The Silent Cry

by Anne Perry

  “Did you?” Monk said slowly. “Well, it’s a long time ago now.” He wanted to change the subject. He was floundering. He could not afford to show his vulnerability to these people. His skill depended on their fear and respect for him. He pulled the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket and showed it to the sandwich seller. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  The sandwich seller tipped the picture over a little towards the light of the distant street lamp. He thought for a few moments.

  “Yeah, ’e were the geezer wot were done in Water Lane. A rozzer showed me this afore. W’y d’yer wanna know fer?”

  “Just wondering if he came here any time before that,” Monk replied.

  The cabby looked at it curiously.

  “ ’Ere, jus’ a minute,” he said, his voice quickening. “I seen ’im. Not the night ’e were done, I din’t, but I see’d ’im afore that, ’bout a couple o’ weeks, or mebbe less. It were the night afore Christmas Eve, I know that. I’d swear ter it.”

  Monk felt his body tighten and his heart beat a little faster. It was the scent of victory, familiar and sharp. “The night before Christmas Eve, and he was here, in St. Giles?”

  “Yeah. Din’t I jus’ say so? ’E looked rough, real rough then, like ’e’d bin in a fight. Blood on ’is face, there were, an’ on ’is sleeves.”

  Monk swallowed. “Look carefully. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Ears, yer see?” He looked at Monk with a smile. “I likes ears. Ears is all different. ’Ave yer ever noticed that?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have. And what was it about the man’s ears that you remember so well?” As he said it he moved his hand over the picture to obscure the ears.

  “Long,” the cabby said without hesitation. “Long an’ narrer, wi’ ’eavy lobes ter ’em. Yer take yer finger orff an’ look. I’m right.”

  Monk obeyed. The man was right.

  “And he had blood on him? Did you see any injury?” He did not want to ask. He almost did not. It was too easily disproved. He could feel the new thread slipping out of his grasp again.

  “No, on’y blood. Don’t ’ave ter be ’is blood. Could ’a bin someone else’s. Looked kind o’ drunk, ’e did. Staggerin’ abaht a bit, but ’appy enough, like ’e’d just won summink. So maybe the other geezer got orff a bit worse, eh?”

  “Yes, maybe. Was he alone? Did you see anyone else?” Had Rhys been with him, close behind, or left wherever the fight had taken place? This evidence was almost too good to be true. Perhaps he would be able to take Hester something after all. Or rather take Rathbone something.

  “Saw someone else,” the cabby said thoughtfully. “But couldn’t say ’oo. Jus’ a shadow. Tall, like, an’ thinnish, though it in’t easy ter say, in a good coat. Covers a lot, a good coat does.”

  “Tall … and thin,” Monk said slowly. “And his face? Was he dark or fair? Young or old?” Surely it must have been Rhys? “And was he injured too?”

  “Don’ rush me!” the cabby protested. “Can’t answer more ’n one thing at a time.”

  “Did you see his face?” Monk said, controlling himself with difficulty;

  “Sort o’—’alf.”

  “Dark or fair?”

  “Dark. Very dark.”

  Monk swallowed. “And was he hurt, that you could see?”

  “Yeah, come ter think on it, ’e ’ad blood on ’im too. Not so much, as I could see. But yeah, ’e were messed around. I reckon ’is coat were torn, an’ looked sort o’ wet. W’y, guv? Wot does it matter now? Yer’ve got ’im, in’t yer?”

  “Yes. It’s just a matter of tidying it up, for evidence in court. You are positive about the date?”

  “Yeah, I told yer.”

  “Thank you. You have been a great help. Now, will you please take me to Ebury Street. Have another sandwich.” He gave the sandwich seller threepence and took two more. “And have one yourself,” he added cheerfully to the seller. “They’re very good.” He gave one sandwich to the cabby, and set out at a stride to climb up into the hansom. His only regret was he had nothing for the horse.

  At Ebury Street he alighted, paid the cabby and thanked him again, then went up the step and rang the bell. When it was answered by Wharmby, looking grim, he asked to see Mrs. Duff.

