by Anne Perry
Rhys was still completely unconscious. Once he stirred there would be nothing she could do. She must not ask the warder to hurry again, or he would become suspicious.
She unfastened Rhys’s collar and took off his tie. She undid the buttons of his shirt and eased it open. Very gently she began to examine the upper part of his body. There were no bandages. There was little one could do for bruising, except ointment, such as arnica. The worst of it was beginning to heal now. The broken ribs were knitted well, even though she knew they still caused him pain, especially if he coughed, sneezed or turned badly in the bed.
Where was the warder with the brandy and the water? It seemed like ages since he had gone.
Carefully she unfastened the waist of his trousers. This was where his worst injuries were, the ones which Dr. Wade had treated and not permitted her to see, for the sake of Rhys’s modesty. She slipped the waist down a few inches and saw the blue and purple bruising, now fading. The abrasions were still marked where he had been kicked, but the edges were yellowish and far paler. She could feel no bandaging.
“Miss!”
She froze. “Yes?”
“Water, miss,” the warder said quietly. “And a drop o’ brandy. Is ’e ’urt bad?”
“I’m not sure yet. Thank you for these.” She straightened up and took the dish of water from him, then the brandy. She set them on the small table. “Thank you very much. You can lock me in. I shall be perfectly all right. Come back and let me know when the doctor comes. Knock on the door, if you will. I shall get him ready.”
“Yes, miss. Yer sure yer all right? Yer look terrible pale. Mebbe yer should take a sip o’ that brandy yerself?”
She tried to smile, and felt the expression sickly on her face. “Maybe. Thank you.”
“Right, miss. You knock if yer need ter come out.”
“I will. Yes. Now I had better see what I can do for him. Thank you.”
At last he went and she was left alone. She swung around to Rhys and started immediately. There was no time to be lost. They could return with a doctor any moment. There was no way on earth she could explain what she was doing, if she were mistaken. It would probably ruin her, even if she were right but could not prove it.
She pulled open his trousers and his underclothes, revealing his body as far as his thighs. There were no bandages at all, no plasters, no lint, no adhesives. There was only the most fearful bruising, as if he had been repeatedly kicked and punched. Sick in her stomach, she rolled him over to lie on his face and began the examination which would tell her what she needed to know, although the slow trickle of blood even now, and the purplish and torn flesh, was enough.
It took her only moments. Then, with shaking hands, fumbling, fingers stiff, she pulled the clothes back up and rolled him over, almost knocking him off the narrow bench. She tried to fasten his trousers, but she had them crooked and they would not reach. She snatched his jacket and threw it over him just as his eyes fluttered open.
“Rhys!” She choked on the word, the anguish inside her spilling out, her throat aching, her hands trembling and clumsy.
He gasped, drawing in his breath. He was fighting her, trying to lash out, force her away.
“Rhys!” She clung onto his arms, above the splints, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Rhys, I know what happened to you! It’s not your fault! You are not the only one! I’ve known soldiers it happened to, brave men, fighting men!”
He started to shake, trembling so violently she could not keep him still, even holding him in her arms. The fierceness of his anger shook her too. He sobbed, great racking, desperate cries, and she rocked back and forth, her arms around him, her hand stroking his head.
It was not until she had been doing so for several minutes, time she could not count, that she realized she could hear him. He was weeping with a voice. Something in his despair, in the fall, or in the knowledge that she knew, had returned his speech.
“Who was it?” she said urgently. “You must tell me.” Although she was certain, with an aching coldness, that she knew. There was only one explanation as to why no one had known before, why Corriden Wade had not told anyone, not told her or Rathbone. It explained so much: Rhys’s fear, his cruelty and rejection of his mother, his silence. She remembered with a sick pain the bell removed to the dresser, out of his reach.
“I’ll protect you,” she promised fiercely. “I’ll see that the warders are with you all the time, or I will be, every moment, I swear. Now tell me.”
