The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

“Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I never seen ’im. ’Oo is ’e? Is ’e the bloke wot got beat ter death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I see’d Rhys, that’s ’is name, wi’ other gents, but this geezer weren’t one of ’em. They was young, like ’im. One were real ’andsome. Called ’isself ‘King’ or ‘Prince’ or summink like that. The other were Arfur.”

  “Duke, perhaps?” Monk felt his pulse beating like a hammer. This was it; this was the three of them seen together and named.

  “Yeah … that’s right! Were he a duke, for real?”

  “No. It’s just short for ‘Marmaduke.’ ”

  “Oh … shame. Like ter fink as I’d ’ad a duke. Still, never mind, eh? All the same wif their pants orff.” She laughed with genuine humor at the absurdity of pretension.

  “And they all paid you?” he pressed one more time.

  “Nah … that Duke were a nasty piece o’ work. ’E’d ’a ’it me if I’d ’a pushed, so I din’t. Jus’ took wot I could.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “Nah. I knows w’en ter push me luck an’ w’en not ter.”

  “Did you see him the night of the murder?”

  “Nah.”

  “None of them?”

  “Nah.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He produced a shilling, all the change he had left, and gave it to her.

  He continued in his search. As he was already aware, the word had spread whom he was seeking and why. For once cooperation was less grudgingly given. Once or twice it was even volunteered. He wanted one more piece, if possible. Had there been a victim that night? Had Leighton Duff caught them before they had attacked, or after? Was there any room at all for denial?

  If they had been exultant, intoxicated with the excitement of their victory, disheveled, perhaps marked with blood, then there was nothing else left to seek. Evan would have the force of the law behind him when the crime was murder of a respectable member of society rather than the rape of women whom society chose to forget, and with Monk’s help he would have proof enough for any court.

  It took him another complete day, but at last he found the second victim, a woman in her forties, still pretty in spite of her tiredness and persistent cough. Her cheekbone was broken and she limped badly. She was severely bruised. Yes, they had raped her, but she had not had the strength to fight, and that in itself had seemed to anger them. She was lucky. They had been interrupted.

  “Don’ tell anyone,” she begged. “I’ll lose me job.”

  He wished he could promise her that. He said what he could.

  “They went on to commit murder within a few minutes of leaving you,” he said grimly. “You won’t need to say you were raped. You can swear you were walking along the street and they fell on you … that will be good enough.”

  “Yeah?” She looked doubtful.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “Where was it?”

  Her voice was husky, her face pale. “Just orff Water Lane.”

  “Thank you. That will be enough … I promise.”

  It was sufficient. He would have to take it to Evan. He could not conceal it any longer. It was material evidence on the murder of Leighton Duff. If Rhys and his friends had been using prostitutes in St. Giles, which was now inarguable, and it had escalated in violence over the months, then it seemed more than likely that Leighton Duff had found out and had followed Rhys, going to St. Giles just the once. That was borne out by Monk’s lack of ability to find anyone who had recognized him. That was ample motive for the quarrel which had followed, the battle which had gone so far it could only end in the death of the one person who knew the truth of what Rhys had done … his father. Whether Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston had been present or not, what part they had played, would have to be proved.

  But Monk must go to Evan.

  First he would tell Hester. She should not learn it when Evan came to arrest Rhys. He hated having to tell her, but it would be worse if he evaded the issue. As the man in the street who had named Fanny had said, not even his worst enemies had ever accused him of cowardice.

  It was late when he arrived at Ebury Street. A sickle moon glittered in a frosty sky and over towards the east the clouds obscured the faint light and promised more snow.

  The butler opened the door and said he would enquire whether Miss Latterly was able to receive him. Ten minutes later Monk was in the library beside a very small fire when Hester came in. She looked frightened. She closed the door behind her, her eyes fixed on his face, searching.

  “What is it?” she said without preamble. “What has happened?”

