'oo else terask.”

"Do you think they are lying?" Evan said thoughtfully. "It would be natural enough, since Duff was murdered. No one wants to get involved with murder.”

"No." Shotts nimbly avoided a puddle. A vegetable cart rattled by them, its driver hunched under half a blanket, the snow beginning to settle on the brim of his high black hat. "I know when at least some o' them weasels is lyin'. Mebbe they did come 'ere by accident -got lorst!”

Evan did not bother to reply. The suggestion was not worthy of one.

They crossed George Street. The snow was falling faster, settling white on some of the roofs, but the pavements were still wet and black, showing broken reflections of the gaslights and the carriage lamps as the horses passed by at a brisk trot, eager to get home.

"Maybe they don't recognise them because we are asking the wrong questions," Evan mused, half to himself.

"Yeah?" Shotts kept pace with him easily. "What are the right ones, then?”

"I don't know. Perhaps Rhys went there with friends his own age.

Afterall, one doesn't usually go whoring with one's father! Maybe that is what put people off, the older man.”

"Mebbe," Shotts said doubtfully. "Want meter try?”

"Yes… unless you can think of something better? I'm going to the station. It's time I reported to Mr. Runcorn.”

Shotts grinned. "Sooner you'n me, sir. "E won't be 'appy. I'll get sum mink ter eat, then I'll go an' try again.”

Runcorn was a tall, well-built man with a lean face and very steady blue eyes. His nose was long and his cheeks a little hollow, but in his youth he had been good-looking, and now he was an imposing figure.

He could have been even more so, had he the confidence to bear himself with greater ease. He sat in his office behind his large, leather, inlaid desk and surveyed Evan with wariness.

"Well?”

"The Leighton Duff case, sir," Evan replied, still standing. "I am afraid we do not seem to be progressing. We can find no one in St.

Giles who ever saw either of the two men before…”

"Or will admit to it," Runcorn agreed.

"Shotts believes them," Evan said defensively, aware that Runcorn thought he was too soft. It was partly his vague, unspecific anger at a young man of Evan's background choosing to come into the police force. He could not understand it. Evan was a gentleman, something Runcorn both admired and resented. He could have chosen all sorts of occupations, if he had not the brains or the inclination to go up to university and follow one of the professions. If he needed to make his living, then he could quite easily have gone into a bank or a trading house of some description.

Evan had not explained to him that a country parson, with an ailing wife and several daughters to marry, could not afford expensive tuition for their only son. One did not discuss such things. Anyway, the police force interested him. He had begun idealistically. He had not a suit of armour or a white horse, he had a quick mind and good brown boots. Some of the romance had gone, but the energy and the desire had not. He had that much at least in common with Monk.

"Does he?" Runcorn said grimly. "Then you'd better get back to the family. Widow, and the son who was there and can't speak, that right?”

"Yes, sir.”

"What's she like, the widow?" His eyes opened wider. "Could it be a conspiracy of some sort? Son got in the way, perhaps? Wasn't meant to be there, and had to be silenced?”

"Conspiracy?" Evan was astonished. "Between whom?”

"That's for you to find out!" Runcorn said testily. "Use your imagination! Is she handsome?”

"Yes… very, in an unusual sort of way…”

"What do you mean, unusual? What's wrong with her? How old is she?

How old was he?”

Evan found himself resenting the implications.

"She's very dark, sort of Spanish-looking. There's nothing wrong with her, it's just… unusual.”

"How old?" Runcorn repeated.

"About forty, I should think." The thought had never occurred to him until Runcorn had mentioned it, but it should have. It was obvious enough, now that it was there. The whole crime might have nothing to do with St. Giles, that may have been no more than a suitable place.

It could as easily have been any other slum, any alley or yard in a dozen such areas, just somewhere to leave a body where it would be believed to be an attack by ruffians. It was sickening. Of course Rhys was never meant to have been there, his presence was mischance.

Leighton Duff had followed him, and been caught up with… but that did not need to be true either! He had only Sylvestra's word for that.

The two men could have gone out at any time, separately or together, for any reason. He must consider it independently before he accepted it to be the truth. Now he was angry with himself. Monk would never have made such an elementary mistake!

Runcorn let out his breath in a sigh. "You should have thought of that, Evan," he said reprovingly. "You think everybody who speaks well belongs in your country vicarage!”

Evan opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

Runcorn's remark was unfair, but it sprang not from fact, or not primarily, but from his own complex feelings about gentlemen, and about Evan himself. At least some of it stemmed from the long relationship with Monk, and the rivalry between them, the years of unease, of accumulated of fences which Monk could not remember, and Runcorn never forgot. Evan did not know the origin of it, but he had seen the clash of ideals and natures when he first came, after Monk's accident, and he had been here when the final and blazing quarrel had severed the tie, and Monk had found himself out of the police force. Like every other man in the station, he was aware of the emotions. He had been Monk's friend, therefore he could never truly be trusted by Runcorn, and never liked without there always being a reservation.

"So what have you got?" Runcorn asked abruptly. Evan's silence bothered him. He did not understand him, he did not know what he was thinking.

"Very little," Evan answered ruefully. "Leighton Duff died somewhere about three in the morning, according to Dr. Riley. Could have been earlier or later. He was beaten and kicked to death, no weapon used, except fists and boots. Young Rhys Duff was almost as badly beaten, but he survived.”

"I know that! Evidence, man!" Runcorn said impatiently, curling his fist on the desk top. "What evidence have you? Facts, objects, statements, witnesses that can be believed!”

"No witnesses to anything, except finding the bodies," Evan replied stiffly. There were moments when he wished he had Monk's speed of mind to retaliate, but he did not want the ordinary man on the beat to fear him, only respect. "No one admits to having seen either man, separately or together, in St. Giles.”

"Cabbies!" Runcorn said, his eyebrows raised. "They didn't walk there.”

"We're trying. Nothing so far.”

"You haven't got very much!" Runcorn's face was plainly marked with contempt. "You'd better have another look at the family. Look at the widow. Don't let elegance blind you. Maybe the son knows his mother's nature, and that's why he's so horrified that he cannot speak!”

Evan thought of Rhys's expression as he had looked at Sylvestra, of his flinching from her when she moved to touch him. It was a repellent thought.

"I'm going to do that," he said reluctantly. "I'm going to look into his friends and associates more closely. He may have been seeing a woman in that area, perhaps a married woman, and her male relatives may have taken offence at his treatment of her.”

Runcorn let out a sigh. "Possible," he concluded. "What about the father? Why attack him?”

"Because he was a witness to the scene, of course," Evan replied with a lift of satisfaction.

Runcorn looked at him sharply.

"And another thing, sir," Evan went on. "Monk has been hired to look into a series of very violent rapes across in Seven Dials.”

