The Silent Cry (9 page)

"Do you think so?" She looked at him sceptic ally "No vengeance, or justice, is going to change my husband's death, or Rhys's injuries. It will help some distant concept of what is fair, and I am not sure how much I care about that.”

Hester thought for a moment Evan was going to argue, but he said nothing, simply standing back and waiting for her to lead the way.

Upstairs Rhys was lying quietly, splinted hands on the covers, his expression peaceful, as if he were nearly asleep. He turned his head as he heard them. He looked guarded, but not frightened or unduly wary.

"I'm sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Duff," Evan began before even Hester or Sylvestra could speak. "But investigation has taken me very little further forward. I know you cannot speak yet, but if I ask you a few questions, you can indicate yes or no to me.”

Rhys stared back at him, almost unblinkingly.

Hester found herself gritting her teeth, her hands sticky. She knew Evan had no choice but to press. Rhys was the only one who knew the truth, but she also knew that it could cost him more than even his mother could guess, let alone Evan, who stood there looking so gentle and capable of pain himself.

"When you went out that evening," Evan began, 'did you meet anyone you knew, a friend?”

A shadow of a smile touched Rhys's mouth, bitter and hurt. He did not move. "I've asked the wrong question." Evan was undeterred. "Did you go in order to meet a friend? Had you made an arrangement?”

Rhys shook his head.

"No." Evan acknowledged. "Did you meet someone by chance?”

Rhys moved his shoulder a little, it was almost a shrug.

"A friend?”

This time it was definite denial.

"Someone you do not like? An enemy?”

Again the shrug, this time angry, impatient.

"Did you go straight to St. Giles?”

Rhys nodded very slowly, as if he had trouble remembering.

"Had you been there before?" Evan asked, lowering his voice.

Rhys nodded, his eyes unwavering.

"Did you know your father was going there also?”

Rhys stiffened, his body tightening till the muscles seemed locked.

"Did you?" Evan repeated.

Rhys cringed back into the pillow, wincing as the movement hurt him. He tried to speak, his mouth forming the words, his throat striving, but no sounds came. He started to tremble. He could not get his breath and gasped, the air dragging and catching in his throat.

Sylvestra bent forward. "Stop it!" she commanded Evan. "Leave him alone." She placed herself between them as if Evan were offering some physical threat. She swivelled round to Rhys, but he cowered away from her too as if he could not distinguish the difference.

Sylvestra's face was ashen. She struggled for something to say to him but it was beyond her reason or even her emotion to reach. She was baffled, frightened and hurt.

"You must both leave," Hester said firmly. "Please! Now!" As if assuming their obedience, she turned to Rhys who was shuddering violently and sounded in danger of choking. "Stop it!" she said to him loudly and clearly. "Nobody is going to hurt you now! Don't try to say anything… Just breathe in and out steadily! Very steadily!

Do as I tell you!”

She heard the door close as Evan and Sylvestra left.

Gradually Rhys's hysteria subsided. He began to breathe regularly. The scraping sound in his throat eased and he trembled instead of shaking.

"Keep on breathing slowly," she told him. "Gently. In out. In -out.”

She smiled at him.

Warily, shakily, he smiled back.

"Now I am going to get you a little hot milk, and a herbal draught to make you feel better. You need to rest.”

Fear darkened his eyes again.

"No one will come in.”

It was no comfort.

Then she thought perhaps she understood. He was afraid of dreams. The horror lay within him.

"You don't need to sleep. Just lie there quietly. It won't make you sleep.”

He relaxed, his eyes searching hers, trying to make her understand.

But he did sleep, for several hours, and she sat beside him, watching, ready to waken him if he showed signs of distress.

Corriden Wade came in the late afternoon. He looked anxious when Hester told him of Rhys's distress, and of the nightmare which had produced such prolonged pain and hysteria. His face creased with sharp concern, his own physical discomfort of the fall forgotten.

"It is most worrying, Miss Latterly. I shall go up and examine him.

This is not a good turn of events.”

She made to follow him.

"No," he said abruptly, holding his hand up as if physically to prevent her. "I will see him alone. He has obviously been profoundly disturbed by what has happened. In his best interest, to keep him from further hysteria, I shall examine him without the possible embarrassment of a stranger, and a woman present." He smiled very briefly, merely a flicker, more of communication than any lift of mood.