  “I am sorry sir, but Mrs. Duff is not receiving,” Wharmby said firmly.

  “Please inform her that I am working for Sir Oliver Rathbone, and I have a question I must ask her regarding the case,” Monk replied, equally unflinchingly. “It is important that I receive an answer before I can proceed. It is in Mr. Rhys Duff’s interest.”

  “Yes sir, I will tell her.” Wharmby hesitated. There was nothing more to say, and yet he did not move.

  Monk waited. He wanted to prompt him, but he was afraid if he were too direct he could break the moment and lose it.

  “Do you remember Christmas Eve, Wharmby?” he said quite casually.

  “Yes sir.” Wharmby seemed surprised.

  “And the night before?”

  Wharmby nodded. “Yes sir. How can I help you?”

  “Who was here that night?”

  “No one, sir. In the evening Mrs. Duff went with Mrs. Wade to a concert. Mr. Rhys went to the Kynastons’ to dinner, and Mr. Duff went out on business.”

  “I see.” The taste of victory was there again. “And how were they all when they returned home, or the next time you saw them?”

  “How were they, sir? Quite normal, considering it was Christmas Eve.”

  “Was no one hurt in any way? Perhaps a slight traffic accident, or something of the sort?”

  “I believe Mr. Duff had a scratch on his face. He said it had been a flying stone from a carriage going much too fast. Why, sir? Does this mean something? Can you … can you help Mr. Rhys, sir?” His face was crumpled with curiosity, his eyes frightened as if he dreaded the answer. He had been almost too afraid to ask.

  Monk was taken aback. Such concern did not fit with the picture of Rhys Duff that Monk had formed. Was the man not more moved by the violent death of his master? Or was it now Sylvestra for whom he grieved, imagining her second loss, so much worse even than the first.

  “I don’t know,” Monk said honestly. “I’m doing everything I can. It is possible this may … mitigate things … a little. Perhaps you do not need to disturb Mrs. Duff. If you say that Mr. Rhys said he was going to the Kynastons’ that evening, I can ask them to substantiate that. Can you give me their address?”

  “Certainly, sir. I shall write it down for you.” And without waiting for agreement, he disappeared and came back a few moments later with a slip of paper, an address written out in copperplate on it.

  Monk thanked him and left, seeking another cab.

  At the Kynaston house he asked to speak to Mr. Kynaston.

  He was received, reluctantly, in the library. There was no fire burning, but the ashes were still warm. Joel Kynaston came in and closed the door behind him, looking Monk up and down with distaste. He was a highly individual man with thick, very beautiful hair of an auburn color, a thin nose and an unusual mouth. He was of average height and slight build, and at the moment he was short of patience.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he said briskly. “My butler informed me you wish to make an enquiry about Rhys Duff, to do with the forthcoming trial. I find the whole matter most disturbing. Mr. Leighton Duff was a close personal friend, and his death is a great tragedy to my whole family. If I can assist the cause of justice, then it is my public duty to do so, and I do not shirk from it. But I must warn you, sir, I have no desire and no intention of involving myself in further hurt to the Duff family, nor will I injure or cause unhappiness to my own family in your interest. What is it you wish of me?”

  “Did Mr. Rhys Duff visit your home on the evening of the day before Christmas Eve, Mr. Kynaston?”

  “I have no idea. I was not at home myself. Why is it important? Leighton Duff was perfectly well and unharmed at that time. What affair is it of yours if Rhys w
as here?”

  Monk could understand the man’s desire to protect his sons, whom he might well fear had been involved deeply and tragically with the Duff family. He might feel he was to blame for not having been aware of their behavior, as apparently Leighton Duff had been. But for chance, had he been the one to know instead, he could have been beaten to death in Water Lane and Monk could have been asking these questions of Leighton Duff. It was not difficult to see Mr. Kynaston was tense, unhappy, and unwilling to have Monk, or anyone else, prying further into the wound. Perhaps he was owed some explanation.

  “It seems to me possible that the night of Mr. Duff’s death may not have been his first quarrel with his son over his conduct,” Monk replied. “There is evidence to suggest they met and had some heated disagreement on the night before Christmas Eve. I would like to know if that is true.”

