by Anne Perry
She hesitated. At first she had thought to deny even the possibility. She could recall far too vividly Rhys’s anger with Sylvestra, the joy he had taken in hurting her. Of course, he could not be protecting her. Then she realized that neither love nor guilt were always so clear. It was possible he loved and hated her at the same time, that he knew something which he would never betray, but that he still despised her for it.
“I don’t know,” she said aloud. “The more I think of it, the less sure I am. But I have no idea what.”
He was looking at her closely. “Haven’t you?”
“No. Of course not. If I knew I would tell you.”
He nodded. “Then if we are to help Rhys, we are going to have to know more than we do now. Since he cannot tell us, and I imagine Mrs. Duff either cannot or will not, we shall have to employ some other means.” A flicker of amusement touched his lips, “I know of none better than Monk, if he will consent to it and Mrs. Duff is prepared to agree.”
“Surely she cannot refuse?” Hester said, fearing as she spoke that Sylvestra might very well. “I mean … unless … without suggesting she fears there is something even worse to conceal?”
“I shall frame it so she will find it extremely difficult to refuse,” he promised. “I should also like to speak with Arthur and Duke Kynaston. What can you tell me about them?”
“I find it hard to believe Arthur is the chief protagonist in this,” she said sincerely. “He has honesty in him, an openness I could not but like. His elder brother Marmaduke is a different matter.” She bit her lip. “I should find it far easier to imagine he reacted with violence if challenged or criticized, and certainly if he felt himself in any danger. His words are quick enough to attempt to hurt.” Honesty compelled her to go on. “But he has been here to visit Rhys, and he certainly was not involved in a fight of anything like the proportions that killed Leighton Duff and left Rhys like this. I wish I could say that he was.”
Rathbone smiled. “I can see that, my dear, and hear it in your voice. Nevertheless, I shall visit them. I must begin somewhere, apart from engaging Monk. Perhaps we had better go and set Mrs. Duff’s mind at ease that at least we shall begin and give the battle all we have.”
Rathbone did as he had said, and asked Sylvestra’s permission to employ someone to learn more of the events with the view to helping Rhys, not simply to find material proof, as the police had done. He phrased his request in such a way she could scarcely refuse him without appearing to wish to abandon Rhys—and to have something of her own to conceal. He also asked her for the address of the Kynaston family, and she explained that Joel Kynaston had known Rhys since childhood and she was certain he would offer any assistance within his power.
After Rathbone had left she turned to Hester, her face pale and tense.
“Is there really anything he can do, Miss Latterly? Or are we simply fighting a battle we must lose, because to do less would be cowardly and a betrayal of courage and the sense of honor we admire? Please answer me honestly. I would rather have truth now. The time for reassuring lies, however well meant, is past. I need to know the truth in order to make the decisions I must.”
“I don’t know,” Hester said honestly. “We can none of us know until the case is heard and concluded. I have seen several trials, many of which have ended far from the way we had expected and believed. Never give up until there is nothing else left to try and it is all over. We are very far from that point now. Believe me, if anyone can mitigate even the worst circumstances, it is Sir Oliver.”
Sylvestra’s face softened in a smile, sadness touching her eyes.
“You are very fond of him, aren’t you.” It was barely a question.
Hester felt the heat in her face.
“Yes … yes, I have a high regard for him.” The words sounded stilted and absurd, so very halfhearted, and Rathbone deserved better than that. But the shadow of Monk was too sharp in her mind to allow Sylvestra to misunderstand, as she seemed willing to do. It was not difficult to comprehend. Love was one sweet and gentle thing, one thing which led on into the future in a world which for Sylvestra was full of darkness and violence and the ending of all the peace and hope she knew.
“I …” Hester started again. “I do have a great … regard for him.”
Sylvestra was too sensitive to probe any further, and Hester excused herself, saying she must go up and see how Rhys was.
She found him lying exactly as she had left him, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open. She sat down on the bed.
