The Silent Cry (35 page)

"Yes, of course," Hesteragreed, and instantly shepherded Evan out of the room and down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Hester," Evan said, going down behind her. "There really is no alternative. The proof is overwhelming.”

"I know," she answered without turning. "William told me." She was stiff, holding herself upright with an effort, as if once she let go she might never find the strength to regain her composure. She crossed the hallway and went into the withdrawing room without knocking.

Inside Sylvestra was sitting on the sofa near the fire, and Monk was standing in the middle of the carpet. Neither of them had been speaking at that moment.

Sylvestra looked at Hester, her eyes terrified, questioning.

"Dr. Wade is with him," Hester said in answer. "He is distressed, of course, but he is not in any danger. And naturally he will remain here." Her voice dropped. "I asked him if he was guilty, and he shook his head, vehemently.”

"But…" Sylvestra stammered. "But…" She looked at Monk, then at Evan behind Hester.

"That is not helpful, Hester!" Monk said sharply.

Sylvestra looked bemused. Her hands moved as if to grasp at something, and closed on air. Her body was rigid and she moved jerkily, increasingly close to hysteria. At this very moment, her need was greater than Rhys's.

Hester went over to her and touched her, taking her arms.

"There is nothing we can do tonight, but in the morning we must plan ahead. The charge has been made. It must be answered, whatever that answer is. Mr. Monk is a private agent of enquiry. There may yet be more to discover, and naturally you will employ the best legal counsel you can. Just now you must keep up your strength. No doubt Dr. Wade will tell his sister, but I will tell Mrs. Kynaston, if you would find that easier.”

"I… don't know…" Sylvestra was shaking violently and her skin was cold where Hester held her.

Evan moved uncomfortably. He should not be witnessing this agony. His task was completed here. This was an intrusion, as it was for Monk. He looked at Hester. She was absorbed in her feelings for Sylvestra. He and Monk barely touched the periphery of her mind.

"Hester…" It was Monk who spoke, but hesitantly.

Evan looked at him. His face was filled with pity so profound it stood naked, startling, and it was a moment or two before Evan realised it was for Hester, not the woman who had received such a devastating blow.

It was not only pity, there was also in it a burning admiration and a tenderness which betrayed his de fences utterly.

He longed for Hester to turn and see it, but she was consumed by her anguish for Sylvestra.

Evan walked towards the door. He was in the hall when he saw Dr. Wade coming down the stairs. He looked haggard, and he still had the trace of a limp remaining from his accident.

"There will be no possibility of your moving him," he said as he neared the bottom. "Whether he will be fit to stand a trial I cannot say.”

"We will have to have a medical opinion of more than one man to that,”

Evan answered him. He looked at Wade's strained expression, the darkness in his eyes and what he thought might even be fear, or the shadow of fear to come.

"Sergeant…”

"Yes, Doctor?”

"Have…" he bit his lip. What he was about to say seemed to hurt him intensely. He struggled with it, hovered on the edge of decision, and finally summoned the strength. "Have you considered the possibility that he is not sane… not responsible, as you and I understand the term?”

So Wade accepted that he was guilty! Was it simply the evidence they had presented? Or did he know something from Rhys himself, some communication, some long knowledge and perception of his nature over the years?

"No man could do what was done to those women, Doctor, and be what you and I understand as sane," he replied quickly. "Blame is not for us to decide… thank God.”

Wade took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then nodded his acknowledgement, and walked past Evan to the withdrawing room door.

After Monk and Evan had left, Corriden Wade remained in the withdrawing room, pacing the floor, unable to be still long enough to sit.

Sylvestra was motionless, staring into space as if all will and strength within her had died. Hester stood by the fire.

"I'm sorry," Wade said passionately, looking at Sylvestra. "I'm so sorry! I had no conception this would happen… it is the most ghastly thing.”

Hester stared at him. Had he seen some darkness in Rhys all the time, and feared disaster, but something less than this, less intense, less irretrievable than death? Looking at his face now, cast in deep shadow, his eyes hollow, his cheeks sombre with draining emotion and lack of sleep, it would be easy to believe he was seeing the realisation of a long-held dread, but something he had been helpless to prevent.

Then another thought occurred to her. Was Corriden Wade the missing link in Evan's chain of evidence? Was it he, perhaps, who had tried to warn Leighton Duff of his son's weakness, his propensity for real vice?

Had it been something Wade had said which had made him ultimately piece together all the sharp words, looks, little facts here and there, and realise the terrible truth?

With a shiver of horror she realised she had accepted within herself that Rhys was guilty. She had fought against it so long, and then in a moment had surrendered without even being conscious of it.

Wade stopped pacing and stared down at Sylvestra.

"You must rest, my dear. I shall give you a draught to help you sleep.

I am sure Miss Latterly will sit up with Rhys should it be necessary, but I doubt it will. You will need your strength." He turned to Hester. "I am sorry to place so much upon you, but I have no doubt both your courage and your compassion are equal to it.”

It was a profound compliment, and gravely given. It was not a time for thanks, only acceptance.