Runcorn's blue eyes narrowed. "Then he's more of a fool than I took him for! If ever there were a profitless exercise, that is it!”

"Have we any reports that might help?”

"Help Monk?" Runcorn said with disbelief.

"Help solve the crime, sir," Evan answered with only a hint of sarcasm.

"I can solve it for you now!" Runcorn stood up. He was at least three inches taller than Evan, and considerably more solid. "How many were there? Half a dozen?" He ticked off on his fingers. "One was a drunken husband. One was a pimp taking his revenge for a little liberty turned licence. At least two were dissatisfied clients, probably too drunk. One was an amateur who changed her mind and wanted more money when it was too late. And probably one was drunk herself and fell over, and can't remember what happened.”

"I disagree, sir," Evan said coldly. "I think Monk can tell the difference between a woman who was raped and beaten, and one who fell over because she was drunk.”

Runcorn glared at him. He was standing beside the bookshelf of morocco-bound volumes in a variety of profound subjects, including philosophy.

Evan had used Monk's name and the memory of his skill, quicker, sharper than Runcorn's, on purpose. He was angry and it was the easiest weapon. But even as he did it, he wondered what had started the enmity between the two. Had it really been no more than a difference of character, or beliefs?

"If Monk thinks he can prove rape of half a dozen part-time prostitutes in Seven Dials, he's lost the wits he used to have," Runcorn said with a flush of satisfaction under his anger. "I knew he'd come to nothing after he left here! Private agent of enquiry, indeed! He's no good for anything but a policeman, and now he's no good even for that." His eyes were bright with satisfaction and there was a half-smile on his lips. "He's come right down in the world, hasn't he, our Monk, if he's reduced to running after prostitutes in Seven Dials! Who's going to pay him?”

Evan felt a tight, hard knot of rage inside him.

"Presumably someone who cares just as much about poor women as rich ones!" he said with his teeth clenched. "And who doesn't believe it will do them any good appealing to the police.”

"Someone who's got more money than brains, Sergeant Evan," Runcorn retorted, a flush of anger blotching his cheeks. "And if Monk were an honest man, and not a desperate one trying to scrape any living he can, no matt erat whose expense, then he'd have told them there's nothing he can do!" He jerked one hand dismissively. "He'll never find who did it, if anything was done. And if he did find them, who's to prove it was rape, and not a willing one that got a bit rough? And even supposing all of that, what's a court going to do? When was a man ever hanged or gaoled for taking a woman who sells her body anyway? And at the end of it all, what difference would it make to Seven Dials?”

"What difference is one death more or less to London?" Evan demanded, leaning towards him, his voice thick. "Not much unless it's yours then it makes all the difference in the world!”

"Stay with what you can do something about, Sergeant," Runcorn said wearily. "Let Monk worry about rape and Seven Dials, if he wants to.

Perhaps he has nothing else, poor devil. You have. You're a policeman, with a duty. Go and find out who murdered Leighton Duff, and why. Then bring me proof of it. There'd be some point in that!”

"Yes, sir." Evan replied so sharply it was almost one word, then swivelled on his heel and went out of the room, the anger burning inside him.

The following morning when he set out for Ebury Street he was still turning over in his mind his conversation with Runcorn. Of course Runcorn was right to consider the possibility that Sylvestra was at the heart of it. She was a woman of more than beauty, there was a gravity, a mystery about her, an air of something different and undiscovered which was far more intriguing than mere perfection of form or colouring. It was something which might fascinate for a lifetime, and last even when the years had laid their mark on physical loveliness.

Evan should have thought of it himself, and it had never crossed his mind.

He walked part of the way. It was not an unpleasant morning, and his mind worked more clearly if he exerted some effort of body. He strode along the pavement in the crisp, frost-sharpened air. There were rims of white along the roofs where the snow had remained, and curls of smoke rose from chimneys almost straight up. At the edge of Hyde Park the bare trees were black against a white sky, the flat winter light seeming almost shadowless.

He must learn a great deal more about Leighton Duff; what manner of man had he been? Could this, after all be a crime of passion or jealousy, and not a random robbery at all? Was Rhys's presence there simply the most appalling mischance?

And how much of what Sylvestra said was the truth? Was her grief and confusion for her son, and not for her husband at all? Evan must learn very much more of her life, her friends, especially those who were men, and who might possibly now court a fascinating and quite comfortably situated widow. Dr. Wade was the first and most apparent place to begin.

It was a thought which repelled him, and he shivered as he crossed Buckingham Palace Road, running the last few steps to get out of the way of a carriage turning from the mews off Stafford Place. It went past him at a smart clip, harness jingling, horses' hooves loud on the stones, their breath steaming in the icy air.

The other questions which lay unresolved at the back of the mind concerned his relationship with Runcorn. There were many occasions when he saw a side of him he almost liked, at least a side he could understand and feel for. His aspirations to better himself were such as any man might have, most particularly one from a very ordinary background, a good-looking man whose education was unremarkable, but where intelligence and ability were greater than his opportunities would allow. He had chosen the police as a career where avenues were open for him to exercise his natural gifts, and he had done so with great success. He was not a gentleman born, nor had he the daring and the confidence to bluff his way, as Monk had.

He lacked the grace, the quick-witted ness or the model from whom to learn. Evan thought that very possibly he had received little encouragement from whatever family he possessed. They might see him as being ashamed of his roots, and resent him accordingly.

And he had never married. There must be a story to that. Evan wondered if it were financial. Many men felt they could not afford a home fit for a wife, and the almost certain family which would follow.

Or had it been emotional, a woman who had refused him, or perhaps who had died young, and he had not loved again? Probably Evan would never know, but the possibilities lent a greater humanity to a man whose temper and whose weakness he saw, as well as his competence and his strengths.

He stood on the kerb waiting for the traffic to ease so he could cross the corner at Grosvenor Street. A newspaper seller was calling out headlines about the controversial book published last year by Charles Darwin. A leading bishop had expressed horror and condemnation.

Liberal and progressive thinkers disagreed with him and labelled him reactionary and diehard. The murder in St. Giles was forgotten. There was a brazier on the corner and a man selling roasted chestnuts, and warming his hands at the fire.

There was congestion at the junction of Eccleston Street and Belgrave Road. Two dray men were in a heated discussion. Evan could hear their raised voices from where he stood. The traffic all ground to a halt, and he went across the street, dodging fresh horse droppings, pungent in the cold air. He was a short block from Ebury Street.

The worst of Runcorn, the times he descended into spite, were when Monk's name, or by implication his achievements, were mentioned. There was a shadow between them far deeper than the few clashes Evan had witnessed, or the final quarrel when Monk had left, simultaneously with Runcorn dismissing him.

