The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

  Their tea was cold and the tiny sandwiches eaten when Arthur Kynaston returned, looking slightly flushed but far less tense than when he had gone up.

  “How is he?” his mother asked before Sylvestra could speak.

  “He seems in good spirits,” he replied hastily. He was too young, too clear-faced, to lie well. He had obviously been profoundly shaken but was trying to conceal it from Sylvestra. “I’m sure when his cuts and bruises have healed, he’ll feel a different man. He was really quite interested in Belzoni. I promised to bring him some drawings—if that’s all right?”

  “Of course,” Sylvestra said quickly. “Yes … yes, please do.” She seemed relieved. At last something was returning to normal; it was a moment when things were back to the sanity, the wholeness, of the past.

  Fidelis rose to her feet and put a hand on her son’s arm. “That would be most kind. Now I think we should allow Mrs. Duff a little time to herself.” She turned and bade Hester good-bye, then looked at Sylvestra. “If there is anything whatever I can do, my dear, you have only to let me know. If you wish to talk, I am always ready to listen—and then forget … selectively. I have an excellent ability to forget.”

  “There are so many things I would like to forget,” Sylvestra replied almost under her breath. “I can’t forget what I don’t understand. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You would think that would be the easiest. Why St. Giles? That is what the police keep asking me and I cannot answer them.”

  “You probably never will,” Fidelis said wryly. “You might be best advised, happiest, if you do not guess.” She kissed Sylvestra lightly on each cheek and then took her leave, Arthur a few steps behind her.

  Hester offered no comment, and Sylvestra did not raise the matter. Hester had been present as a courtesy, and she was owed no confidences. They both went up to see if Rhys was still in the good spirits Arthur had described, and found him lying half asleep and apparently at as much ease as was possible in his pain.

  That evening Eglantyne Wade called. It was the first time she had come since the funeral, no doubt knowing how ill Rhys was and not wishing to intrude. Hester was curious to see what kind of woman Dr. Wade’s sister might be. Hester hoped she would prove to be not unlike him, a woman of courage, imagination and individuality, perhaps not unlike Fidelis Kynaston.

  In the event, she proved to be far prettier, or far more conventional in appearance, and Hester felt a stab of disappointment. It was totally unreasonable. Why should his sister have any of his intelligence or inner courage of the spirit? Her own brother, Charles, was nothing at all like her. He was kind, in his own way, honest, and infinitely predictable.

  She replied politely to Sylvestra’s introduction, searching Miss Wade’s face for some sign of inner fire, and not finding it. All she met was a bland, blue stare which seemed without thought, or any but the mildest interest. Even Sylvestra’s remark on Hester’s service in the Crimea provoked no surprise but the usual murmur of respect which mention of Scutari and Sebastopol always earned. It seemed as if Eglantyne Wade were not even truly listening.

  Sylvestra had promised Hester that she might have the evening free to do as she pleased. She had even suggested that Hester might like to go out somewhere, visit friends or relatives. Since Oliver Rathbone had asked that if she were permitted an evening’s respite from her new case she would use it to dine with him, she had sent a note to his office at midday. By late afternoon she received the reply that he would be honored if she would allow him to send a carriage for her that they might dine together. Therefore at seven she waited in the hall, dressed in her one really good gown, and felt a distinct ripple of excitement when the doorbell rang and Wharmby informed her that it was for her.

  It was a bitter night, a rime of ice on the cobbles, steam rising from the horses’ flanks, and the wreaths of fog curling around the lamps and drifting in choking clammy patches. Smoke and soot hung heavy in the air above, blotting out the stars, and a daggerlike wind scythed down the tunnels made by the high house walls on either side of the street.

  She had dined at Rathbone’s home before, but with Monk also present, and to discuss a case and their strategy to fight it. She had also dined with Rathbone several times at his father’s house in Primrose Hill, but she had gathered from the invitation that this was to be in some public place, as was only proper if they were not to be accompanied by any other person.

  The cab drew up at a very handsome inn, and the footman immediately opened the door and offered his hand to assist her to alight. She was shown into a small alcove off the main dining room where Rathbone was waiting.

  He turned from the mantel, where he had been standing in front of the fire. He was formally dressed in black with icy white shirt front, the light from the chandelier catching his fair hair. He smiled and watched her come in until she was in the center of the room, and the door closed behind her, before he came forward. He took her hands in his.

  Her dress was gray-blue, severely cut, but she knew it flattered her eyes and her strong, intelligent face. Frills had always looked absurd on her, out of style with her character.

  “Thank you for coming in such extreme haste,” he said warmly. “It is a most ungentlemanly way of snatching an opportunity to see you purely for pleasure, and not some wretched business, either of yours or of mine. I am happy to say that all my current cases are merely matters of litigation and require no detecting at all.”

  She was not sure if that was an allusion to Monk or simply a statement that for once they had no cause for their meeting but each other’s company. It was an extraordinary departure for him. He had always been so guarded in the past, so very private where anything personal was concerned.

