The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

“No.”

  “Or communicate in any other way?”

  “If you mean in words, no. He cannot hold a pen to write. The bones in his hands are far from healed yet. I assume from your persistence that your interest is professional? I don’t know why. Do you imagine he witnessed your attackers in Seven Dials, or that he knows who the assailants were?”

  He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, then up at her. His expression softened, the guardedness slipped away from it.

  “I would like to think he had nothing to do with them whatever.” His eyes met hers, steady and clear, jolting her suddenly with memory of how well they knew each other, what losses and victories they had shared. “Are you sure that is so?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately, then knew from his look, and from her own inner honesty, that it was not so. “No—not absolutely.” She tried again. “I don’t know what happened, except that it was very dreadful, so dreadful it has rendered him speechless.”

  “Is that genuine …? I mean to ask that truly.” He looked apologetic, unwilling to hurt. “If you say it is so, I will accept it.”

  She came farther into the room, standing closer to him. The fire in the small, carefully blacked grate burned briskly, and there were two chairs near it, but she ignored them, and so did he.

  “Yes,” she said with complete certainty this time. “If you had seen him in nightmare, trying desperately to cry out, you would know it as I do.”

  His face reflected his acceptance, but there was a sadness in it also which frightened her. It was a tenderness, something she did not often see in him, an unguarded emotion.

  “Have you found evidence?” she asked, her voice-catching. “Do you know something about it?”

  “No.” His expression did not change. “But the suggestions are increasing.”

  “What? What suggestions?”

  “I’m sorry, Hester. I wish it were not so.”

  “What suggestions?” Her voice was rising a little higher. It was mostly fear for Rhys, but also it was the gentleness in Monk’s eyes. It was too fragile to grasp, too precious to break, like a perfect reflection in water—touch it and it shatters. “What have you learned?”

  “That the three men who attacked these women were gentlemen, well dressed, arriving in cabs, sometimes together, sometimes separately, leaving in a hansom, nearly always together.”

  “That’s nothing to do with Rhys!” She knew she was interrupting and that he would not have mentioned it had he no more than that. She just found it impossible to hear him out, the thought hurt so much. She could see he knew that, and that he hated doing it. The warmth in his eyes she would hoard up like a memory of joy, a sweet light in darkness.

  “One of them was tall and slender,” he went on.

  The description fitted Rhys. They both knew it.

  “The other two were of average height, one stockier, the other rather thin,” he went on quietly.

  The coals settled in the fire and neither of them noticed. There were footsteps down the corridor outside, but they passed without stopping.

  Monk had not seen Arthur and Duke Kynaston, but Hester had. Glimpsed hastily, hurrying in a dark street, it could very well be them. A coldness filled her. She tried to shut it out, but memory was vivid of the cruelty in Rhys’s eyes, the sense of power as he had hurt Sylvestra, his smile afterwards, his relish in it. It had not happened only once, a mistake, an aberration. He exulted in his power to hurt. She had tried not to believe it, but in Monk’s presence it was impossible. She could be furious with him, she could despise elements in him, she could disagree violently; but she could not intentionally harm him, and she could not lie. To build that barrier between them would be unbearable, like denying part of herself. The protection must be emotional, self-chosen, not to divide them but merely to cover from a pain too real.

  He moved towards her. He was so close she could smell the damp wool of his coat where the rain had caught his collar.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t turn aside because he’s injured now or because he is your patient. If he had been alone, perhaps I could, but there are the other two.”

  “I can’t believe Arthur Kynaston was involved.” She met his eyes. “I would have to see proof that could not be argued. I would have to hear him admit it. Duke I do not know about.”

  “It could have been Rhys, Duke and someone else,” he pointed out.

  “Then why is Leighton Duff dead and Duke Kynaston unhurt?”

  He put out a hand as if to touch her, then let it fall.

  “Because Leighton Duff guessed there was something profoundly wrong, and he followed them and challenged his son,” he answered gravely, a pucker between his brows. “The one with whom he was most concerned, the one for whom he cared. And Rhys lost his temper, perhaps high on whiskey, fueled by guilt and fear and a belief in his own power. The others ran off. The result is what Evan found … two men who began a fight and couldn’t stop it, short of the death of one of them and the near-mortal injury of the other.”

  She shook her head, but it was to close out the vision, to defend herself from it, not because she could deny its possibility.

  This time he did put his hands on her shoulders, very gently, not to hold her, simply to touch.

  She stared at the floor, refusing to look up at him.

  “And perhaps some men of the area, husbands or lovers of the last victim, brothers, or even friends, caught up with them. They had stopped running for too long … and it was they who beat them both. Rhys cannot tell us … even if he wanted to.”

  There was nothing to say. The impulse was to deny it, and that was pointless.

  “I don’t know any way to find out,” she said defensively.

  “I know.” He smiled very slightly. “And if you did, you wouldn’t … until you had to know, for yourself. You would have to prove him innocent … and when you proved him guilty, you would say nothing, and I would know anyway.”

  She raised her eyes quickly. “No, you wouldn’t. Not if I chose to conceal it.”

  He hesitated, then stepped back half a pace.