Monk no longer understood it. It was gone with all the rest of his past, returning only in glimpses and unconnected fragments, leaving him to guess, and fear the rest. Evan would almost certainly never know, but it was there in his mind when he saw the weakness and the vulnerability in Runcorn.

He reached Ebury Street and knocked on the door of number thirty-four.

He was met by the maid, Janet, who smiled at him a slight uncertainty, as if she liked him, but knew his errand only too painfully. She showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while she discovered if Mrs. Duff would see him.

However, when the door opened it was Hester who came in quickly, closing it behind her. She was wearing blue, her hair dressed a little less severely than usual, and she looked flushed, but with vitality rather than fever or any embarrassment. He had always liked her, but now he thought perhaps she was also prettier than he had realised before, softer, more openly feminine. That was another thing he wondered about Monk, why he quarrelled with her so much? He would be the last man on earth to admit it, but perhaps that was exactly why, he could not afford, he did not dare, to see her as she really was!

"Good morning, Hester," he said, informally, echoing his thoughts rather than his usual manners.

"Good morning, John," she answered with a smile, a touch of amusement in it as well as friendship.

"How is Mr. Duff?”

The laughter vanished from her eyes, and even the light in her face seemed to fade.

"He is very poorly still. He has the most dreadful nightmares. He had another again last night. I don't even know how to help him.”

"There is no question he saw what happened to his father," he said regretfully. "If only he could tell us!”

"He can't!" she said instantly.

"I know he can't speak, but…”

"No! You can't ask him," she interrupted. "In fact it would be better if you did not even see him. Really I am not being obstructive. I would like to know who murdered Leighton Duff, and also did this to him, as much as you would. But his recovery has to be my chief concern." She looked at him earnestly. "It has to be, John, regardless of anything else. I could not conceal a crime, or knowingly tell you anything that was not true, but I cannot allow you to cause him the distress and the real damage it may do if you try in any way at all to bring back to his mind what he saw and felt. And if you had witnessed his nightmares as I have, you would not argue with me." Her eyes were dark with her own distress, her face pinched with it, and he knew her well enough to read in her expression far more than she said.

"And Dr. Wade has forbidden it," she added. "He has seen his injuries and knows the damage further hysteria on his part might cause. They could be torn open so easily, were he to wrench his body around, or move suddenly or violently.”

"I understand," he conceded, trying not to imagine too vividly the horror and the pain, and finding it hideously real. "I came principally to report to Mrs. Duff.”

Her eyes widened. "Have you found something?" She remained curiously still, and for a moment he thought she was afraid of the answer.

"No." That was not totally true. She had not asked him openly, but had he been honest to the question which was understood between them, he would have said he had learned new suspicions about Sylvestra.

He had returned not because of a discovery, but a realisation. "I wish there were new facts," he went on. "It's only a matter of trying better to understand the old ones.”

"I can't help you," she said quietly. "I'm not even sure whether I want you to find the truth. I have no idea what it is, except that Rhys cannot bear it.”

He smiled at her, and all the memory of past tragedies and horrors they had known was there with its emotion, for an instant shared.

Then the door opened and Sylvestra came in. She looked at Hester with dark eyebrows lifted in question.

"Miss Latterly says that Mr. Duff is not well enough to be spoken to,”

Evan explained. "I am sorry. I had hoped he was better for his own sake, as well as for the truth.”

"No… he's not," Sylvestra said quickly, relief filling her face, and a softening of gratitude towards Hester. "I'm afraid he still cannot help.”

"Perhaps you can, Mrs. Duff." Evan was not going to allow her to close him out. "Since I cannot speak with Mr. Duff, I shall have to speak with his friends. Some of them may know something which can tell us why he went to St. Giles, and whom he knew there.”

Hester went out silently.

"I doubt it," Sylvestra said almost before Evan had finished speaking, then seemed to regret her haste, not as having said something untrue, but as tactically mistaken. "I mean… at least I don't think so. If they did, surely they would have come forward by now? Arthur Kynaston was here yesterday. If he or his brother had known anything at all, they would surely have told us.”

"If they realise the relevance," Evan said persuasively, as if he had not thought she was being evasive. "Where may I find them?”

"Oh… the Kynastons live in Lowndes Square, number seventeen.”

"Thank you. I dare say they can tell me of any other friends whose company they kept from time to time." He made his tone casual. "Who would know your husband in his leisure hours, Mrs. Duff? I mean, who else might frequent the same clubs, or have the same hobbies or interests?”

She said nothing, staring at him with wide, black eyes. He tried to read in them what she was thinking, and failed completely. She was different from any woman he had seen before. There was a composure to her, a mystery, which filled his mind even when he had thought he was concentrating on something else, some utterly different aspect of the case. He would never understand her until he knew a great deal more about Leighton Duff, what manner of man he had been: brave or cowardly, kind or cruel, honest or deceitful, loving or cold. Had he had wit, charm, gentleness, imagination? Had she loved him, or had it been a marriage of convenience, workable, but without passion? Had there even been friendships in it, or trust?

"Mrs. Duff?”

"I suppose Dr. Wade and Mr. Kynaston principally," she replied.

"There are many others, of course. I think he had interests in common with Mr. Milton, in his law partnership, and Mr. Hodge. He spoke of a James Wellingham once or twice, and he wrote to a Mr. Phillips quite regularly.”

"I'll speak with them. Perhaps I may see the letters?" He had no idea what possible use they could be, but he must try everything.”

"Of course." She seemed perfectly at ease with the idea. If Runcorn were right, her lover did not lie in that direction. He could not help thinking again of Corriden Wade.

He spent a profitless morning reading agreeable but essentially tedious correspondence from Mr. Phillips, largely on the subject of toxophily.

He left and went to the law office of Cullingford, Duff and Partners where he learned that Leighton Duff was a brilliant man in his chosen career, and the driving force behind the success of the concern. His rise from junior to effective leader had been almost without hindrance.

Everyone spoke well of his ability, and was concerned for the continued pre-eminence of the company in its field, now he was no longer with them.

If there were envy or personal malice Evan did not see it. Perhaps he was too easily persuaded. Possibly he lacked Monk's sharper, harder mind, but he saw in the replies of his associates nothing more sinister than respect for a colleague, a decent observance for the etiquette of speaking no ill of the dead, and a lively fear for their own future prosperity. Apparently they had not been socially acquainted, and none of them claimed to know the widow. He could catch them in no evasion, let alone untruth.

He left feeling he had wasted his time. All he had learned had confirmed his earlier picture of Leighton Duff as a clever, hard-working and eminently, almost boringly decent man. The side of his character which took him to St. Giles, for whatever reason, was perfectly hidden from his partners in the law. If they suspected anything, they did not allow Evan to see it.

