The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

  “Yes … more or less.” It was a terrible admission, and she could not make it easily. Her voice sounded tight and brittle.

  “I see.” He sat silently for several moments, deep in thought, and she did not interrupt him. He looked up. “Have they anything to link Rhys or his companions—Who are they, do you know?”

  “Yes, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston. They answer the descriptions given, and one girl, who actually named Rhys, named them also—Arthur and Duke. Marmaduke is known as Duke.”

  “I see.” He nodded very slightly. “Were they injured at the time Rhys was, do you know?”

  “Yes, I do know, and no, they do not appear to have been.” She realized what he was thinking. “But that only makes them cowards as well.”

  “I am afraid so. But can anyone place any of the three in Seven Dials or connect them to the earlier rapes?”

  “Not so far as I know.”

  “And is there evidence to prove these rapes are not random, committed by several people? There must be many rapes in London in a week.”

  “I don’t think many are carried out by three men together, answering the descriptions of one tall and slight, one average and one slender, and all three gentlemen, arriving and leaving by hansom,” she said bleakly.

  He sighed. “You sound as if you believe him guilty, Hester. Do you?”

  She did not want to answer. Now that the question was put so bluntly, and she faced Rathbone’s clever, subtle gaze, which would not permit evasion and in front of which she could not lie, she must make a decision.

  He waited.

  “He says he didn’t,” she answered very slowly, choosing her words. “I am not sure what he remembers. It frightens him, horrifies him. I think maybe when he says that, he is saying what he wishes were true. Perhaps he does not entirely know.”

  “But you think physically, for whatever reason, he committed the act,” he said.

  “Yes … yes, I think so. I can’t avoid it.”

  “Then what is it you wish me to do?”

  “Help him … I …” Now she realized how much she was being emotional rather than rational, not only regarding Rhys but in her plea to Rathbone as well. Still, she could not turn aside from doing it, even now that she was aware. “Please, Oliver? I don’t know how it happened, or why he should have let himself fall into such a desperate situation. I … I can’t argue anything in mitigation for him … I don’t know what there is, I just have to believe there is something.” She looked at his face with its humor and intelligence, sometimes so cool—and just now, gazing back at her, so gentle.

  She forced herself to think of Rhys, his terror, his helplessness.

  “Maybe it is not justice I’m asking for, but mercy? He needs someone to speak for him …” She gave a painful little laugh. “Even literally. I don’t believe he’s purely evil. I’ve spent too many hours with him, close to him. I’ve watched his pain. If he did these things, there must be some reason, at least some cause … I mean …”

  “You mean insanity,” he finished for her.

  “No, I don’t …”

  “Yes, you do, my dear.” His voice was very patient, trying not to hurt her more than he had to. “A young man doesn’t rape and beat women he doesn’t know, then murder his father because he found out, if he is anything that ordinary men and women would recognize as sane. Whether the law will make the same nature of distinction I don’t know. I very much doubt it.” His eyes were filled with sadness. “It is precise as to what insanity is, and the fact that Rhys attacked his father suggests he knew very well that his violence against the women was wrong, which is what the law will view. He knew what he was doing, and that is the crucial factor.”

  “But there must be something else,” she said desperately. “I can’t let it go at that. I’ve watched him too long …”

  He rose to his feet and came around the desk towards her. “Then let me make arrangements to come and see him for myself—that is, if Mrs. Duff wishes me to represent him …”

  “He’s not underage!” she said hotly, rising also. “It is if he wants you to!”

  He smiled with dry, rueful amusement. “My dear Hester, if he cannot speak or write, and has no occupation of his own, he will not only have very little power to defend himself, he will have no financial means.”

  “His father is—was—wealthy. He will have been left provided for,” she protested.

  “Not if he killed his father, Hester. You know that as well as I do. If he is convicted of the crime, he cannot inherit.”

  She was furious. “You mean he cannot have a defense because if he is found guilty he will not be able to pay? That is monstrous.” She was so angry she almost choked on the words. “It’s …”

  He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her so firmly she was obliged to face him.

  “I did not say that, Hester. I think you know me better than to imagine I work only for money.…”

  She swallowed. She had cause to be ashamed. She had come to plead with him to take on an impossible case because she believed he would.

  “I am sorry.”

  “But I do work within the law,” he finished. “In the circumstances, I shall have to speak first to his mother.” His lips twisted with genuine humor. “Although I imagine that with you in the house, and doubtless in charge, I shall find her cooperative.”

  She blushed. “Thank you, Oliver.”

  He said nothing, but made a little sound of acquiescence.

  It was mid-evening before Rathbone arrived at Ebury Street. Hester had informed Sylvestra of his willingness at least to consider the case, and Sylvestra had been too confused and unhappy to argue. She had consulted her own solicitor, a mild man skilled in the matters of property, inheritance and finance, and totally out of his depth where the criminal law was concerned. He was willing to engage anyone recommended to him who was willing to undertake such an unpromising cause.