  “I would know,” he repeated. “Why? Would you defend him for it? I should take you to see these women, beaten by poverty, dirt, ignorance, and now beaten by three young gentlemen who are bored by their comfortable lives and want a little more dangerous entertainment, something to make the heart beat a trifle faster and bring the blood to the head.” His voice was hard in his throat with outrage, a deep and abiding hurt he felt for the injured. “Some of them are no more than children. At their age you were in the schoolroom wearing a pinafore and doing your sums, and your most urgent distress was being forced to eat your rice pudding.” He was exaggerating and he knew it, but it hardly mattered. The essence was real. “You wouldn’t defend that, Hester.… you couldn’t. You have more honor, more imagination than that.”

  She turned away. “Of course I do. But you haven’t seen Rhys’s pain now. Judgment is fine when you only know one side. It is much harder when you know the offender, and, like him, feel his pain too.”

  He stood close behind her. “I was not concerned with ease, only what was right. Sometimes we cannot have both. I know some people don’t understand that, or accept it, but you do. You have always been able to face the truth, no matter what it was. You will do it this time.”

  There was certainty in his voice, no doubt at all. She was Hester, reliable, strong, virtuous Hester. No need to protect her from pain or danger. No need even to worry about her.

  She wanted to lash out angrily at him for taking her for granted. She was exactly like anybody else inside, like any other woman. She ached to be protected sometimes, to be cherished and have ugliness and danger warded off by someone else, not because he thought she could not bear it but because he did not wish her hurt.

  But she could not possibly say that to him … not to Monk, of all people. To be worth anything at all, it had to be offered freely. It must be his wish, even his
need. If she had been one of the fragile, warm, feminine women he so admired, he would have done it instinctively.

  What could she say? She was so angry and confused and hurt, words tumbled over each other in her mind, and all of them were useless, only betraying what she felt, which was the last thing she wished him to know. She could protect herself at least as much as that.

  “Of course,” she said stiffly, her voice thick in her throat. “There is little point in doing anything else, is there?” She moved another step away from him, her shoulders rigid, as if she would flinch were he to touch her. “I imagine I shall endure whatever it is. I shall have no alternative.”

  “You’re angry,” he said with a lift of surprise.

  “Nonsense!” He was missing the point entirely. It had nothing to do with Rhys Duff or who had beaten the women. It was his assumption that she could be treated like another man, that she could and should always look after herself. She could. But that was not the point either.

  “Hester!”

  She had her back to him but he sounded patient and reasonable. It was like vinegar on the wound.

  “Hester, I’m not choosing it to be Rhys. I’ll look for any other possibility as well.”

  “I know you will.”

  Now he was puzzled. “Then what the devil more do you want of me? I cannot alter what happened, nor will I settle for less than the truth. I can’t save Rhys from himself, and I can’t save his mother … if that is what you want.”

  She swung around.

  “It isn’t what I want! And I don’t expect anything of you. Heavens above! I’ve known you long enough now to be precisely aware of what I shall get from you.” The words poured out of her, and even as she heard them, she wished she had kept silent, not made herself so obvious and so vulnerable. He would read her plainly now. He would hardly be able to help it.

  He was dumbfounded and annoyed. His face showed the only too familiar marks of temper. A veil came over his eyes, the gentleness hidden.

  “Then our conversation seems to be pointless,” he said grimly. “We understand each other perfectly, and there is no more to be said.” He gave a little gesture, rather less than a bow. “Thank you for sparing your time. Good day.” He walked out, leaving her miserable and equally angry.

  Later in the afternoon Arthur Kynaston called again, this time accompanied by his elder brother, Duke. Hester saw them as they crossed the hall from the library to go upstairs.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly,” Arthur said cheerfully. He glanced down at the book she was carrying. “Is that one for Rhys? How is he?”

  Duke was behind him, a larger and stronger version of his brother, heavier shouldered. He had walked in with more grace, something of a swagger. His face was broader boned, more traditionally handsome but perhaps less individual. He had the same soft, wavy hair with a touch of auburn in it. He was now regarding Hester with impatience. It was not she they had come to see.

  Arthur turned around. “Oh, Duke, this is Miss Latterly, who is looking after Rhys.”

  “Good,” Duke said abruptly. “We’ll carry the book up for you.” He held out his hand for it. It was rather more a demand than an offer.

  Hester felt an instant dislike for him. If these were indeed the young men Monk was looking for, then he was responsible not only for the brutal attacks on the women but for the ruin of his brother and of Rhys.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kynaston,” she replied coldly, making an immediate change of mind. “It is not for Rhys; I intend reading it myself.”

  He looked at it. “It is a history of the Ottoman Empire,” he said with a slight smile.

  “A most interesting people,” she observed. “Last time I was in Istanbul I found much of great beauty. I should like to know more about it. They were a generous people in many respects, with a culture of great subtlety and complexity.” It was also cruel beyond her understanding, but that was irrelevant just now.

  Duke looked taken aback. It was not the reply he had expected, but he regained his composure rapidly.

  “Is there much call for domestic servants in Istanbul? I would have thought most people would have employed natives, especially for fetching and carrying.”