“We won’t give up,” she said quietly.
He looked at her, searching her face, then suddenly anger twisted his features and he swung his head away.
She thought of getting up and leaving. Perhaps he would rather be alone. Then she looked at him more closely and saw the despair beneath the anger, and she could not leave. She simply sat and waited, silent and helpless. At least he knew she cared enough to remain.
It was the middle of the evening when Rathbone returned. He was shown into the dining room, where Hester and Sylvestra were picking at dinner, pushing it around the plate in an attempt to eat sufficient not to offend the cook.
Rathbone came in looking grave, and immediately both of them stopped.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver,” Sylvestra said huskily. “Have you … learned something? May I offer you something to eat? If you would like to dine … I …” Her voice trailed off and she stared up at him, too frightened of what he was going to say to continue.
He sat down but declined to eat. “No, I have not learned anything new, Mrs. Duff. I have been to speak to Mr. Kynaston, in the hope that he might shed some light on what has happened. He has known your family for twenty-five years, I believe. I also intend to meet his sons, who were with Rhys in St. Giles. I wanted to form some opinion as to whether we should call them to testify. I imagine the prosecution may do that anyway.”
Sylvestra swallowed and seemed almost to choke.
“You speak in the past, Sir Oliver, as if it were no longer true. Do you mean that Joel Kynaston is so … so repelled by what Rhys has done, that he will not … that what he says will … will hurt Rhys?”
“It is not favorable, Mrs. Duff,” Rathbone said unhappily. “I tell you because I wonder if there is some reason you are aware of why Mr. Kynaston may have such a view. He expressed the opinion that Rhys has been a poor influence upon his sons, especially the elder, Marmaduke, whom he feels has led a more”—he hesitated, searching for the right word—“libertine life than he would have done without Rhys’s example and encouragement.”
Hester was amazed. The arrogance in Duke Kynaston had been so apparent, as had the natural assumption of leadership, that it was inconceivable to her that Rhys had influenced him and not the other way around. But then she had not known Rhys before the incident. She hardly knew Duke at present. All she had seen of him was a young man’s swagger and bravado, and a considerable rudeness to one he felt his social and intellectual inferior.
She looked at Sylvestra to try to judge the surprise in her face.
“Joel Kynaston is a very strict man,” Sylvestra said thoughtfully, staring not at Rathbone but down at her plate. “He believes in great self-discipline, especially among the young. It is the foundation of strong character. It is what courage and honor are built upon, and without it all else may fail, eventually.” Her voice was careful, full of long-held, familiar conviction. “I have heard him say so many times. He is much admired for it. It may appear like hardness to others, but in his position, if he were to make exceptions, be seen to be lenient towards one, it would invalidate the principles for which he stands.” Her face was intent, but there was a slight frown between her brows, as if she were concentrating on what she was saying and it flowed from memory rather than understanding.
“And he felt Rhys set a poor example?” Rathbone said gently. “Was he not a good student?”
Sylvestra looked surprised. “Yes, he was excellent. But it was not only in aca
demic studies Joel felt passionately—above all, it was moral worth. His school has a very high reputation, and it is largely due to his own example.” She looked down at her hands. “Sometimes I think he expected too much of boys, forgetting they cannot have the strength of character one would hope of men. He did not understand the need of youth to discover boundaries for itself. Rhys was … an explorer … of thought, I mean. At least …” She gave up suddenly, her lip trembling. “I am not sure what I do mean.” She swallowed and regained control with an intense effort. “I am sorry. I know my husband had a deep respect for Joel Kynaston. He believed him a most remarkable man.” She hurried on, as if she feared interruption. “I should not be surprised that Joel feels his dead? profoundly and cannot forgive anyone who was involved in causing it. I am sorry, Sir Oliver, but you will have to look elsewhere for anyone to help us.”