But then if a gentleman took occasional release for his natural carnal appetites, it was certainly not a matter to be displayed before the vulgar and the inquisitive, and Evan knew that in their minds the police would fall into both those categories.

It was after four o'clock and already dusk with the lamp lighters hurrying to the last few before it was too late, when Evan arrived at the home of Joel Kynaston, friend of Leighton Duff, and headmaster i in of the excellent school at which Rhys had obtained his education. He did not live on the school premises, but in a fine Georgian house about a quarter of a mile away.

The door was opened by a rather short butler, straightening to stand up to every fraction of his height.

"Yes, sir?" He must be used to parents of pupils turning up at unexpected hours. He showed no surprise at all, except perhaps at Evan's comparative youth as he stepped into the light.

"Good afternoon. My name is John Evan. I would very much appreciate speaking confidentially with Mr. Kynaston. It is in regard to the recent tragic death of Mr. Leighton Duff." He did not give his rank or occupation.

"Indeed, sir," the butler said without expression. "I shall inquire if Mr. Kynaston is at home. If you will be so good as to wait.”

It was the customary polite fiction. Kynaston would have expected someone to call. It was surely inevitable. He would be prepared in his mind. If he had anything relevant he was willing to say, he would have sought out Evan himself.

He looked around the hallway where he had been left. It was elegant, a trifle cold in its lack of personal touches. The umbrella stand held only sticks and umbrellas of one character, one length. Such ornaments as there were, were all of finely wrought brass, possibly Arabic, beautiful but lacking the variety of objects collected by a family over a period of years. Even the pictures on the walls spoke of one taste.

Either Kynaston and his wife were remarkably alike in their choices, or one person's character prevailed over the other.

But the man who came out of the double oak doors of the withdrawing room was not more than twenty-two or three. He was handsome, if a little undershot of jaw, had fair hair which curled attractively, and bold direct blue eyes.

"I'm Duke Kynaston, Mr. Evan," he said coolly, stopping in the middle of the polished floor. "My father is not at home yet. I am not sure when he will be. Naturally we wish to be of any assistance to the police that we can, but I fear there is nothing we know about the matter. Would you not be better pursuing your enquiries in St. Giles?

That is where it happened, is it not?”

"Yes, it is," Evan replied, trying to sum up the young man, make a judgement as to his nature. He wondered how close he had been to Rhys Duff. There was an arrogance in his face, a hint of self-indulgence about the mouth, which made it easy to imagine that if Rhys had indeed gone whoring in St. Giles, Duke Kynaston might well have been his companion. Had he been there that night? At the dark edges of Evan's mind, something he did not even want to allow into his conscious thought, was the knowledge of Monk's case, the rapes of poverty-stricken women, amateur prostitutes. But that had been in Seven Dials, beyond Aldwych. Was it just conceivable Rhys and his companions had been responsible for that, and had this time met their match, a woman who had a brother, or a husband who was not as drunken as they had supposed? Possibly even a vigilante group of their own? That would explain the violence of the reprisal. And Leighton Duff had feared as much and had followed his son, and he had been the one who had paid the ultimate price, dying to save his son's life?

Little wonder Rhys had nightmares, and could not speak! It would be a memory no man could live with.

He looked at the young Duke Kynaston's rather supercilious face, with the consciousness of youth, strength, and money so plain in it. But there were no bruises, even healed ones fading, no cuts or scratches except one faint scar on his cheek. It would have been no more than a nick of the razor such as any young man might make.

"So what is it you imagine we can tell you?" Duke said a little impatiently.

"St. Giles is a large area…" Evan began.

"Not very," Duke contradicted. "Square mile or so.”

"So you know it?" Evan said with a smile.

Duke flushed. "I know of it, Mr. Evan. That is not the same thing.”

But his annoyance betrayed that he perceived it was.

"Then you will know that it is densely populated," Evan continued, 'with people who are most unlikely to offer us any assistance. There is a great deal of poverty there, and crime. It is not a natural place for gentlemen to go. It is crowded, dirty and dangerous.”

"So I have heard.”

"You have never been there?”

"Never. As you said, it is not a place any gentleman would wish to be." Duke smiled more widely. "If I were to go searching cheap entertainment, I would choose the Haymarket. I had imagined Rhys would do the same, but possibly I was wrong.”

"He has never been to the Haymarket with you?" Evan asked mildly.

For the first time Duke hesitated.

"I hardly think my pleasures are any of your concern, Mr. Evan. But no, I have not been with Rhys to the Haymarket, or anywhere else, for at least a year. I have no idea what he was doing in St. Giles." He stared back at Evan with steady, defiant eyes.

Evan would like to have disbelieved him, but he thought it was literally true, even if there were an implicit lie embedded in it somewhere. It was pointless to press him on the subject. He was obviously not willing to offer anything and Evan had no weapon with which to draw him against his will. His only tactic was to bide his time, and look as if he were content with it.

"Unfortunate," Evan said blandly. "It would have made our task shorter. But no doubt we shall find those who do. It will take more work, more disruption to others, and I dare say more investigation of private lives, but there is no help for it.”

Duke looked at him narrowly. Evan was not sure if he imagined it, but there seemed a flicker of unease.

"If you want to wait in the morning room, there may be a newspaper there, or something," Duke said abruptly. "It's that way." He indicated the door to his left, Evan's right. "I expect when Papa comes home he'll see you. Not that I imagine he can tell you anything either, but he did teach Rhys at school.”

"Do you imagine Rhys might have confided in him?”

Duke gave him a look of such incredible contempt no answer was necessary.

Evan accepted the invitation and went to the cold and very uncomfortable morning room. The fire had long since gone out and he was too chilly to sit. He walked back and forth, half looking at the books on the shelf, noticing a number of classical titles, Tacitus, Sallust, Juvenal, Caesar, Cicero and Pliny in the original Latin, translations of Terence and Plautus, the poems of Catullus, and on the shelf above, the travels of Herodotus, and Thucydides' history of the Peloponnesian War. They were hardly the reading a waiting guest would choose. He wondered what manner of person usually sat here.

What he really wanted was to ask Kynaston about Sylvestra Duff. He wanted to know if she had a lover, if she was the sort of woman to seize her own desires even at the expense of someone else's life. Had she the strength of will, the courage, the blind, passionate selfishness? But how did you say that to anyone? How did you elicit it from them without their wish?

Not by pacing the floor alone in a cold room, thinking about it. He wished he had Monk's skill. He might have known.

He went to the fireplace and pulled the bell rope. When the maid answered he asked if he could see Mrs. Kynaston. The maid promised to enquire.

He had no picture in his mind, but still Fidelis Kynaston surprised him. He would have said at a glance that she was plain. She was certainly over forty, nearer to forty-five, and yet he found himself drawn to her immediately. There was a composure in her, an inner certainty which was integrity.