Slowly, in agonized and broken words, in a whisper as if he could not bear to hear it himself, he told her of the night his father died.
The door burst open and Corriden Wade came in, bag in his hand, his face haggard, his eyes dark and furious. The two warders were just behind him, looming awkwardly.
“What are you doing, Miss Latterly?” Wade demanded, staring at Rhys’s white, strained face and wild eyes. “Leave me to my patient, please. He is obviously deeply distressed.” He turned to the warders. “I shall need clean water, several bowls of it, and bandages. Perhaps Miss Latterly can go and obtain those. She will be aware of my needs—”
“I think not,” Hester said abruptly, moving to stand between Rhys and Wade. She looked at the warder. “Please will you fetch Sir Oliver Rathbone, immediately. Mr. Duff wants to make a statement. It is imperative you do this with all possible speed. I am sure you understand the urgency … and the importance.”
“Mr. Duff cannot speak,” Wade said with contempt. “This tragedy has obviously unnerved Miss Latterly, not surprisingly. Perhaps you had better take her out, see if you can—”
“Fetch Sir Oliver!” Hester repeated loudly, facing the warder. “Go!”
The man hesitated. The doctor’s authority he understood. He would always obey a man before a woman, any woman.
“Fetch my lawyer,” Rhys said hoarsely. “I want to make a statement before I die.”
The blood drained from Wade’s face.
The warder gasped. “Go get ’im, Joe,” he said quickly. “I’ll wait ’ere.”
The other warder turned on his heel and obeyed.
Hester stood without moving.
“This is preposterous,” Wade began, moving as if to push his way past, but the warder took him by the shoulder. Medicine was beyond him, but dying statements he understood.
“Let go of me!” Wade commanded furiously.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the warder said stiffly. “But we’ll wait for the lawyer afore we start any treatment on the prisoner. ’E’s well enough for now. The nurse ’ere saw ter ’im. You jus’ stand ’ere patient, like, an’ as soon as the lawyer’s done ’is bit, you can treat all yer need.”
Wade opened his mouth as if to argue and saw the futility of it. He stood as if trapped, waiting for a moment to escape.
Rhys looked at Hester.
She smiled back at him, then turned and remained facing Wade and the warder. She felt sick with disillusion.
The minutes ticked by.
Rathbone came in, eyes wide, face flushed.
“I want …” Rhys began, then took a shuddering breath. “I want to tell you what happened.…”
Silently, Corriden Wade turned and left, although there was nowhere now for him to go.
Court resumed in the afternoon. Rhys was not present, having been taken back to the hospital and put in the care of Dr. Riley, but under a police guard. He was still accused of a fearful crime.
The gallery was surprisingly empty. There were spare seats in every row. People had assumed that Rhys’s pitch over the railing had been an attempt at suicide, and therefore a tacit admission of guilt. There was no longer any real interest. It was all over but the verdict. The three women, Sylvestra Duff, Eglantyne Wade and Fidelis Kynaston, sat together, very clearly visible now. They did not look at each other, but there was a closeness in them, a silent companionship which was apparent to anyone who regarded them carefully.
The judge called the court to order and commanded Rath
bone to proceed. The jurors looked grim but resigned, as if their duty had been taken from them and they were there only as a matter of form, but purposeless.
“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged. “I call Mrs. Fidelis Kynaston.”
There was a murmur of surprise as Fidelis, white-faced, walked across the floor and climbed the steps. She took the oath and looked at Rathbone with her head high, but her hands on the railing were clenched, as if she needed the railing’s presence to support her.
“Mrs. Kynaston,” he began gently, “did you have a party in your home on the night before Christmas Eve?”
She had known what he was going to say. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. “Yes.”
“Who was present?”
“My two sons, Rhys Duff, Lady Sandon, Rufus Sandon and myself.”
“At what time did Rhys Duff leave your house?”
“About two o’clock in the morning.”
There was a sudden rustle of sound in the gallery. One of the jurors started forward.