He was obviously deeply distressed by what had happened. "I have known Rhys since he was a child," he explained to her. "I knew his father well, God rest his soul, and my sister is a long-standing and dear friend of Sylvestra. No doubt she will call in the near future and offer whatever help or comfort she may…

.”

"That would be good…" Hester began.

"Yes, of course," he cut her off. "I must see my patient, Miss Latterly. It seems his condition might have taken a turn for the worse. It may be necessary to keep him sedated for a while, so he does not further injure himself in his turmoil of mind…”

She reached out to touch his arm. "But he is afraid of sleep, Doctor!

That is when he dreams…”

"Miss Latterly, I know very well that you have his interests at heart.”

His voice was quite quiet, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the iron in his will. "But his injuries are severe, more severe than you are aware of. I cannot risk his becoming agitated again and perhaps tearing them open. The results could be fatal." He stared at her earnestly. "This is not the kind of violence either you or I are accustomed to dealing with. We know war and its heroes, which, God knows, are horrible enough. This is the trial of a different kind of strength. We must protect him from himself, at least for a while. In a few weeks he may be better, we can only hope.”

There was nothing she could do but acquiesce.

"Thank you." His face softened. "I am sure we shall work together excellently. We have much in common, tests of endurance and judgement we have both passed." He smiled briefly, a look of pain and uncertainty, then turned and continued on up the stairs.

Hesterand Sylvestra waited in the withdrawing room. They sat on either side of the fire, stiff-backed, upright, speaking only occasionally, in stifled, jerky sentences.

"I have known Corriden Wade for years," Sylvestra said suddenly. "He was an excellent friend of my husband's. Leighton trusted him absolutely. He will do everything for Rhys that is possible.”

"Of course. I have heard of him. His reputation is excellent. Very high.”

"Is it? Yes. Yes, of course it is.”

Minutes ticked by. The coals settled in the fire. Neither of them moved to ring the bell for the maid to add more.

"His sister… Eglantyne, is a dear friend of mine.”

"Yes. He told me. He said she may call upon you soon.”

"I hope so. Did he say that?”

"Yes.”

"Should you be… with him?”

"No. He said it would be better if he went alone. Less disturbing.”

"Will it?”

"I don't know.”

More minutes ticked by. Hester decided to rebuild the fire herself.

Corriden Wade returned, his face grim.

"How is he?" Sylvestra demanded, her voice tight and high with fear.

She rose to her feet without being aware of it.

"He is very ill, my dear," he replied quietly. "But I have every hope that he will recover. He must have as much rest as possible. Do not permit him to be disturbed again. He can tell the police nothing. He must not be harassed as he was today. Any reminder of the terrible events which he undoubtedly both saw and suffered, will make him considerably worse. They may even cause a complete relapse. That is hardly to be wondered at.”

He looked at Hester. "We must protect him, Miss Latterly. I trust you to do that! I shall leave you some powders to give him in warm milk, or beef tea should he prefer it, which will help him to sleep deeply, and without dreams." He frowned. "And I must insist absolutely that you do not speak of his ordeal, or bring it to his mind in any way. He is not able to recall anything of it without the most terrible distress. That is natural to a young man of any decency or sensitivity whatever. I imagine you or I would feel exactly the same.”

Hester had no doubt that what he said was true. She had seen it only too vividly herself.

"Of course," she agreed. "Thank you. I shall be glad to see him find some ease, and some rest that is without trouble.”

He smiled at her. His face was charming, full of warmth.

"I am sure you are, Miss Latterly. He is fortunate to have you with him. I shall continue to call every day, but do not hesitate to send for me more often if you should need me." He turned to Sylvestra. "I believe Eglantyne will come tomorrow, if she may? May I tell her you will receive her?”

At last Sylvestra too relaxed a little, a faint smile touching her lips.

"Please do. Thank you, Corriden. I cannot imagine how we would have survived this without your kindness, and your skill.”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I wish… I wish it were not necessary. This is all… tragic… quite tragic." He straightened up. "I shall call again tomorrow, my dear, until then, have courage.