  She looked so fierce and vulnerable he ached to be able to shield her from the truth, but there was no way. He could lie now, but it would open a chasm between them, and in a few hours, a day or two at most, she would learn it anyway. She would be there and see it. The shock, the sense of betrayal, would only be worse.

  “I’ve found someone who saw Rhys and Arthur and Duke Kynaston together in St. Giles,” he said quietly. He heard the regret in his own voice. It sounded harsh, as if his throat hurt. “I’m sorry. I have to take it to Evan.”

  She swallowed, her face white. “It doesn’t prove anything!” She was struggling and they both knew it.

  “Don’t, Hester,” he begged. “Rhys was there with two of his friends. Together they answer the descriptions exactly. If Leighton Duff knew, or suspected, and followed Rhys to argue with him, to try to prevent him from doing it again, then there was plenty of motive to kill him. He may even have found them immediately after they attacked the woman that night. Then they would have no defense.”

  “It … it could have been Duke or … Arthur …” Her words trailed away. There was no belief in them, or in her eyes.

  “Are they injured?” he asked gently, although he knew the answer from her face.

  She shook her head minutely. There was nothing to say. She stared at him. The facts closed in like an iron mesh, unbendable, inescapable. Her mind tried every direction, and he watched her do it and fail each time. There was no real hope in her, and gradually even the determination died.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He thought of adding how much he wished it had not been so, how hard he had looked for other answers, but she knew it already. There was no need for such explanations between them. They understood pain and reality far too well, the dull ache of knowledge that must be faced, the familiarity of pity.

  “When will you tell Evan?” she asked when she had mastered the tension in her voice, or almost.

  “I shall tell him tomorrow.”

  “I see.”

  He did not move. He did not know what to say, there was nothing, and yet he wanted to say something. He wanted to remain with her, at least to share the hurt, even though he could not ease it. Sometimes sharing was all there was left.

  “Thank you … for telling me first.” She smiled a little crookedly. “I think …”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” he said with sudden doubt. “Maybe it would have been easier for you if you had not known? Then your response would have been honest. You would not have had to wait tonight, knowing, when they didn’t. I …”

  She started to shake her head.

  “I thought honesty was best,” he went on. “Perhaps it wasn’t. I thought I knew that, now I don’t.”

  “It would have been hard either way,” she answered him, meeting his eyes with the same candor as in the past, in their best moments. “If I know, tonight will be hard, and tomorrow. But when Evan does come, then I shall have prepared myself, and I shall have the strength to help, instead of being stunned with my own shock. I shan’t be busy trying to deny it, to find arguments or ways to escape. This is best. Please don’t doubt it.”

  He hesitated for an instant, wondering if she were being brave, taking the responsibility to herself to spare his feelings. Then he looked at her again and knew it was not so. There was a kind of understanding in her which bridged the singleness of this incident
and was part of all the triumphs and disasters they had ever shared.

  He walked over to her and very gently bent forward and kissed her temple above the brow, then laid his cheek against hers, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of her hair.

  Then he turned and walked away without looking back. If he did, he might make an error he could never redeem, and he was not yet ready for that.

  9

  Evan knew that Monk had crossed into St. Giles, although, of course, they were on different cases.

  “Wot does ’e want?” Shotts said suspiciously as they were walking back towards the station.

  “To find out who raped the women in Seven Dials,” Evan replied. “It’s a problem we can’t help.”

  Shotts swore under his breath and then apologized. “Sorry, guv.”

  “You don’t need to be,” Evan said sincerely. His father might have been offended, but that case angered him so profoundly the release of shouting and using language otherwise forbidden seemed very natural. “If anyone can deal with it, it will be Monk,” he added.

  Shotts gave a snort of derision edged with something which could have been fear. “If ’e catches the bastards I’ll lay they’ll wish they were never born. I wouldn’t want Monk on my back, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  Evan looked at him curiously. “If you hadn’t done anything wrong, would he be on your back?”

  Shotts looked at him, hesitated a moment on the edge of confiding, then changed his mind.