  “Sir Oliver Rathbone,” the butler announced, and Rathbone came into the withdrawing room almost on his heels. He was as elegant as always, with the ease of someone who knows his own power and feels no need to impress.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Duff,” he said with a very slight smile. “Miss Latterly.”

  “How do you do, Sir Oliver,” Sylvestra replied with a commendable calm she could not have felt. “It is good of you to have come. I am not sure what you can do for my son. Miss Latterly speaks most highly of you, but I fear our situation may be beyond any help. Please do sit down.” She indicated the chair opposite and he accepted.

  Hester sat on the sofa, a little removed from them, but where she could watch both their faces.

  “One does not always know what a defense will be until one begins, Mrs. Duff,” Rathbone replied calmly. “May I assume that you wish your son to have any assistance that is possible, in his present tragic circumstances?” He looked at her patiently, gently, as if his words had been a simple question and without pressure.

  “Yes …” she said slowly. “Yes, of course. I …” Her face was composed, but it was plain from the shadows under her eyes and the fine lines of stress around her lips that the effort cost her very dearly. It would be inconceivable that it should not.

  Rathbone smiled immediately. “Of course, you cannot yet see what can be done. I admit, neither can I, but that is not unusual. Whatever the truth of the matter may prove to be, we must see that, as much as possible, both justice and mercy are served. That cannot be unless Mr. Duff is represented by someone who will fight as hard for him as if he believed him valuable, capable of hope and of pain, and deserving every opportunity to explain himself.”

  Sylvestra frowned. “You are already a brilliant advocate for him, Sir Oliver. I could not possibly disagree with anything you have said. No one could.” She sat without moving, a touch of immobility in spite of the emotion which must be tearing inside her. It was an extraordinary self-discipline, learned over the years, to have the strength to apply now. “What confuses me is why you shou
ld wish to represent my son,” she continued. “And it is obvious from your presence here, let alone your words, that you do. I know better than to imagine you are some young man seeking to make a career and a name for himself … not that you would choose this case if you were. Nor are you so hungry for business that you would pursue any case at all. Why my son, Sir Oliver?”

  Rathbone smiled, and there was a very faint touch of color in his cheeks.

  “For Miss Latterly’s sake, Mrs. Duff. She feels very strongly for Rhys’s plight, regardless of whether he should prove guilty of this or not. She persuaded me that he needs the best defense he can obtain. With your agreement, I shall do all in my power to see that he has it.”

  Hester felt the blood burn up her own face and she looked away, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes, in case he should glance in her direction. She had used his feeling for her, perhaps even misled him, because she was uncertain of her own emotions. She was guilty, but she did not regret it. She would do the same again. If she did not fight for Rhys, there was no one else who could.

  Sylvestra relaxed at last, the rigidity easing out of her shoulders.

  “Thank you, Sir Oliver, both for your honesty and for your compassion for my son. I fear there will be few others, if any at all, who will feel the same for him. He … he will be regarded … I think … as a monster.” She stopped abruptly, unable to go on. The words were too hard, too painfully true, and it was a future which loomed within days, not weeks. It would be the pattern of life from then on. The world would be changed forever.

  Hester wanted to argue, just to offer any comfort at all, but it would be a lie, and they all knew it. Anything she said would only belittle the truth and imply that she did not understand.

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “It will be my task to see that everything that can be said for him is put as eloquently as possible, Mrs. Duff. Now, I would like to speak to Rhys myself. Perhaps you would allow Miss Latterly to take me upstairs.”

  Sylvestra rose also, taking a step forward.

  Rathbone held up his hand in a very slight gesture.

  “If you please, Mrs. Duff, I require to see him in effect alone. What passes between a barrister and his client is privileged and must be confidential. Miss Latterly will be party to it only in her capacity as his nurse, in case he should become distressed and need her. She will be bound by the same absolute rules.”

  Sylvestra looked taken aback.

  “It is necessary,” he assured her. “Otherwise I cannot proceed.”

  Reluctantly she fell back, her face still filled with uncertainty, her eyes moving from Rathbone to Hester.

  “I shall see he is not distressed more than is absolutely necessary in order to learn what we must,” Hester promised.

  “Do you really think …” Sylvestra began, then faltered. She was afraid. It was stark in her eyes; she was afraid of the truth. She hesitated on the brink of telling Rathbone not to seek it. She turned to Hester.

  Hester smiled at her, pretending she did not understand, and walked to the door.

  She led Rathbone upstairs and after a knock on Rhys’s door, merely as a courtesy, she led him in.

  “Rhys, this is Sir Oliver Rathbone. He is going to speak for you in court.”

  Rhys stared at her, then at Rathbone. He was lying on his back, propped up on pillows as she had left him, his splinted hands on the covers in front of him. He looked frightened and stiff.

  “How do you do,” Rathbone said with a smile and an inclination of his head, as if Rhys had replied quite normally. “May I sit down?”

  Rhys nodded, then looked at Hester.

  “Would you prefer me to leave?” she asked. “I can go next door and you can knock the bell off if you need me.”

  He shook his head immediately and she could sense his anxiety, his loneliness, his feeling almost of drowning under the weight of confusion inside him. She retreated to the corner of the room and sat down.