We shall do all we can, Miss Latterly and I.”

Monk sat alone in the large chair in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He was unaware of Evan's case, or of Hester's involvement with one of the victims. He had not seen Hester for more than two weeks, and it was high to the front of his mind that he did not wish to see her in the immediate future. His participation in Rathbone's slander case had taken him to the Continent, both to Venice and to the small German principality of Felzburg. It had given him a taste of an entirely different life of glamour, wealth and idleness, laughter and superficiality, which he had found highly seductive. There were also elements not unfamiliar to him. It had awoken memories of his distant past, before he had joined the police. He had struggled hard to catch them more firmly, and failed. Like all the rest, it was lost but for a few glimpses now and then, sudden windows opening, showing only a little, and then closing again and leaving him more confused than before.

He had fallen in love with Evelyn von Seidlitz. At least he thought it was love. It was certainly delicious, exciting, filling his mind and very definitely quickening his pulse. He had been hurt, but not as profoundly surprised as he should have been, to discover she was shallow and, under the surface charm and wit, thoroughly selfish. By the end of the matter he had longed for Hester's leaner, harder virtues, her honesty, her love of courage and truth. Even her morality and frequently self-righteous opinions had a kind of cleanness to them, like a sweet, cold wind after heat and a cloud of flies.

He leaned forward and picked up the poker to move the coals. He prodded at them viciously. He did not wish to think of Hester. She was arbitrary, arrogant and at times pompous, a fault he had hitherto thought entirely a masculine one. He could not afford to be vulnerable to such thoughts.

He had no case of interest at present, which added to his dark mood.

There were petty thefts to deal with, usually either a servant who was tragically easy to apprehend, or a housebreaker who was almost impossible, appearing out of the massed tens of thousands of the slums, and disappearing into them again within the space of an hour.

But such cases were better than no work at all. He could always go and see if there was any information Rathbone wanted, but that was a last resort, as a matter of pride. He liked Rathbone. They had shared many causes and dangers together. They had worked with every ounce of imagination, courage and intelligence for too many common purposes not to know a certain strength in each other which demanded admiration. And because they had shared both triumph and failure, they had a bond of friendship.

But there was also an irritation, a difference which rankled too often, pride and judgements which clashed rather than complemented. And there was always Hester. She both drew them together, and kept them apart.

But he preferred not to think about Hester, especially in relation to Rathbone.

He was pleased when the doorbell rang and a minute la tera woman came in. She was in early middle-age, but handsome in a full-blown, obvious way. Her mouth was too large, but sensuously shaped, her eyes were magnificent, her bones rather too well padded with flesh. Her figure was definitely buxom. Her clothes were dark and plain, of indifferent quality, but there was an air about her which at once proclaimed a confidence, even a brashness. She was neither a lady, nor one who associated with ladies.

"Are you William Monk?" she asked before he had time to speak. "Yes, I can see you are." She looked him up and down very candidly. "Yer've changed. Can't say what, exac'ly, but yer different. Point is…

are yer still any good?”

"Yes, I am extremely good!" he replied warily. It seemed she knew him, but he had no idea who she was, except what he could deduce from her appearance.

She gave a sharp laugh. "Mebbe you 'aven't changed that much! Still gives yerself airs." The amusement died out of her face and it became hard and cautious. "I want ter 'ire yer. I can pay.”

It was not likely to be work he would enjoy, but he was not in a position to refuse. He could at least listen to her. It was unlikely she would have domestic problems. That sort of thing she would be more than capable of dealing with herself.

"Me name's Vida "Opgood," she said. "In case yer don' remember.”

He did not remember, but it was plain she knew him from the past, before the accident. He was reminded jarringly of his vulnerability.

"What is your difficulty, Mrs. Hopgood?" He indicated the large chair on the far side of the fire, and when she had made herself comfortable, he sat down opposite her.

She glanced at the burning coals, then around at the very agreeable room with its landscape pictures, heavy curtains and old but good-quality furniture. It was largely supplied by Monk's patroness, Lady i Callandra Daviot, from the surplus in her country house. But Vida Hopgood did not need to know that.

"Done well fer yerself," she said ungrudgingly. "Yer din't never marry good, or yer wouldn't be grubbin' around wi' other folks' troubles.