  “ ’Course not,” he denied.

  It was a lie, at least in intent, and Evan knew it, but it was pointless to pursue. Nor was it the only time Shotts had told him something which he had later learned to be false. There was time unaccounted for, small errors of fact. He glanced sideways at Shotts’s stolid face as they crossed the street, avoiding the gutter and the horse droppings awash in the rain, ducked past a coal cart and onto the farther footpath. What else was there that he had not yet learned? Why should Shotts lie to him about anything?

  He had a sudden acutely unpleasant feeling of loneliness, as if the ground had given way beneath him and old certainties had vanished without anything to replace them. All around him was gray poverty, people whose lives were bounded by hunger, cold and danger. They were so used to it they could eat and sleep in its midst, laugh and beget children, bury their dead, steal from each other, and practice their trades and their crafts, legal or otherwise. Illegality was probably the least of their problems, except insomuch as it trespassed certain safeguards. The cardinal principle was to survive. If he had spoken to them of his father’s notion of a just God, one who loved them, he would have been greeted with utter incomprehension. Even good fairy stories had some relevance to fact, some meaning that a person could understand.

  They entered an alley too narrow to walk abreast, and Shotts went first, Evan behind him. It was a shortcut back to the main thoroughfare. They crossed a tanner’s yard stinking of hides and went through a gate that was loosely chained and into the footpath.

  Evan increased his stride and caught up with Shotts.

  “Why did you lie to me?” he said bluntly.

  Shotts tripped on the curbstone, then regained his balance and stood still.

  “Sir?”

  Evan stopped also. “Why did you lie to me?” he repeated, his voice mild, no accusation in it, simply puzzlement and curiosity.

  Shotts swallowed. “About what, sir?”

  “Lots of things: Where you were last Friday when you told me you were questioning Hattie Burrows. You weren’t, because I learned afterwards where she was, and it was not with you. About Seven Dials and the running patterer, and hearing from him the case Monk was on.”

  “That …” Shotts began. “That was a … mistake …” He did not look at Evan as he was speaking.

  “Have you a bad memory?” Evan enquired politely, in the same tone as he would have asked if Shotts liked sausages.

  Shotts was caught. To say he had would make him an unsuitable policeman. Above all, a policeman needed keen observation and an excellent memory. He had already demonstrated these qualities very effectively.

  “Well … pretty good … most of the time … sir,” he said, compromising rather well.

  “You need to have a perfect memory to be a good liar.” Evan resumed walking at a level pace, and Shotts kept up, but not looking at him. “Better than yours. Why, Shotts? Do you know something about this murder that you don’t want to tell me? Or is it something else altogether that you are hiding?”

  Shotts blushed scarlet. He must have felt the heat flush up his face, because he surrendered.

  “It’s nothing agin the law, sir, I swear it! I would never do nothing agin the law!”

  “I’m listening.” Evan kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “It’s a girl, sir, a woman. I were seein’ ’er w’en I shouldn’t ’ave. It’s me only chance, yer see, wi’ all the extra duty I been pullin’, wi’ the murder. I was … I was tryin’ ter keep ’er fam’ly out o’ it. Not that they’re in it …”

  Evan attempted to hide his smile, and only partially succeeded.

  “Oh. Why the secrecy?”

  “Mr. Runcorn wouldn’t approve, sir. I mean ter marry ’er, but I ’aven’t saved enough money yet, an’ I can’t afford ter lose me job.”

  “Then be a little more efficient with your lying, and Mr. Runcorn won’t need to find out. At least be wholehearted in your inventions.”

  Shotts stared at him.

  Evan kept on walking, coming to the crossroad and, after a brief glance to left and right, striding out, leaving Shotts on the curb as a rag-and-bone cart lumbered between them. Now he was smiling widely.