"Of course," she agreed. "Tomorrow we shall begin what is to be done.”

He nodded and at last seemed to relax a fraction. Hester believed it prudent to allow him a few moments alone with Sylvestra. His care for her was apparent. Now, of all times, they should be permitted a privacy to reach towards each other through the tragedy which engulfed them.

"I shall go and see how Rhys is now," she said. "Goodnight." She did not wait for a reply, but turned and went out, closing the door behind her.

Rhys did not call her in the night. Whatever Dr. Wade had given him was sufficient to induce in him not rest, but unconsciousness. She had no idea how long he had been awake when she heard the bell fall on the floor.

She rose immediately. It was full daylight. She grasped her shawl and opened the connecting door.

Rhys was lying facing her, his eyes wide and terrified.

She went in and sat on the bed.

"Tell me again, Rhys," she said quietly. "Did you kill your father?”

He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on her.

"Not even by accident?" she pressed. "Did you fight with him, not realising who he was, in the dark?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. His expression was filled with horror, his lips drawn back, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck corded with tension inside him.

"Could you see in the alley?" she pressed, the evidence heavy in her mind. "If someone accosted you, attacked you, are you sure you would know who it was?”

He gave a curious little jerk. If he had had a voice, it might have been laughter, but bitter, self-hurting. There was some dreadful irony in what he knew, and he could not tell her, even if he would have.

"Could you see?" she asked again.

He stared at her without moving.

There were so many questions. She thought desperately which would be the right one.

"Do you know what happened that night?”

He nodded, still not taking his eyes from hers, although the horror in him was so palpable she could feel coldness creeping through her, and despair so great it consumed and destroyed everything else.

"Rhys…" She put her hand on his arm, holding him hard, feeling the muscle and bone beneath her fingers. "I'll help you in any way I can, but I have to know how to. Can you tell me, somehow, what happened?

You were there, you saw it. If you want to plead against the charge they are bringing, then you must give them something else to believe.”

For seconds he simply gazed back at her, then slowly he closed his eyes and turned away.

"Rhys!”

He shook his head.

She did not know what to think. Whatever had happened, he still could not bear to have anyone know. Even facing arrest, and in time trial for his life, he would not impart it.

But did he understand that? Did he imagine because Evan had not taken him away that somehow it would not happen?

"Rhys!" she said urgently. "It hasn't gone away, you know. You are under house arrest. It is just the same as being in a public cell, or in Newgate. The only reason you are here, not there, is because you are too ill to move. There will be a trial, and if you are found guilty, they will take you to Newgate, no matter how ill you are. They won't care, because they will hang you anyway…" She could not go on. She could not bear it, even though he had not turned back or even opened his eyes. His body was rigid, tears running under his lids, and down his cheeks.

"Rhys," she said softly. "I have to make you realise this is real. You must tell someone the truth, to save yourself!”

Again he shook his head.

"Did you kill him?" she whispered.

He shook his head again, very little, but quite unmistakably.

"But you know who did!" she persisted.

He turned back very slowly, meeting her eyes. He lay still for seconds. She could hear the sound of distant feet as a maid crossed the landing.

"Do you?" she said again.

He closed his eyes without answering.

She stood up and went out of the room and down the stairs to the withdrawing room where Sylvestra was moving aimlessly from one idle task to another. A pile of embroidery yarns sat tangled on a small table, linen bunched up near them. A bowl of winter flowers from the hothouse were half arranged, half simply poked into the water. Several letters lay on a salver on the large semi-circular table by the wall, two were opened, the others were not.

She swung around as soon as she heard the door.

"How is he?" she asked quickly, then bit her lip as though unsure what she wanted the answer to be. "I simply don't know what to do. Leighton was my husband. I owe him… everything, not only loyalty but love, respect, decency." Her brow puckered. "How could it have happened? What… what changed him? And don't tell me Rhys hasn't changed…

I've seen the difference in him and it terrifies me!”

She swung away, her hands clenched in front of her. A less controlled woman would have wept, or screamed, thrown something just to release the tension inside herself.

"He never used to be like this, Miss Latterly." Her voice was tight in her throat as if she had difficulty in making herself speak. "He was wilful at times, thoughtless, like most young people, but there was no cruelty in him. I don't understand it. I thought I was so tired last night I would have slept with exhaustion. I wanted to." She emphasised it fiercely. "I wanted simply to cease to be able to think or feel anything. But I lay awake for hours. I racked my brain trying to understand what had changed him, why he had become so different, when it had begun to happen. I found no answer. It still makes no sense to me." She turned back to Hester, her face bleak and desperate.

"Why would anyone want to beat those women? Why rape a woman who is willing anyway? Why would anyone do that? It isn't sane…”

"I don't understand either," Hester said candidly. "But obviously it is not appetite, but rather more a desire for power over someone else, a need to hurt and humiliate…" She stopped. Sylvestra was looking at her with amazement, as though she had said something new and almost inconceivable.

"Haven't you ever wanted to punish, not for justice but for anger?”

Hesterasked her.