  “You must be honest with me,” Rathbone began quietly. “Everything you tell me will remain in confidence, if you wish it. I am bound by law not to act other than in your interests, as long as I remain honest myself. I cannot lie, but I can and will keep anything secret, if that is what you wish.”

  Rhys nodded.

  “The same applies to Miss Latterly. That is her bond as well as mine.”

  Rhys stared at him.

  “Do you know what happened the night your father was killed?”

  Rhys winced and seemed to shrink within himself, but he did not move his eyes from Rathbone’s face, and he nodded slowly.

  “Good. I know you can indicate only yes or no. I shall ask you questions and if you can answer them so, then do. If you cannot, then wait, and I shall reword them.” He hesitated only a moment. “Did you go with your friends, Arthur and Duke Kynaston, to the area of St. Giles, and when there use the services of prostitutes?”

  Rhys bit his lip, and then nodded, a dull flush of pink in his cheeks. His eyes remained steady on Rathbone’s face.

  “Did you at any time injure any of these women, or fight with them, even accidentally?”

  Rhys shook his head violently.

  “Did either Arthur or Duke Kynaston do so?”

  Rhys remained still.

  “Do you know if they did or not?”

  Rhys shook his head.

  “Did you also go with them to Seven Dials?”

  Rhys nodded very slowly, uncertainly.

  “You want to add something?” Rathbone asked. “Did you go often?”

  Rhys shook his head.

  “Only a few times?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you injure any women there?”

  Again Rhys shook his head, sharply, his eyes angry.

  “Did your father go with you?”

  Rhys’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “No,” Rathbone answered his own question. “But he knew you went, and he did not approve?”

  Rhys nodded, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. There was rage in it and hurt and a blazing frustration. He tried to speak, his throat muscles knotting, his head jerking forward.

  Hester started up from her chair, then realized she must not interrupt. She might protect him for the moment—and damage him for all the future. Rathbone must learn all he could, however painful.

  “Did you quarrel about it?” Rathbone continued.

  Rhys nodded slowly.

  “Here at home?”

  He nodded.

  “And when you went to St. Giles the night of his death?”

  Again the sharp, violent movement of denial and the jolt forward as if he would laugh, had he the power.

  “Did you quarrel about something else?”

  Rhys’s eyes filled with tears and he banged his broken hands up and down on the bedclothes, his body locked in an inner pain far worse than the sickening jolting of the bones.

  Rathbone turned to Hester, his face white.

  She moved forward.

  “Rhys!” she said sharply. She sat down on the bed and took hold of his wrists, trying to force him to be still, but his muscles were clenched so hard she could not. He was stronger than she had expected, and his whole body was caught in the emotion. “Rhys!” she said again, more urgently. “Stop it! You’ll move the bones again. I know you think you don’t care, but you do. Please …”

  He unclenched his muscles slowly, and the tears spilled over his cheeks. He stared at her, then turned away, and she saw only the back of his head.

  “Rhys,” she said firmly. “Did you kill your father?”

  There was a long silence. Neither Hester nor Rathbone moved. Then slowly he turned back to her and shook his head, his eyes intent on her face.

  “But you know who did?” she pressed.

  This time he refused to answer even by a look.

  She turned to Rathbone.

  “All right, for now,” he conceded, standing up. “I will consider what to do. Try to rest and recover as much as you can. You will need
your strength when the time comes. I will do everything I can to help you, that I promise.”

  Rhys looked at him without blinking and Rathbone looked back for a long moment, then with a slight smile, not of hope but only of a kind of warmth, he turned and left the room.

  Outside on the landing, he waited until Hester joined him and closed the door.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  “I may have been a little rash,” he acknowledged with a tiny shrug, his voice so low she could only just hear him.

  Her heart sank. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope. She realized just how much she trusted him, how deep her confidence ran that he could accomplish even the impossible. She had not been fair to lay such a burden on him. She had seen people do it to doctors, and then they had struggled under the weight of impossible hope, and then the despair which followed, and the guilt. Now she had done the same thing to Rathbone because she wanted it so much for Rhys.

  “I am sorry,” she said humbly. “I know there may not be anything to be done.”

  “There’ll be something,” he replied with a tiny frown between his brows, as if he were puzzled. “I am confused by him. I went in persuaded by circumstance and evidence of his guilt. Now that I have spoken to him, I don’t know what to think. I am not even sure what other possibilities there are. Why will he not answer as to who killed his father, if it was not him? Why will he not say what they quarreled over? You saw his face when I asked.”

  She had no suggestions to give. She had lain awake and racked her brains night after night searching for the same answers herself.

  “The only thing I can imagine is that he is defending someone,” she said quietly. “And the only people he would defend are his family or close friends. I cannot see Arthur Kynaston doing this, and Rhys’s only family here is his mother.”

  “What do you know of his mother?” he asked, glancing towards the hall below them as he heard footsteps crossing it and fading away in the direction of the baize door through to the servants’ quarters. “Is it conceivable she has done something and that Rhys is willing to suffer even this to protect her?”