"Good evening, Mr. Evan." She came in and closed the door. She had fair hair which was fading a little at the temples, and she wore a dark grey dress of simple cut, without ornament except for a very beautiful cameo brooch, heightened by its solitary presence. The physical resemblance to her son was plain, and yet her personality was so utterly different she seemed nothing like him at all. There was no antagonism in her eyes, no contempt, only amusement and patience.

"Good evening, Mrs. Kynaston," he said quickly. "I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your help, if you are able to give it, in endeavouring to learn what happened to Rhys Duff and his father. I cannot question him. As you may know, he cannot speak, and is too ill to be distressed by having the subject even mentioned to him. I dislike raising it with Mrs. Duff more than I am obliged to, and I think she is too deeply shocked at present to recall a great deal.”

"I am not sure what I know, Mr. Evan," she answered with a frown. "The imagination answers why Rhys may have gone to such an area. Young men do. They frequently have more curiosity and appetite than either sense or good taste.”

He was surprised at her candour, and it must have shown in his expression.

She smiled, a lop-sided gesture because of the extra ordinariness of her face.

"I have sons, and I had brothers, Mr. Evan. Also my husband is the principal of a school for boys. I should indeed have my eyes closed were I to be unaware of such things.”

"Did you not find it difficult to believe that Rhys would go there?”

"No. He was an average young man, with all the usual desires to flout convention as he thought his parents considered it, and yet to do exactly what all young men have always done.”

"His father before him?" he asked.

Her eyebrows rose. "Probably. If you are asking me if I know, then the answer is that I do not. There are many things a wise woman chooses not to know, unless the knowledge is forced upon her, and most men do not force it.”

He hesitated. Was she referring to the use of prostitutes, or something else as well? There was a shadow in her eyes, a darkness in her voice. She had looked at the world clearly and seen much unpleasantness. He was quite sure she had known pain, and accepted it as inevitable, her own no less than that of others. Could it be to do with her son Duke? Might he have a great deal to do with the younger, more impressionable Rhys's behaviour? He was the kind of youth others wanted to impress, and to emulate.

"But nevertheless, you guess?" he said quietly.

"That is not the same, Mr. Evan. What you only guess you can always deny to yourself. The element of uncertainty is enough. But before you ask; no, I do not know what happened to Rhys, or to his father. I can only assume Rhys fell in with bad company, and poor Leighton was so concerned for him that in this instance he followed him, perhaps in an attempt to persuade Rhys to leave, and in the ensuing fight Leighton was killed and Rhys injured. It is tragic. With a little more consideration, less pride and stubbornness, it need not have happened.”

"Is this guess based on your knowledge of the character of Mr. Duff?”

She was still standing, perhaps also too cold to sit.

"Yes.”

"You knew him quite well?”

"Yes, I did. I have known Mrs. Duff for years. Mr. Duff and my husband were close friends. My husband is profoundly grieved at his death. It has made him quite unwell. He took a severe chill, and I am sure the distress has hindered his recovery.”

"I'm sorry," Evan said automatically. "Tell me something about Mr.

Duff. It may help me to learn the truth.”

She had an ability to stand in one place without looking awkward or moving her hands unnecessarily. She was a woman of peculiar grace.

"He was a very sober man, of deep intelligence," she answered thoughtfully. "He took his responsibilities to heart. He knew a large number of people depended upon his skills and his hard work." She made a small gesture of her hands. "Not merely his family, of course, but also all those whose future lay in the prosperity of his company. And you will understand, he dealt with valuable properties and large amounts of money almost daily." A flicker crossed her face, and her eyes lightened as if a new thought had occurred to her. "I think that is one of the reasons Joel, my husband, found him so easy to speak with. They both understood the burden of responsibility for others, of being trusted, without question. It is an extraordinary thing, Mr.

Evan, to have people place their confidence in you, not only in your skills but in your honour, and take it for granted that you will do for them all that they require.”

"Yes…" he said slowly, thinking that he too was on occasion treated with that kind of blind faith. It was a remarkable compliment, but it was also a burden, when one realised the possibilities of failure.

She was still lost in her thoughts. "My husband is the final judge in so many issues," she went on, not looking at Evan, but at some inner memories of her own. "The decisions upon a boy's academic education, and perhaps even more, his moral education, can affect the rest of his life. In fact I suppose when you speak of the boys who will one day lead our nation, the politicians, inventors, writers and artists of the future, then it may affect us all. No wonder these decisions have to be made with care, and with much searching of conscience, and with absolute selflessness. There can be no evasions into simplicity. The cost of error may never be recovered.”

"Did he have a sense of humour?" The words were out before Evan realised how inappropriate they were.

"I beg your pardon?”

It was too late to withdraw. "Did Mr. Duff have a sense of humour?”

He felt the blush creep up his face.

"No…" She stared back at him in what seemed like a moment's complete understanding, too fragile for words. Then it was gone. "Not that I saw. But he loved music. He played the pianoforte very well, you know? He liked good music, especially Beethoven and occasionally Bach.”

Evan was forming no picture of him, certainly nothing to explain what he was doing in St. Giles, except following a wayward and disappointing son whose taste in pleasures he did not understand, and perhaps whose appetites frightened him, knowing the danger to which they could lead disease being not the least of them. He would not ask this woman the questions whose answers he needed, but he would ask Joel Kynaston: he must.

It was another half-hour of largely meaningless but pleasant conversation before the butler came back to say that Mr. Kynaston had returned and would see Evan in his study. Evan thanked Fidelis and followed where he was directed.

The study was obviously a room for use. The fire blazed in a large hearth, glinting on wrought brass shovel and tongs and gleaming on the fender. Evan was shivering with cold, and the warmth enveloped him like a welcome blanket. The walls were decorated with glass-fronted bookcases, and pictures of country domestic scenes. The oak desk was massive and there were three piles of books and papers on it.

Joel Kynaston sat behind it, looking at Evan curiously. It was impossible to tell his height, but he gave the impression of being slight. His face was keen, nose a trifle pinched, mouth highly individual. It was not a countenance one would forget, nor easily overlook. His intelligence was inescapable, as was his consciousness of authority.

"Come in, Mr. Evan," he said with a slight nod. He did not rise, immediately establishing their relative status. "How may I be of service to you? If I had known anything about poor Leighton Duffs death I should already have told you, naturally. Although I have been ill with a fever, and spent the last few days in my bed. However, today I am better, and I cannot lie at home any longer.”

"I'm sorry for your illness, sir," Evan responded.

"Thank you." Kynaston waved to the chair opposite. "Do sit down. Now tell me what you think I can do to be of assistance.”

Evan accepted, finding it less comfortable than it looked, although he would have sat on boards to achieve the warmth. He was obliged to sit upright rather than relax.