  “And mine has no trial that would interest you,” she replied with an answering smile. “In fact, I fear probably no trial at all.” She withdrew her hands and he let her go. He walked back slowly towards the chairs near the fire and indicated for her to sit on one, before he sat on the other. It was a delightful room, comfortable and private without being too intimate for decorum. Anyone might come or go at any moment, and they could hear the chatter and laughter, and the clink of china, in another room very close. The fire burned hotly in the grate and there was a pleasant glow from the pink and plum shades of the furniture. Light gleamed on the polished wood of a side table. A main table was set with linen, crystal and silver for two.

  “Do you want a trial?” he asked with amusement. His eyes were extraordinarily dark, and he watched her intently.

  She had thought she would find his attention disconcerting, but although perhaps it was, it was also unquestionably pleasant, even if it made her skin a little warm and very slightly disturbed her concentration. In a subtle way it was like being touched.

  “I would very much like the offenders caught and punished,” she said vehemently. “It is one of the worst cases I have seen. Often I think I can see some sort of reason for things, but this seems to be simply the most bestial violence.”

  “What happened?”

  “A young man and his father were attacked in St. Giles and appallingly beaten. The father died; the young man, whom I am nursing, is very badly injured and cannot speak.” Her voice dropped unintentionally. “I have watched him have nightmares when it is quite obvious he is reliving the attack. He is agonized with terror, hysterical, trying over and over to scream, but his voice won’t come. He is in great physical pain, but the anguish in his mind is even worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, regarding her gravely. “It must be very difficult for you to watch. Can you help him at all?”

  “A little … I hope.”

  He smiled across at her, the warmth in his eyes praise enough. Then his brow puckered. “What were they doing in St. Giles? If they can afford a private nurse for him, they don’t sound like residents, or even visitors, of such a place.”

  “Oh, they aren’t,” she said quickly. “They live in Ebury Street. Mr. Duff was a senior solicitor in property conveyancing. I have no idea
what they were doing in St. Giles. That is one of the problems the police are trying to solve. It is John Evan, by the way. I feel odd behaving as if I do not know him.”

  “But it is best, I’m sure,” he agreed. “I’m sorry you have such a distressing case.” The servant had left a decanter of wine, and Rathbone offered it to her, and when she accepted, poured a glass full and passed it to her. He raised his own glass to his lips in an unspoken toast. “I suppose many of your cases are trying, one way or another?”

  She had not thought of it in that light. “Yes … I suppose they are. Either the person is very ill, and to watch suffering is hard, or he is not, and then I feel I am not challenged enough, not really necessary.” She smiled suddenly—with real laughter this time. “I’m impossible to please!”

  He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. “Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”

  She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No … of course there wasn’t. She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.

  “I haven’t thought about it,” she replied, trying to sound light and casual. “I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”

  He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.

  Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if she were angling for the greater influence he had obliquely referred to … perhaps … or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done. She could feel the color burning up her cheeks.

  She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing. Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.

  He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.

  “I don’t really have that kind of skill,” she said very measuredly. “Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer. She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up.…”

  “Do you?” he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.

  “No, of course I don’t.” There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.

  She swung around to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.

  “I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield and my own weapons.”

  “Bravo,” he said, answering softly, his eyes studying her face.

  She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.

  He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.

  She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.

  The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.

  Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.

  Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.

  “What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?” she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?

  As if he too had seen Monk’s face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.

  “A society paternity suit,” he said with a half smile. “There is really very little to prove. It is an exercise in diplomacy.” He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. “I am endeavoring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.” He shrugged. “If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since …” He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.

  “Since Princess Gisela,” she finished for him.

  They both laughed. Their laughter was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honor, from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.

  “And will you win?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he replied firmly. “This I will win …” He hesitated.

  Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.

  “How is your father?” she asked.

  “Very well.” His voice dropped a little. “He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig, where he met a number of interesting people and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”

  She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened onto the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.

  “I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I traveled anywhere.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.

  It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.

  “Egypt!” she said with a lift of enthusiasm. “I have just been hearing about Signore Belzoni’s discoveries … a trifle late, I know. But I should love to go up the Nile. Wouldn’t you?” Oh God. She had done it again … been far too forthright—and desperately clumsy. There was no retracting it. Again she felt the tide of color hot in her face.

  This time Rathbone laughed outright. “Hester, my dear, don’t ever change. Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signore Belzoni, and what did he discover?”

  Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.

  It was nearly midnight when his carriage stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a cloudless night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.

  “Thank you,” she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness. It had been an i
sland of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. “Thank you, Oliver.”

  He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently, but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.

  5

  Evan found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw likenesses of both Leighton and Rhys Duff, and he and Shotts had taken them around the area of St. Giles to see if anyone recognized them. Surely two men, a generation apart, would of themselves 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 ter ask.”

  “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.”