“Are you certain as to the time, Mrs. Kynaston?” Rathbone pressed.
“I am positive,” she replied, looking straight ahead at him as if he were an executioner. “If you were to ask Lady Sandon, or any of my household staff, they would tell you the same thing.”
“So the group of men who raped the unfortunate woman in St. Giles at around midnight could not possibly have included Rhys Duff?”
“No …” She swallowed, her throat tight. “It could not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kynaston, that is all I have to ask you.”
Goode considered for a moment or two, then declined his opportunity.
Rathbone called the cabby, Joseph Roscoe.
Roscoe described the man he had seen leaving St. Giles, his hands and face smeared with blood. Rathbone produced a picture of Leighton Duff and showed it to him.
“Is this the man you saw?”
Roscoe did not hesitate. “Yes sir, that’s ’im.”
“My lord, this is a likeness of Leighton Duff, whom Mr. Roscoe has identified.”
He got no further. The noise in the court was like the backwash of the sea. Sylvestra sat frozen, her face a mask of blank, unbelieving horror. Beside her, Eglantyne Wade supported her weight. Fidelis was rigid, still staring at the cabdriver.
The jurors stared from the witness to Rathbone, and back again.
The judge was grave and deeply disturbed. “Are you certain of your ground, Sir Oliver? Are you claiming that Leighton Duff, not Rhys Duff, was the rapist in all these fearful cases?”
“Yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with conviction. “Leighton Duff was one of three. Rhys Duff had nothing to do with them. He did indeed go to St. Giles, and there use the services of a prostitute. But he paid the price asked, and he exercised no violence whatever. It is a practice about which we may all have our moral judgments, but it is not a crime, and it is certainly not rape, nor is it murder.”
“Then who murdered Leighton Duff, Sir Oliver? He did not commit suicide. It seems apparent he and Rhys fought, and Rhys survived while he did not.”
“I shall explain, my lord, with your permission.”
“You must do more than explain, Sir Oliver, you must prove it to this court and this jury beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“That is what I intend, my lord. To that end I call Miss Hester Latterly to the stand.”
There was a slight stir of interest. Heads craned as Hester walked across the floor and up the steps, faced Rathbone and took the oath.
“What is your occupation, Miss Latterly?” Rathbone began almost conversationally.
“I am a nurse.”
“Do you presently have a patient?”
“Yes. I have been employed to nurse Rhys Duff since he returned from the hospital after the incident in Water Lane.”
“Was there also a doctor in attendance?”
“Dr. Corriden Wade. He has been the family physician for many years, I understand.”
The judge leaned forward. “Please restrict yourself to what you know, Miss Latterly.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Have you any experience in the army of men injured in the same manner and degree as Rhys Duff was, Miss Latterly?”
“Yes. I nursed many injured soldiers in Scutari.”
There was a murmur of approval around the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded.
“Did you treat his injuries yourself, or merely nurse him, keep him clean, feed him, attend to his wants?” Rathbone must be careful how he phrased his questions. So far no one else seemed to have the slightest idea what he was seeking to prove. He must not lead her, neither must he leave any doubt in their minds, once he had shown them the truth.
Goode was listening intently.
“I treated those wounds above the waist,” Hester replied. “They were bruises, very severe, and the broken bones in his hands, and two broken ribs. There was very little to be done for them. The injuries below the waist Dr. Wade told me he bandaged. This was for the sake of Mr. Duff’s sensibilities.”
“I see. So you never observed them yourself?”
“That is correct.”
“But you accepted Dr. Wade’s word for their nature and degree, and that they were healing as well as could be expected?”
“Yes.”
The judge leaned forward again. “Sir Oliver, does the nature or site of Mr. Duff’s wounds have any relevance to whether he was responsible for his father’s death? I admit, I fail to see it.”
“Yes, my lord, it does.” Rathbone turned to Hester. “Miss Latterly, was Mr. Duff subject to any unusual degree of emotional turmoil during the time you cared for him?”