"I believe you have known Rhys Duff since he was a boy, sir," he began, making a statement rather than a question.

Kynaston frowned very slightly, drawing his brows together. "Yes?”

"Does it surprise you that he should be in an area like St. Giles?”

Kynaston drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No. I regret to say that it does not. He was always wayward, and lately his choice of company caused his father some concern.”

"Why? I mean for what specific reason?”

Kynaston stared at him. Several reactions flickered across his face.

He had highly expressive features. They showed amazement, disdain, sadness, and something else not so easily read, a darker thing, a sense of tragedy, or perhaps evil.

"What exactly do you mean, Mr. Evan?”

"Was it the immorality of it?" Evan expanded. "The fear of disease, of scandal or disgrace, of losing the favour of some respectable young lady, or the knowledge that it might lead him to physical danger, or greater depravity?”

Kynaston hesitated so long Evan thought he was not going to answer.

When finally he did speak, his voice was low, very careful, very precise, and he held his strong, bony hands in front of him, clutched tightly together.

"I should imagine all of those things, Mr. Evan. A man is uniquely responsible for the character of his son. There cannot be many experiences in human existence more harrowing than witnessing your own child, the bearer of your name and your heritage, your immortality, treading a downward path into weakness, corruption of the mind, and of the body." He looked at Evan's surprise. His eyebrows rose. "Not that I am suggesting Rhys was depraved. There was a predisposition to weakness in him which required greater discipline than perhaps he received. That is all. It is common among the young, especially an only boy in a family. Leighton Duff was concerned. Tragically, it now appears that he had grave cause.”

"You believe Mr. Duff followed Rhys into St. Giles, and they were both attacked as a result of something that happened because they were there?”

"Don't you? It seems a tragically apparent explanation.”

"You don't believe Mr. Duff would have gone alone otherwise? You knew him well, I believe?”

"Very well!" Kynaston said decisively. "I am perfectly certain he would not! Why in heaven's name should he? He had everything to lose, and nothing of any conceivable value to gain." He smiled very slightly, a fleeting, bitter humour, swallowed instantly in the reality of loss. "I hope you catch whoever is responsible, sir, but I have no sensible hope that you will. If Rhys had a liaison with some woman of the area, or something worse," his mouth twisted very slightly in distaste, 'then I doubt you will discover it now. Those involved will hardly come forward, and I imagine the denizens of that world will protect their own, rather than ally with the forces of law.”

What he said was true. Evan had to admit it. He thanked him and rose to take his leave. He would speak to Dr. Corriden Wade, but he did not expect to learn much from him that would be of any value.

Wade was tired at the end of a long and harrowing day when he allowed Evan into his library. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he walked across the room ahead of Evan as if his back and legs hurt him.

"Of course I will tell you what I can, Sergeant," he said, turning and settling in one of the comfortable chairs by the embers of the fire, and gesturing towards the other for Evan. "But I fear it will not be anything you do not already know. And I cannot permit you to question Rhys Duff. He is in a very poor state of health, and any distress, which you cannot help but cause him, could precipitate a crisis. I cannot tell what injuries may have been caused to his inner organs by the treatment he received.”

"I understand," Evan replied quickly. The memory returned to him with sharp pity of Rhys lying in the alley, of his own horror when he had realised he was still alive, still capable of immeasurable pain. Nor could he ever rid his mind of the horror in Rhys's eyes when he had regained his senses and first tried to speak, and found he could not.

"I had no intention of asking to see him. I hoped you might tell me more about both Rhys and his father. It may help to learn what happened.”

Wade sighed. "Presumably they were attacked, robbed and beaten by thieves," he said unhappily, sadness and gravity equal in his face.

"Does it matter now why they went to St. Giles? Have you the least real hope of catching whoever it was, or of proving anything? I have little experience of St. Giles in particular, but I spent several years in the Navy. I have seen some rough areas, places where there is desperate poverty, where disease and death are commonplace, and a child is fortunate to reach its sixth birthday, and more fortunate still to reach manhood. Few have an honest trade which earns them sufficient to live. Fewer still can read or write. This is then a way of life.

Violence is easy, the first resort, not the last.”

He was looking at Evan intently, his dark eyes narrowed. "I would have thought you were familiar with such places also, but perhaps you are too young. Were you born in the city, Sergeant?”

"No, in the country…”

Wade smiled. He had excellent teeth. "Then perhaps you still have something to learn about the human battle for survival, and how men turn upon each other when there is too little space, too little food, too little air, and no hope or strength of belief to change it. Despair breeds rage, Mr. Evan, and a desire to retaliate against a world in which there is no apparent justice. It is to be expected.”

"I do expect it, sir," Evan replied. "And I would have imagined a man of Mr. Leighton Duffs intelligence and experience of the world to have expected it also, indeed to have foreseen it.”

Wade stared at him. He looked extremely tired. There was little colour in his face and his body slumped as though he had no strength left, and his muscles hurt him.

"I imagine he knew it as well as we do," he said bleakly. "He must have gone in after Rhys. You have only seen Rhys as he is now, Mr.

Evan, a victim of violence, a man confused and in pain, and extremely frightened." He pushed out his lower lip. "He is not always so.

Before this… incident… he was a young man of considerable bravado and appetite, and with much of youth's belief in its own superiority, invincibility, and insensitivity to the feelings of others. He had the average capacity to be cruel, and to enjoy a certain power." His mouth tightened. "I make no judgements, and God knows, I would cure him of all of this if I could, but it is not impossible he was involved with a woman of that area, and exercised certain desires without regard to their consequences upon others. She may have belonged to someone else. He may even have been rougher than was acceptable. Perhaps she had family who…" He did not bother to finish, it was unnecessary.

Evan frowned, searching his way through crowding possibilities.

"Dr. Wade, are you saying that you have observed a streak of cruelty or violence in Rhys Duff before this incident?”

Wade hesitated. "No, Sergeant, I am not," he said finally. "I am saying that I knew Leighton Duff for close to twenty years, and I cannot conceive of any reason why he should go to an area like St.

Giles, except to try to reason with his son, and prevent him from committing some act of folly from which he could not extricate himself.

In the light of what has happened, I can only believe that he was right.”

"Did he speak to you of such fears, Dr. Wade?”

"You must know, Sergeant, that I cannot answer you." Wade's voice was grave and heavy, but there was no anger in it. "I understand that it is your duty to ask. You must understand that it is my duty to refuse to answer.”

"Yes," Evan agreed with a sigh. "Yes, of course I do. I do not think I need to trouble you further, at least not tonight. Thank you for your time.”

"You are welcome, Sergeant.”

Evan stood up and went to the door.

"Sergeant!”

He turned. "Yes, sir?”