Besides, yer wasn't the marryin' sort. Too cussed. Only ever wanted the kind o' wives as'd never 'ave yer. So I guess yer in't lorst none oyer cleverness. That's why I come. This'll take it all, and then maybe more. But we gotter know. We gotter put a stop ter it.”

"To what, Mrs. Hopgood?”

"Me us band Tom, 'e runs a fact'ry, makin' shirts and the like…”

Monk knew what the sweatshops of the East End were like, huge, airless places, suffocating in summer, bitterly cold in winter, where a hundred or more women might sit from before dawn until nearly midnight sewing shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs, petticoats, for barely enough to feed one of them, let alone the family which might depend on them. If someone had stolen from him, Monk for one was not going to look for them.

She saw his expression.

"Wear nice shirts still, do yer?”

He looked at her sharply.

"Course yer do!" she answered her own question with a surprising viciousness twisting her mouth. "And what do yer pay for 'em, eh?

Wanner pay more? Wot dyer think tailors and outfitters pay us for 'em, eh? If we put up our prices, we lose the business. An' 'oo'll that 'elp? Gents 'oo like smart shirts'll buy 'em the cheapest they can get. Can't pay more'n I can, can I?”

He was stung. "I presume you aren't looking for me to alter the tailoring economy?”

Her face registered her scorn, but it was not personal, nor was it her principal emotion, far more urgent was the reason she had come. She chose not to quarrel with him. The reason she had come to him at all, defying the natural barrier between them, was a mark of how grave the matter was to her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Ere! W'os the matter wiv yer? Yer look diff rent. Yer don' remember me, do yer?”

Would she believe a lie? And did it matter?

She was staring at him. "W'y dyer leave the rozzers, then? D'yer get caught doin' sum mink as yer shouldn't a'?”

"No. I quarrelled with my supervisor.”

She gave a sharp laugh. "So mebbe yer 'aven't changed that much arter all! But yer don't look like yer used ter… 'arder, but not so cocky. Come down a bit, 'aven't yer!" It was a statement, not a question. "In't got the power yer used ter 'ave, not well yer was slingin' yer weight around Seven Dials afore.”

He said nothing.

She looked at him even more closely, leaning a fraction forward. She was a very handsome woman. There was a vitality in her which it was impossible to ignore.

"Wy don't yer remember me? Yer should!”

"I had an accident. I don't remember a lot of things.”

"Jeez!" She let out her breath slowly. "In't that the truth? Well I never…" She was too angry even to swear. "That's a turn up if yer like. So yer startin' over from the bottom." She gave a little laugh.

"No better'n the rest o' us, then. Well, I'll pay yer, if yer earns it.”

"I am better than the rest, Mrs. Hopgood," he said staring at her levelly. "I've forgotten a few things, a few people, but I haven't lost my brains, or my will. Why have you come to me?”

"We can get by… most of us," she replied levelly. "One way an' another. Least we could, until this started 'appinin'.”

"What started happening?”

"Rape, Mr. Monk," she answered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly and with an ice-hard anger.

He was startled. Of all the possibilities which had flickered through his mind, that had not been one of them.

"Rape?" He repeated the word with incredulity.

"Some o' our girls is getting' raped in the streets." Now there was nothing in her but hurt, a blind confusion because she did not see the enemy. For once she could not fight her own battle.

It could have been a ridiculous subject. She was not speaking of respectable women in some pleasant area, but sweatshop workers who eked out a living labouring around the clock, then going home to one room in a tenement, perhaps shared with half a dozen other people of all ages and both sexes. Crime and violence were a way of life with them. For her to have come to him, an ex-policeman, seeking to pay him to help her, she must be speaking of something quite outside the ordinary.

"Tell me about it," he said simply.

She had already broken the first barrier. This was the second. He was listening, there was no mockery and no laughter in his eyes.

"First orff I din't think no think to it," she began. "Jus' one woman lookin' a bit battered. "Appens. "Appens lots o' times. "Usband gets a bit drunker'n usual. We often gets women inter the shop wifa black eyes, or worse. Specially on a Monday. But then the whisper goes around she's been done more than that. Still I take no notice. In't nuffink ter do wif me if she's got a bad man. There's enough of 'em round.”