Before Rathbone could answer her, the door opened and Corriden Wade came in. He looked deeply concerned, his face was gaunt as if he had slept little, and there was a tension in him which was apparent even before he spoke. He looked at Rathbone with surprise and some anxiety.
Sylvestra stood up immediately and went over to Wade, relief and expectation in her eyes.
“Corriden, this is Sir Oliver Rathbone, whom I have engaged to defend Rhys. We are searching for anything whatever which may help. He has spoken to Joel, but it seems Joel feels Rhys was an unfortunate influence upon Arthur and Duke, and being the man he is, he cannot speak anything but the truth. I suppose I should admire him for that, and if it were of anyone else, I should be the first to applaud him.” She bit her lip. “Which proves what a hypocrite I am, because I cannot. I wish desperately that he could bend a little, I suppose be less honorable. Isn’t that a dreadful thing to say? I never thought I would hear myself say such a thing. You will be ashamed of me.”
Wade put his arm around her.
“Never, my dear. It is only human to wish to protect those one loves, especially when there is no one else to do so. You are his mother. I should expect no less of you.” He glanced at Rathbone, looking past Sylvestra. “How do you do, sir. I am Corriden Wade, physician to the family, and at present Rhys is in my care for his physical needs.” He nodded towards Hester. “And Miss Latterly’s care, of course. She has done excellently well for him.”
Rathbone had risen when Sylvestra did; now he came forward and bowed in acknowledgment of Wade’s introduction.
“How do you do, Dr. Wade. I am very pleased you have come. We shall need your medical assistance when the time comes. I believe you have known Rhys a long time?”
“Since he was a small child,” Wade answered. He looked worried, as if he feared what Rathbone might ask him. “I wish, more intensely than you can know, that I could offer some testimony which would mitigate this appalling tragedy, but I have been unable to think of any.” He still had his arm resting lightly on Sylvestra’s. “What will be your defense, Sir Oliver?”
“I do not yet know sufficient to say,” Rathbone replied smoothly. If he was as frightened as Hester felt, he hid it superbly. She thought he probably was. There was a stiffness to the way he stood, a hesitation in his voice which she had seen before, at the worst times in past cases, when it seemed there was no escape from disaster, no solution but tragedy and failure.
“What more is there to learn?” Wade asked. “Mrs. Duff has told me what the police believe: that Rhys had been keeping company with women of the street, the lowest element in our society, spreaders of disease and depravity; that he had exercised a certain amount of violence in these relationships; and that Leighton had come to suspect as much. When he followed him and taxed him with his behavior, they fought. Rhys was injured, as you know, and Leighton, perhaps being an older man, taken by surprise, was killed. Is it any defense to suggest the fight was not intended to go so far and that death was accidental?” He looked doubtful even as he said it.
“If two men fight and one of them dies, unless it can be demonstrated that it was accidental,” Rathbone replied, “it will be proved to be murder. For it to be manslaughter, we should have to show that Leighton Duff tripped over by mischance, or fell on some weapon he was carrying himself, or something of that nature. I am afraid that was very clearly not so. The injuries were all inflicted by fist or boot. Such things are not accidental.”
Wade nodded. “That is what I had feared. Sir Oliver, do you think we might continue this discussion in private. It can only be most distressing for Mrs. Duff to listen to.”
“No,” Sylvestra said sharply. “I will not be excluded from … something which may affect my son’s life! Anyway, if it is evidence, I shall hear it in court. I should prefer to hear it now and at least be prepared.”
“But, Sylvestra, my dear—”
“I am not a child, Corriden, to be protected from the truth. This will happen, whatever I choose to ignore or pretend. Please give me the dignity of bearing it with some courage, not running away.”
Wade hesitated, his face dark.
“Of course,” Rathbone said with admiration. “Whatever the outcome, you will have peace of mind only if you know that you failed in nothing that could conceivably have been of help.”
Sylvestra looked at him, a moment’s gratitude in her eyes.
“So the charge will be murder, Sir Oliver?”
“Yes. I am afraid there is no possible defense of a charge of accident.”