"I think your case may be insoluble. Please try to consider Mrs. Duffs feelings as much as you can. Do not pursue tragic and sordid details of her son's life which cannot help you, and which she will have to live with, as well as with her grief. I cannot promise you that Rhys will recover. He may not.”

"Do you mean his speech, or his life?”

"Both.”

"I see. Thank you for your kindness. Goodnight, Dr. Wade.”

"Goodnight, Sergeant.”

Evan left with a deep grief inside him. He went out into the dark street. The fog had descended since he had gone inside, and now he could barely see four or five yards in front of him. The gas lamps were no more than blurs in the gloom before and behind him. Beyond that it was a dense wall. The sound of traffic was muffled, wheels almost silent, hooves a dull sound on stone, eaten by the fog as soon as they touched. Carriage lamps lurched towards him, passed and disappeared.

He walked with his collar up and his hat pulled forward over his brow.

The air was wet and clung to his skin, smelling of soot. He thought of the people of St. Giles on a night like this, the ones huddled together, a dozen to a room, cold and hungry. And he thought of those outside in doorways, without even shelter.

What had happened to Rhys Duff? Why had he thrown away everything he had, warmth, home, love, opportunity of achievement, respect of his father, to chase after some appetite which would end in destroying him?

He thought of his own youth, of his mother's kitchen full of herbs and vegetables and the smell of baking. There was always soup on the stove all winter long. His sisters were noisy, laughing, quarrelling, gossiping. Their pretty clothes were all over the place, their dolls, and later their books and letters, paint brushes and embroidery.

He had sat for hours in his father's study, talking about all manner of things with him, mostly ideas, values, old stories of love and adventure, courage, sacrifice and reward. How would his father have explained this? What meaning and hope could he find in it? How could he equate it with the God he preached every Sunday in the church amid its great trees and humble gravestones where the village had buried its dead for seven hundred years, and laid flowers on quiet graves?

He felt no anger, no bitterness, only confusion.

The following morning he met Shotts back in the alley in St. Giles and started over again in the search for witnesses, evidence, anything which would lead to the truth. He could not disown the possibility that Sylvestra Duff had had some part in her husband's death. It was an ugly thought, but now it had entered his mind, he saw more that upheld it, at least sufficiently to warrant its investigation.

Was it that knowledge which had horrified Rhys so much he could not speak? Was it at the core of his apparent chill now towards his mother? Was that burden the one which tormented him, and kept him silent?

Who was the man? Was he implicated, or merely the unknowing motive?

Was it Corriden Wade, and did Rhys know that?

Or was it, as the doctor had implied, Rhys's own weakness which had taken him to St. Giles, and his father, in desperation for him, had followed, interrupted him, and been killed for his trouble?

Which led to the other dreadful question: what hand had Rhys in his father's death? A witness… or more?

"Have you got those pictures?" he asked Shotts.

"What? Oh yeah!" Shotts took out of his pocket two drawings, one of Rhys, as close as the artist could estimate, removing the present bruises; the other of Leighton Duff, necessarily poorer, less accurate, made from a portrait in the hall. But they were sufficient to give a very lively impression of how each man must have appeared in life.

"Have you found nothing more?" Evan pressed. "Pedlars, street traders or cabbies? Someone must have seen them!”

Shotts bit his lip. "Nobody wants ter 'ave seen 'em," he said candidly.

"What about women?" Evan went on. "If they were here for women, someone must know them!”

"Not for sure," Shotts argued. "Quick fumble in an alley or a doorway.

"Oo cares about faces?”

Evan shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he felt it eating inside him as well as numbing his face, his hands and his feet. It was beginning to rain again, and the broken eaves were dripping steadily. The gutters overflowed.

"Would have thought women would be careful about familiarity in the street these days. I hear there have been several bad rapes of dolly mops and amateur prostitutes lately," he remarked.

"Yeah," Shotts said with a frown. "I 'card that too. But it's over Seven Dials way, not 'ere.”

"Who did you hear it from?" Evan asked.

There was a moment's silence.

"What?”

"Who did you hear it from?" Evan repeated.

"Oh… runnin' patterer," Shotts said casually. "One of 'is stories, I know some o' them tales is 'alf nonsense, but I reckoned as there was a grain o' truth in it.”

"Yes…" Evan agreed. "Unfortunately there is. Is that all you found?”

"Yeah. Least about the father. Got a few likely visits o' the son, women 'oo think they 'adim. But none's fer sure. They don't take no notice o' faces, even if they see 'em. "Ow many young men dyer suppose there are 'oo are tall, a bit on the thin side, an' wi' dark 'air?”

"Not so many who come from Ebury Street to take their pleasures in St.

Giles," Evan answered drily.

Shotts did not say anything further. Together they trudged from one wretched bawdy house to another with the pictures, asking questions, pressing, wheedling, sometimes threatening. Evan learned a considerable respect for Shotts' skills. He seemed to know instinctively how to treat each person in order to obtain the most cooperation from them. He knew surprisingly many, some with what looked like a quite genuine camaraderie. A few jokes were exchanged.

He asked after children by name, and was answered as if his concern were believed.

"I hadn't realised you knew the area so well," Evan mentioned as they stopped and bought pies from a pedlar on the corner of a main thoroughfare. They were hot and pungent with onions. As long as he did not think too hard as to what the other contents might be, they were most enjoyable. They provided a little highly welcome warmth inside as the day became even colder and the fine rain turned to sleet.

"Me job," Shotts replied, biting into the pasty and not looking at Evan. "Couldn't do it proper if I din' know the streets, an' the people.”

He seemed reluctant to talk about it, possibly he was unused to praise and his modesty made him uncomfortable. Evan did not pursue it.

They continued on their fruitless quest. Everything was negative or uncertain. No one recognised Leighton Duff, they were adamant in that, but half a dozen thought perhaps they had seen Rhys, then again perhaps not. No one mentioned the violence in Seven Dials. It could have been another world.

They also tried the regular street pedlars, beggars the occasional pawnbroker or innkeeper. Two beggars had seen someone answering Rhys's description on half a dozen occasions, they thought… possibly.

It was the running patterer, a thin, light-boned man with straggly black hair and wide blue eyes, who gave the answer which most surprised and disturbed Evan. When he had been shown the pictures, he was quite certain he had seen Leighton Duff once before, on the very outskirts of St. Giles, alone and apparently looking for someone, but he had not spoken to him. He had seen him talking to a woman he knew to be a prostitute. He appeared to be asking her something, and when she had denied it, he had walked away and left her. The patterer was certain of it. He answered without a moment's hesitation, and looked for no reward. He was also certain he had seen Rhys on several occasions.

"How do you know it was this man?" Evan said doubtfully, trying to keep a sense of victory at last from overtaking him. Not that it was much of a victory. It was indication, not proof of anything, and even then only what he had assumed. "There must be lots of young men hanging around in the shadows in an area like this.”