  “I cannot see why,” Kynaston said with a frown. “It seems tragically apparent what happened. Leighton realized what Rhys was doing, that his behavior was unacceptable by any standards at all, let alone those of a gentleman. His temper and self-indulgence had gone beyond all control, his latest weaknesses had slipped into open vice. His father followed him and remonstrated with him, at which Rhys became vicious with rage and attacked him … with the consequences which we know only too well.”

  “Did Rhys always have a temper, Mr. Kynaston?”

  “I am afraid so. When he was a boy it was held in check. He was never permitted to lose it while in my charge. What he was allowed at home, of course, I do not know. But his father was concerned about him. He confided that much to me. I do not wish to speak ill of the poor woman, who, God knows, has more grief than any person should be asked to bear, but Mrs. Duff has indulged the boy over the years. She hated to discipline him, and his character has suffered for it.”

  “I see. Is there someone I could ask if Rhys was here on that evening?”

  “You might ask my wife, I suppose. She was at home, as, I believe, were my sons.”

  Monk was disconcerted, but not set out of countenance. It was just possible Rhys had gone alone on this occasion. Or more likely Kynaston was wrong about all of them.

  “Thank you,” Monk accepted, uncertain whether Mrs. Kynaston’s word would satisfy him. As soon as Kynaston turned to the door, Monk made to follow him.

  Kynaston stopped. “You are on my heels, Mr. Monk. I should prefer if you were to wait here, and I shall ask my wife and inform you of the answer.”

  “Possibly,” Monk agreed. “Then I shall have to inform Sir Oliver that I was not permitted to speak to Mrs. Kynaston personally, and he may feel the necessity to call her to testify in court.” He looked at Kynaston squarely and coldly. “However, if I speak to her myself, and to your sons, then that may prove sufficient.”

  Kynaston stiffened. “I do not appreciate being threatened, Mr. Monk.”

  “Few of us do,” Monk said with a thin smile. “But most of us take heed.”

  Kynaston looked at him a moment longer, weighing Monk’s nerve and his intent, then swung on his heel and led the way.

  Monk was startled by Fidelis Kynaston. He had not had any particular expectations of Kynaston’s wife, but this woman of extraordinary composure, with her asymmetrical face and her calm, very lovely voice, took him utterly by surprise. The inner repose of her fascinated him.

  “This is Mr. Monk,” Kynaston said tersely, without looking at him. “He requires to ask you a question about Rhys Duff. It is probably advisable that you answer him.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Monk,” she said graciously. Unlike her husband, her face was filled with sadness rather than tension or anger. Perhaps she was completely unaware of her sons’ part in the crime, or the pattern of behavior which had led up to it. Kynaston might have shielded her from it, in which case there was more in him to be admired than Monk had supposed. And yet Monk could tell, from looking at Fidelis’s face, that there was knowledge of pain beneath her composure, and a kind of stillness in her eyes which springs from self-mastery in the experience of deep unhappiness. Was it conceivable that they both knew, and yet each shielded the other, and the whole tragedy was never shared?

  “I am sorry to disturb your evening, Mrs. Kynaston,” he said sincerely. “But I need to ask you to cast your mind back to the night before Christmas Eve. Can you tell me if you were at home, and if so, who was with you, and until what hour?”

  “Certainly,” she said with a shadow of puzzlement in her eyes. “I was at home, and my sons were here, and Rhys Duff, and Lady Sandon and her son, Mr. Rufus Sandon. We played cards and talked a great deal about all manner of things, Egyptian exploration in particular. Rufus Sandon was most enthusiastic about Monsieur Champollion and his discovery of the Rosetta stone, and its meaning. Rhys was fascinated. I think he would willingly have listened all night.”

  “What time did he leave, Mrs. Kynaston?”

  “About two o’clock, I believe,” she replied. “It was very late indeed. But the following day was Christmas Eve, and they intended to lie in, and be late the evening after as well. I remember them saying so. Marmaduke retired to bed earlier. He was less interested, but the rest of us remained long into the night. May I ask why you wish to know, Mr. Monk? Can it in some way help Rhys now?” There was no need to ask if that was something she wished; it was plain in her entire bearing.