Goode rose to his feet. “My lord, Miss Latterly did not know Mr. Duff before the tragedy. She cannot know if his distress was usual or not.”
The judge looked at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver? Mr. Goode’s point is a fair one.”
“My lord, I meant was he subject to emotions extraordinary in a man in his condition. Miss Latterly has nursed many men who were severely injured. I think she is in a better position than almost anyone else to know what to expect.”
“I agree.” The judge nodded. “You may answer, Miss Latterly.”
“Yes, my lord. Rhys had the most appalling nightmares when he would try to cry out, beat his arms, even though his hands were broken and it must have caused him fearful pain, and he would try to scream. And yet when he was awake, he refused absolutely to respond to questions about the incident and became extremely distressed, to the point of violent reaction against people, especially his mother, when any pressure was placed upon him.”
“And what did you conclude from that?” Rathbone asked.
“I did not conclude anything. I was puzzled. I … I feared perhaps he had indeed killed his father, and the memory of it was unbearable to him.”
“Are you still of that opinion?”
“No …”
“Why not?”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
In the courtroom no one moved. Goode was frowning, listening to her intently.
“Because after I saw him fall this morning,” she replied, “I remembered for an instant something I had learned of in the army. It seemed too appalling to be true, but in his cell, where they carried him, I was alone with him for several minutes before the doctor came. I made a very brief examination of his injuries … below the waist.” She stopped. Her face was filled with pain.
Rathbone wished he did not have to make her say this, but there was no possible alternative.
She saw it in his eyes and did not flinch.
“He had been raped,” she said very quietly, but very clearly. “Rhys was the rapists’ last victim.”
There was a gasp, and then utter silence except for a moan from Sylvestra as such pain of mind tore through her as was beyond bearing.
“Rhys and his father quarreled because Rhys knew a little of what was happening. His father had criticized h
im for using prostitutes, and the hypocrisy of it infuriated him, but for his mother’s sake he could not be open about it. He flung out of the house and went to St. Giles. By chance, so did his father.”
She took a breath and her voice became huskier.
“The three of them set on him in Water Lane,” she went on, and although it was hearsay, Goode did not interrupt her. His extraordinary face was creased with horror. “They knocked him down and raped him,” she continued, “as they had done the women—and perhaps other young men. We may never know. Then as he struggled and cried out, one of them stopped, realizing who he was.… It was Leighton Duff, who had just raped and beaten his own son.” Her voice was hoarse. “He attempted to defend him from further beating, but his companions had gone too far to retreat. If they let him live, he would stand to accuse them. It was they who killed Leighton Duff—and who believed they had killed Rhys.”
Eglantyne Wade sat helplessly. Fidelis held Sylvestra and rocked her back and forth, oblivious of the crowd whose pity welled around them.
“How can you possibly know this, Miss Latterly?” Rathbone asked.
“Because Rhys has regained his speech,” she answered. “He told me.”
“And did he know the names of his other assailants?”
“Yes … it was Joel Kynaston, his old headmaster, and Corriden Wade, his physician. That was a partial reason why he could not even attempt to tell anyone what had happened to him. The other part was his total shame and humiliation.”
Eglantyne’s head jerked up, her eyes wide, her skin ashen. She seemed to choke for breath. There was no outward change in Fidelis, as if in her heart she was not surprised.
“Thank you, Miss Latterly.” Rathbone turned towards the judge, about to make a plea, and then stopped. The judge’s face was engraved with horror and pity so deep the sight of it shocked.
Rathbone looked at the jurors and saw the same emotions mirrored in them, except for the four whose disbelief could not grasp such a thing. Rape happened to women, loose women who invited it. It did not happen to a man … any man! Men were inviolable … at least in the intimacy of their bodies. The horror and incomprehension left them stunned. They sat staring blindly, almost unaware of the room around them or of the strange, shifting silence in the gallery.