"I… I suppose so," Sylvestra said slowly. "But that is hardly…

yes, I suppose I have." She stared at Hester curiously. "Are you saying it is the same thing, hideously magnified?”

"I don't know. I am only trying to imagine.”

The fire settled with a shower of sparks.

"You mean it is not appetite… but… hate?" Sylvestra asked, struggling to understand.

"Perhaps.”

"But why would Rhys hate such women? He doesn't even know them!”

"Maybe it doesn't matter who it is. Anyone will do, the weaker, the more vulnerable, the better…”

"Stop it!" Sylvestra took a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry. It is not your fault. I asked you, and now I do not want to hear the answer.”

Her hands were twisting around one another. She had scratched herself with her nails but she seemed unaware of it. "Poor Leighton. He must have suspected there was something terribly wrong for ages, and at last he had to put it to the test. And when he followed him, and he knew…

." She could not finish. They stood there in the quiet, dignified room, two women imagining the same terrible scene in the alley, father and son face to face over a horror which had to divide them for ever.

And then the son had attacked, perhaps out of rage, or guilt, perhaps out of some kind of fear that he would be caught by the law, and he imagined he could escape the consequences if he fought his way out. And they had beaten and punched and kicked at each other until Leighton was dead, and Rhys was so badly hurt he lost consciousness and lay there on the stones, soaked with his own blood.

And now it was so terrible to him he could not accept that it was he who had done it. It had been another person, another self, one he did not own.

"We must find a barrister for him," Hester said aloud. "He must have some defence when he comes to trial. Do you have someone you wish?”

"A barrister?" Sylvestra blinked. "Will they really try him? He is too ill! He must be mad, won't they realise that? Corriden will tell them…”

"He is not too mad to stand trial," Hester said with absolute certainty. "Whether insanity will be the best defence or not, I cannot say, but you must find a barrister. Do you have someone?”

Sylvestra seemed to find it difficult to concentrate. Her eyes looked without focus. "A barrister? Mr. Caulfield has always dealt with our affairs. Of course I have never spoken to him. Leighton handled business, naturally.”

"Is he a solicitor?" Hesterasked, almost sure of the answer. "You need a barrister for this, someone who will appear in court to represent Rhys. He must be engaged through Mr. Caulfield, but if you do not have any preferences, I am acquainted with Sir Oliver Rathbone.

He is the best barrister there is.”

"I… suppose so…" Sylvestra was uncertain. Hester was not sure if it was her shock at the turn of events, or if now she doubted whether she wished to engage an unknown barrister, at unknown expense, to defend Rhys, when she feared him guilty. Maybe it was simply too big a decision for her to make alone. She was not used to decision.

She had always had her husband to see to such things. He would find and assess the information. His word would be final. She would probably not even be expected to contribute an opinion.

It was up to Hester to see Rhys was defended. Possibly no one else would.

"I'll speak to Sir Oliver, and ask him to come to see you." She chose not to make it a question, so Sylvestra could not so easily refuse. She smiled encouragingly. "Will it be reasonable if I go first thing in the morning?”

Sylvestra drew in her breath, but could not make up her mind.

"Thank you," Hesteraccepted, her voice gentle, full of an assurance she was far from feeling.

She was in Rathbone's office at nine o'clock. She waited until his first client had been and gone, then she was ushered into his office, the clerk advised that the next client should be handsomely entertained and informed that Sir Oliver was regrettably kept by an emergency, which was at least half true.

She did not waste his time with preamble. She was sufficiently conscious of the fact that he had seen her without an appointment, and she was presuming on his regard for her to ask a favour. She hated doing it, the more so since their last encounter, and her belief as to his feelings towards her. Had Rhys's life not depended upon it, she would not have come. Sylvestra's solicitor could have briefed whomever he wished.

"They have arrested Rhys for the murder of his father," she said bluntly. "They have not removed him, of course, because he is too ill, but they will bring him to trial. His mother is at her wits' end, and not in a position or a state of mind to find for him the best barrister for his defence." She stopped, acutely aware of his dark eyes on her and his expression of concern leaping ahead of what she had already told 'him.

"I think you had better sit down and tell me the facts of the case, so far as you know them." He indicated the chair opposite his desk, and moved around to sit at the one behind it. He did not yet reach for the quill to make notes.

She tried to compose her mind so that she could tell him sensibly, so that she could make it comprehensible, without overweighing it with emotion.

"Rhys Duff and his father, Leighton Duff, were found in Water Lane, an alley in the area of St. Giles," she started to explain. "Leighton Duff was beaten to death. Rhys was severely injured, in a similar manner, but he survived, although he is unable to speak, and both his hands are badly broken, so neither can he hold a pen. That is important, because it means he cannot communicate, except by a nod or a shake of his head.”

"That is an added complication," he agreed gravely. "I have read something of the case. It is impossible to pick up a newspaper and not at least be aware of it. What evidence is there that leads the police to presume that Rhys killed his father, rather than the more natural assumption that both of them were attacked, and possibly robbed, by thieves or general ruffians of the area? Do you know?”

"Yes. Monk has found evidence which ties them to the rape cases in Seven Dials…”