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” he answered frankly. “It is not what I had expected you to say. I admit, this throws me into some confusion. You have no doubt whatsoever about the date?”

  “None at all. We were discussing the fact that it was Christmas Eve the following day,” she affirmed.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your courtesy.”

  “Then we will not detain you any further, Mr. Monk,” Kynaston said abruptly just as Fidelis was about to speak again.

  Monk bowed and took his leave, thoroughly puzzled. If Rhys had been at the Kynastons’ until two in the morning, then it could not have been he with whom Leighton Duff had fought in St. Giles shortly after midnight. Monk did not doubt Fidelis, but it would be simple to check with Lady Sandon. He had not asked for her address, but a woman of title would not be difficult to locate.

  As soon as he reached his rooms he went to his desk and took out all his notes on the times, dates and places of the rapes he had investigated. They were in chronological order, and it took him only moments to ascertain that his memory was correct. There had been a particularly brutal rape and beating on the night before Christmas Eve, shortly before midnight, as near as the victim could tell, probably two men rather than three.

  The conclusion was startling, and inescapable. Rhys could not have been guilty of this one. Leighton Duff had been there, and had been involved in a struggle of some sort. Marmaduke Kynaston could have been there. Arthur Kynaston, like Rhys, could not. Monk must be absolutely certain. There were more facts to check—with Lady Sandon, and with Sylvestra Duff, and for extra certainty, with the servants in the Duff house.

  Had Leighton Duff followed and confronted Marmaduke Kynaston and his companion in rape, whoever that was … or was he himself the companion? And had Rhys, usually the third, on this occasion been more spellbound by something else, and remained in the Kynaston home listening to tales of Egypt and the Rosetta stone? Was it even possible that the three men who committed the rapes were not always the same ones?

  He went to bed with his mind racing, and slept fitfully, haunted by dreams.

  In the morning he arose, dressed, and after a hasty breakfast, went out barely feeling the cold. By two in the afternoon he had ascertained his facts. Rhys Duff had been at the Kynaston house until two in the morning and had returned straight to his own home, where he had remained until midday of Christmas Eve. He could not have been in St. Giles.

  Leighton Duff had gone out at half past nine in the evening and had returned at an unknown hour. The footman had not waited up for him. Mr. Duff was always most considerate and never required the servants to remain out of their beds on his ac
count.

  It was confirmed that Duke Kynaston had retired before the end of the party, but whether he had then gone out or not, no one could say. While he was at the Kynaston house, Monk took the opportunity to deliver a warning. He had doubted whether to do so, or to leave justice to fortune. Now, as the picture grew even less certain in his mind, the doubt vanished. He asked to see both brothers and learned that Arthur was out, but Marmaduke could give him a few moments if he cared to go to the morning room.

  Duke looked at him with a mixture of interest and scorn.

  “A private agent of enquiry, eh?” he said with a lift of the eyebrow. “What a curious way to make one’s living. Still, I suppose it is better than catching rats, or repossessing the furniture of debtors.”

  “There are times when it bears a closer resemblance to catching rats than one might wish,” Monk answered with a corresponding sneer.

  “I hear you were the one who caught up with Rhys Duff,” Duke said quickly, cutting across him a little. “Do you think the court will find him guilty?”

  “Is that why you consented to see me?” Monk asked with amusement. “Because you think I might know what the outcome will be?”

  There was a faint flush on Duke’s cheeks. “Do you?” he demanded.

  Monk was surprised. Under the bravado, was it possible Duke actually felt some concern and some responsibility—or guilt?

  “No, I don’t,” Monk said more gently. “I thought I knew the answer without doubt, but I have since discerned some information which makes me less sure.”

  “Why did you come here?” Duke frowned. “What do you want from us?”

  “When you left the party on the night before Christmas Eve, where did you go?”

  “To bed. Why? What does that matter?”

  “You did not go to St. Giles with Leighton Duff?”