  When Evan reached the police station there was a message that Monk wanted to see him and had information to impart relevant to the Leighton Duff case of a nature which would bring to a conclusion the initial part of the enquiry. That was very strong language for Monk, who never exaggerated, and Evan went out again immediately and took a hansom to Fitzroy Street, and knocked on the door of Monk’s rooms.

  It was some time since he had been there, and he was surprised to see how comfortable they were—in fact, even inviting. He was too intent on his purpose for calling to notice more than peripherally, but he was aware of personal touches. It was not something he would have associated with Monk, it was too restful. There were antimacassars on the chair backs and a palm tree of some sort in a large brass pot. The fire was hot, as if it had been lit for some time. He found he was relaxing, in spite of himself.

  “What is it?” he asked as soon as his coat was off and even before he sat in the chair opposite Monk’s. “What have you found out? Have you proof?”

  “I have witnesses,” Monk replied, crossing his legs and leaning back, his eyes on Evan’s face. “I have several people who saw Rhys Duff in St. Giles leading up to the murder, and a prostitute he used there on several occasions. It was definitely him. She identified him from the picture you gave me, and she knew him by name, also Arthur and Duke Kynaston. I even have the last victim of rape, attacked just before the murder, only a few yards from Water Lane.”

  “She identified Rhys Duff?” Evan said incredulously. It was almost too good to be true. How had he and Shotts missed that? Were they really so inferior to Monk? Was Monk’s skill, and his ruthlessness, so much greater? Evan looked across at where Monk sat, the firelight red on his lean cheeks and casting shadows across his eyes. It was a strong, clever face, but not insensitive, not without imagination or the possibility of compassion. There was a certain darkness in it now, as if this victory destroyed as well as created. There was so much in him Evan did not understand, but it did not stop him caring. He had never been afraid to commit his friendship.

  “No,” Monk answered. “She described three men, one tall and fairly slight, one shorter and leaner built, and one of average height and thin. She did not see or remember their faces.”

  “That could be Rhys Duff and Duke and Arthur Kynasto
n, but it’s not proof,” Evan argued. “A decent defense lawyer would tear that apart.”

  Monk linked his fingers together in a steeple and stared at Evan. “When this defense lawyer you have in mind asks why on earth Rhys Duff should murder his father,” he said, “we will be able to say that Rhys was a decent, well-bred young man who, like any other of his age and class, occasionally took his pleasures with a prostitute. Simply because his father was a trifle straitlaced about such things, even a little pompous perhaps, is not cause for anything beyond a quarrel, and perhaps a reduction in his allowance. This provides the answer: Leighton Duff interrupted his son and his friends raping and beating a young woman. He was horrified and appalled. He would not accept it as part of any young man’s natural appetites. Therefore he had to be silenced.”

  Evan followed the reasoning perfectly. A possible motive had been the one thing lacking before. A quarrel was easy to understand, even a few blows struck. But a fight to the death over the issue of using a prostitute was absurd. The issue of a series of rapes of increasing violence, by three of them together, and being caught red-handed, was another matter entirely. It was repellent, and it was criminal. It was also escalating to the degree that sooner or later it would become murder. To imagine three young men, fresh from the victory of violence against a terrified victim, beating to death the one man who threatened their exposure, was sickening but not difficult to believe.

  “Yes, I see,” he agreed with a sudden sadness. They were hideous crimes, so ugly he should have been overwhelmed with revulsion and a towering anger against the young men who had committed them. Yet what filled his mind was the picture of Rhys as he had seen him on the cobbles, soaked with blood, insensible, and yet still breathing, still just barely alive.

  And then leaping to his mind came the sight of him in the hospital bed, his face swollen and blue with bruising as he opened his eyes and tried desperately to speak, choking in horror, gagging, drowning in pain.

  Evan felt no sense of victory, not even the usual loosening of tension inside himself that knowledge brought. There was no peace in this. “You had better take me to these witnesses,” he said flatly. “I presume they will tell me the same thing? Will they swear in court, do you suppose?” He did not know what he hoped. Even if they would not, nothing could alter the truth of it.