  “I imagine they do.” She answered him without looking at Arthur. “I was too busy to think of such things. I left my own lady’s maid in London. I did not think it was any place for her, and it was quite unfair to ask her to go.” She smiled back at him. “I have always believed consideration for one’s servants is the mark of the gentleman … or lady, as the case may be. Don’t you agree?”

  “You had a lady’s maid?” he said incredulously. “Whatever for?”

  “If you ask your mother, Mr. Kynaston, I am sure she will acquaint you with the duties of a lady’s maid,” she answered, tucking the book under her arm. “They are many and varied, and I am sure you do not wish to keep Mr. Duff waiting.” And before he could find a reply to that, she smiled charmingly at Arthur and went up the stairs ahead of them, her temper still seething.

  An hour later there was a knock on her door, and when she opened it, Arthur Kynaston was standing on the threshold.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “He can be awfully rude. There’s no excuse for him. May I come in and speak with you?”

  “Of course.” She could not have refused him anyway, and Monk was right, she would search for the truth, however much against her will, hoping with every step that it would prove Rhys innocent, but compelled to know it anyway. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced around in curiosity, then blushed. “I wanted to ask you if Rhys really is getting better, and if …” His brows furrowed and his eyes darkened. “If he’s going to speak again. Is he, Miss Latterly?”

  Instantly she wondered if it was fear she saw in him. What was it Rhys would say if he could speak? Was that why Duke Kynaston was there, to see if Rhys was any danger to him … and perhaps to ensure that he was not? Should she leave them alone with him? He could not even cry out. He was utterly at their mercy.

  No, that was a hideous thought. And nonsense. If anything happened to him while they were there, they would certainly be blamed for it. There was no way they could explain or escape. They must know that as surely as she did. Was Duke alone with him now? Instinctively she turned towards the connecting door.

  “What is it?” Arthur asked quickly.

  “Oh.” She turned back to him, forcing herself to smile. Was she virtually alone with a young man who had raped and beaten a dozen or more women, and were there two more only the thickness of the door away? She should be frightened, not for them but of them … for herself. She collected her wits. “I wish I could give you more hope, Mr. Kynaston …” She must protect Rhys. “But there is no sign at all. I am so sorry.”

  He looked stricken, as if she had destroyed a hope in him.

  “What happened to him?” he said, shaking his head a little. “How was he hurt that he can’t speak? Why can’t Dr. Wade do anything for him? Is it something broken? It should heal then, shouldn’t it?”

  He looked as if he cared intensely. She found it almost impossible to believe his wide stare concealed guilt.

  “It is not physical.” She answered with the truth before weighing if it was the wisest thing to do. Now she could not stop. “Whatever he saw that night was so fearful it has affected his mind.”

  Arthur’s eyes brightened. “So he could regain his speech any day?”

  What should she say? What was best for Rhys?

  Arthur was watching her, the anxiety clouding over his face again.

  “Couldn’t he?” he repeated.

  “It is possible,” she said cautiously. “But don’t expect it yet. It can take a long time.”

  “It’s awful!” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Rhys used to be such fun, you know?” He looked at her earnestly, willing her to understand. “We did all kinds of things together, he and I … and Duke some of the time. Rhys had a great sense of adventure. He coul
d be terribly brave—and make us all laugh.” His face was full of distress. “Can you think of anything worse than having hundreds of things to say and lying alone not able to say a single one of them? Thinking of something funny and not being able to share it? What’s the point of a joke if you can’t tell it to people and watch their faces as they grasp it? You can’t share anything beautiful, or awful, or even ask for help, or say you are hungry or scared rigid.” He shook his head a little. “How do you even know what he wants? You might be giving him rice pudding when he’s asking for bread and butter.”

  “It is not as bad as that,” she said gently, although in essence it was true. Rhys could not share his real pain or terror. “I can ask him questions, and he can answer with a nod or a shake. I’m getting quite good at guessing what he would like.”

  “It’s hardly the same, though, is it?” he said with a sudden touch of bitterness. “Will he ever be able to ride a horse again, or race one? Will he dance or be able to play cards? He used to be so quick with cards. He could shuffle them faster than anyone else. It made Duke furious, because he couldn’t match it. Can’t you do anything to help, Miss Latterly? It’s awful standing by like this and simply watching him. I feel so … useless.”

  “You are not useless,” she assured him. “Your visits are greatly encouraging. Friendship always helps.”

  His smile came and vanished in a moment. “Then I suppose I’ll go back and talk to him a while. Thank you.”

  But he did not remain as long as usual, and when Hester went in to see Rhys after Arthur and Duke had left, she found him staring at the ceiling, his eyes thoughtful, his lips pursed in an expression of withdrawn unhappiness she had come to know well. She could only guess what had disturbed him. She did not want to ask; it might only make things worse. Perhaps seeing Duke Kynaston, less tactful than his brother, had reminded him of the past when they had all been virile, a little reckless, thinking themselves capable of anything. The other two still were. Rhys entertained them lying silently on a bed. He could not even offer wit or interest.

  Or was it memory of an appalling secret they all shared?