“And it is not imaginable that Leighton attacked Rhys or that Rhys in any way was defending himself,” Wade continued gravely. “Leighton may have been appalled by Rhys’s behavior, but the most he would have done would be raise his hand. He may have struck Rhys, but many a father chastises his son. It does not end in murder. I know of no son who would strike back.”
“Then what defense can there be?” Sylvestra said desperately. For a moment her eyes flashed to Hester, then back to the men. “What else is left? Who else is there? Not Arthur or Duke, surely?”
“I am afraid not, my dear,” Wade said, dropping his voice. “Had they been involved they would be injured also, very profoundly so. And you and I both know that they were not. Unless the police can find two or three ruffians in St. Giles, there was no one. And if they could have done that, they would not have come here to accuse Rhys.” He took a deep breath. “I am truly grieved to say this, but I think the only defense that is believable is that the balance of Rhys’s mind has been affected, and simply he is not sane. That, surely, will be the path you will follow, Sir Oliver? I know of excellent people who may be prevailed upon to examine Rhys and give their opinions—in court, of course.”
“Insanity is not easy to prove,” Rathbone answered. “Rhys appears very rational when one speaks to him. He is obviously a young man of intelligence and conscience.”
“Good God, man!” Wade said with an explosion of emotion. “He beat his father to death, and very nearly at the cost of his own life. How can any sane person do that? They must have fought like animals. He must have been frenzied to … to do such a thing. I saw Leighton’s body—” He stopped as abruptly as he had begun, his face white, eyes hollow. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’m sorry, Sylvestra. I should never have said that. You did not need to know … to hear it like that. I’m so sorry! Leighton was my best friend … a man I admired enormously, with whom I shared experiences I have with no one else. That it should end like this is … devastating.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “You have no need to apologize, Corriden. I understand your anger and your grief.” She looked at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, I think Dr. Wade could be right. I should be obliged if you would make every effort you can to find evidence, testimony, which will substantiate Rhys’s imbalance of mind. Perhaps there were signs beforehand, but we did not understand them. Please call upon the best medical men. I am informed that I have funds to meet any such expenses. It …” She laughed jerkily, painfully. “It seems preposterous that I am using the money Leighton left for us to defend the son who
killed him. If that is not insane, I wonder what is? And yet I have to. Please, Sir Oliver …”
“I will do all I can,” Rathbone promised. “But I cannot go beyond what is provably true. Now, I am sure you wish to see your patient, Dr. Wade, and I would like to take my leave and consider my next step forward.”
“Of course,” Wade agreed quickly. He turned to Hester. “And you, Miss Latterly. You have been of extraordinary strength and courage in the whole affair. You have worked unceasingly for Rhys’s welfare. No one could have done more—in fact, I doubt anyone else would have done as much. I will stay with Rhys tonight. Please allow yourself a little time to rest, and perhaps spend it doing something to enjoy yourself. Mrs. Duff and I can manage here, I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Hester accepted hesitantly. She felt a trifle uncertain about leaving Rhys. Sylvestra was obviously more comforted by Wade than anything Hester could do for her. And Hester would dearly like to go with Rathbone to persuade Monk to accept the case. She had every confidence in Rathbone’s powers of argument, but still she wished to be there. There might be something, a thought, an emotional persuasion she could try. “Thank you very much. That is most thoughtful of you.” She looked at Sylvestra, just to make sure she agreed.
“Please …” Sylvestra added.
There needed no more to be said. Hester bade them goodnight and turned to leave with Rathbone.
* * *
“What?” Monk said incredulously as he stood in the middle of his room facing Hester and Rathbone. It was very late, the fire was almost dead, and it was pouring rain outside. Rathbone and Hester’s coats were both dripping onto the carpet even though they had come directly from Ebury Street in a hansom.
“Investigate the case to see if there is any evidence whatsoever to mitigate what Rhys Duff has done,” Rathbone repeated.