He did not interrupt. Her voice was tighter and there was pain in it.

"Then there were another woman, one 'oo's us band sick, too sick ter beater Then there's a third, an' by now I wanna know wot in 'ell's goin' on." She winced. "Some of 'em in't more'n children. Ter cut it short, Mr. Monk, these women is getting' raped an' beat up. I get's the 'ole story. I makes 'em come in an' sit down in me parlour, one by one, an' I get's it out of 'em. I'll tell you wot they tol' me.”

"You had better put it in order for me, Mrs. Hopgood. It will save time." "Course! Wot did you think I were gonna do? Tell it yer like they tol' me? We'd be 'ere all ruddy night. In't got all night, even if you 'as. I 'spec' yer charge by the hour. Mos' folks do.”

"I'll charge by the day. But only after I've taken the case… if I do.”

Her face hardened. "Wot yer want from me… more money?”

He saw the fear behind her defiance. For all her brashness and the show of bravado she put on to impress, she was frightened and hurt and angry. This was not one of the familiar troubles she had faced all her life, this was something she did not know how to deal with.

"No," he interrupted as she was about to go on. "I won't say I can help you if I can't. Tell me what you learned. I'm listening.”

She was partly mollified. She settled back into the chair again, rearranging her skirts slightly around her extremely handsome figure.

"Some of our respectable women's fallen on 'and times, and thinks they'd never sell their selves no matter wot!" she continued. "Thinks they'd starve before they'd go onter the streets. But it's surprisin' 'ow quick yer can change yer mind when yer kids is starvin' 'n sick.

Yer 'ears 'em cryin', cold an' 'ungry long enough, an' yer'd sell yerself ter the devil, if 'e paid yer in bread an' coal for the fire, or a blanket, or a pair o' boots. Martyrin' yerself is one thing, seein' yer kids die is diffrent.”

Monk did not argue. His knowledge of that was deeper than any individual memory, it was something of the flesh and bone.

"It began easy," she went on, her voice thick with disgust. "First just a bloke 'ere 'n there wot wouldn't pay. It 'appens. There's always cheats in life. In't much yer can do but cut yer losses.”

He nodded.

"I wouldn't 'a thought nuffink o' that," she shrugged, still watching him narrowly, judging his reactions. "Then one o' the women comes in all bruised an' bashed around, like she bin beat up proper. Like I said, at first I took it as 'er man 'ad beater Wouldn't 'a blamed 'er if she'd stuck 'im wifa shiv fer that. But she said as it'd bin two men wot'd bin customers. She'd picked 'em up in the street an' gone fera quick one in a dark alley, an' then they'd beater Took 'er by force, even though she were willin', like." She bit her full lip. "There's always them as likes ter be a bit rough, but this were real beatin'.

It in't the same, not jus' a few bruises, like, but real 'urt.”

He waited. He knew from her eyes that there was more. One rape of a prostitute was merely a misfortune. She must know as well as he did that ugly and unjust as it was, there was nothing that could be done about it.

"She weren't the only one," she went on again. "It 'appened again, not her woman, then another. It got worse each time. There's bin seven now, Mr. Monk, that I know of, an' the last one she were beat till she were senseless. "Er nose an' 'er jaw were broke an' she lorst five teeth. No one else don't care. The rozzers in't goin' ter 'elp. They reckon as women wot sells their selves deserves wot they get." Her body was clenched tight under the dark fabric. "But nobody don't deserve ter get beat like that. It in't safe fer 'em ter earn the extra bit wot they needs. We gotter find 'oo's doin' this, an' that's wot we need you fer, Mr. Monk. We'll pay yer.”

He sat without replying for several moments. If what she said was true, then he also suspected that a little natural justice was planned.

He had no objection to that. They both knew it was unlikely the police would take much action against a man who was raping prostitutes.

Society considered that a woman who sold her body had little or no rights to withdraw the goods on offer, or to object if she were treated like a commodity, not a person. She had voluntarily removed herself from the category of decent women. She was an affront to society by her mere existence. No one was going to exert themselves to protect a virtue which in their opinion did not exist.