"I saw 'im under the lights," the patterer responded. "Faces is me business, least it's part of it. I 'member 'is eyes partic'lar. Not like most folks. Big, black almost. "E looked lorst.”

"Lost?”

"Yeah, like 'e weren't sure wot 'e wanted nor which way ter go. Kind o' miserable.”

"That can't be unusual around here." "E don' belong around 'ere. I knows most 'oo belongs 'ere. Don' I, Mr. Shotts?”

Shotts looked startled. "Yeah… yeah, I s'pose you would.”

"But you go Seven Dials way as well." Evan remembered what Shotts had said about the patterer telling him of Monk's case. "Have you seen him there too?" It was a remote chance, but one he should not overlook.

"Me?" the patterer looked surprised, his blue eyes staring at Evan. "I don' go ter Seven Dials. This is me patch.”

"But you know what happens there?" He should not give up too easily, and there was an uncertainty at the back of his mind.

"Sorry, guy, no idea. Yer'd 'ave terask some o' them wot works there.

Try Jimmy Morrison. "E knows Seven Dials.”

"You don't know about violence in Seven Dials, towards women?”

The patterer gave a sharp, derisive laugh. "Wot, yer mean diff rent from always?”

"Yes!”

"Dunno. Wot is it?”

"Rape and beatings of factory women.”

The patterer's face wrinkled in disgust. Evan could not believe he had already known. Why had Shotts lied? It was a small thing, very small, but what was the point of it? It was out of the character he knew of the man, and disturbing.

"You told me he knew," he said as soon as they were a dozen yards away.

Shotts did not look at him. "Must 'a bin someone else," he replied dismissively.

"Don't you write down who tells you what?" Evan pressed. "It makes a lot of difference. Did you ever speak to him before on this case?”

Shotts turned into the wind and his answer was half lost.

"Course I did. Said so, didn't I?”

Evan let the matter rest, but he knew he had been lied to, and it troubled him. His instinct was to like Shotts, and to respect his abilities. There was something he did not know. The question was, was it something important?

He saw Monk that evening. Monk had left a note for him at the police station, and he was happy to spend an hour or two over a good meal in a public house, and indulge in a little conversation.

Monk was in a dour mood. His case was going badly, but he had considerable sympathy for Evan.

"You think it could be the widow?" he asked, his eyes level and curious. The slight smile on his lips expressed his understanding of Evan's reluctance to accept such a thing. He knew Evan too well, and his affection for him did not prevent his amusement and slight derision at his optimism in human nature.

"I think it was probably just what it looked like," Evan replied gloomily. "Rhys was a young man who had been indulged by his mother, and whose father had great expectations of him which he possibly could not live up to, and did not want to. He indulged a selfish and possibly cruel streak in his character. His father went after him to try to stop him, perhaps to warn of the dangers, and somehow they became involved in a fight with others. The father died. The son was severely injured physically, and so horrified by what he saw that now he cannot even speak.”

Monk cut into the thick, light suet crust of his steak and kidney pudding.

"The question is," he said with his mouth full, 'were they both attacked by the denizens of St. Giles, or did Rhys kill his own father in a quarrel?”

"Or did Sylvestra Duff have a lover, and did he either do it himself, or have someone else do it?" Evan asked.

"Who is he? Samson?" Monk raised his eyebrows.

"What?”

"He took on two men at once, killed one and left the other senseless, and walked away from the scene himself," Monk pointed out.

"Then there was more than one," Evan argued. "He hired somebody, two people, and it was coincidence Rhys was there. He was following Leighton Duff, and happened to come on him when he had found Rhys.”

"Or else Rhys was in it with his mother," Monk swallowed and took a mouthful of his stout. "Have you any way of looking into that?" He ignored Evan's expression of distaste.

"Hester's there. She's nursing Rhys," Evan replied. He saw the emotion cross Monk's face, the momentary flicker, the light and then the shadow. He knew something of what Monk felt for her, even though he did not understand the reasons for its complexity. He had seen the trust between them. Hester had fought for Monk when no one else would.

She had also quarrelled when, at least to Evan, it made no sense at all. But he knew the dark areas of Monk's heart prevented him from committing himself as Evan would have. Half-memories and fears of what he did not know made it impossible for him. What he did not know was whether it was fear for Hesterand the hurt he might cause her in that part of himself which lay secret, or simply fear for himself and his own vulnerability if he allowed her to know him so well, to become even more important to him, and to understand it himself.

Nothing in Monk's behaviour let him know. He thought perhaps Hester did not know either.

Monk was halfway through his meal.

"She won't tell you," he said, looking at his plate.

"I know that," Evan replied. "I'm not placing her in the position of asking.”

Monk looked up at him quickly, then down again.

"Made any advance in your case?" Evan asked.

Monk's expression darkened, the skin on his face tight with the anger inside him.

"Two or three men came into Seven Dials quite regularly, usually a Tuesday or Thursday, about ten in the evening up until two or three in the morning. As far as I can tell they were not drunk, nor did they go into any public houses or brothels. No one seems to have seen their faces clearly. One was of above average height, the other two ordinary, one a little heavier than the other. I've found cabbies who have taken them back to Portman Square, Eaton Square…”

"They're miles apart!" Evan exclaimed. "Well, a good distance.”

"I know," Monk snapped. "They've also been taken to Cardigan Place, Belgrave Square and Wimpole Street. I am perfectly aware that they may live in three different areas, or more likely very simply have changed cabs. I don't need you to tell me the obvious. What I need is for the police to care that over a dozen women have been beaten, some of them badly injured and could have been dead, for all these animals cared!

What I need is a little sense of outrage for the poor as well as the inhabitants of Ebury Street: a little blind justice, instead of justice that looks so damned carefully at the size and shape of your pockets, and the cut of your coat before it decides whether to bother with you or not!”

"That's unfair," Evan replied, staring back at him with equal anger.

"We have only so much time, so many men, which you know as well as I do. And even if we find them, what good would it do? Who's going to prosecute them? It will never get to court, and you know that too!" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What are you hoping for, Monk? Private vengeance? You'd better be dammed sure you are right!”

"I shall be!" Monk said between his teeth. "I shall have the proof before I act.”

"And then what murder?" Evan demanded. "You have no right to take the law into your own hands, or to put it in the hands of men you know will take it for themselves. The law belongs to all of us, or we are none of us safe!”

"Safe!" Monk exploded. "Tell that to the women in Seven Dials! You're talking about theory… I'm dealing with fact!”

Evan stood his ground. "If you find these men and tell whoever has hired you, and they commit murder, that will be fact enough.”

"So what is your alternative?" Monk said.

"I haven't one," Evan admitted. "I don't know.”