The Silent Cry (18 page)

The other questions which lay unresolved at the back of the mind concerned his relationship with Runcorn. There were many occasions when he saw a side of him he almost liked, at least a side he could understand and feel for. His aspirations to better himself were such as any man might have, most particularly one from a very ordinary background, a good-looking man whose education was unremarkable, but where intelligence and ability were greater than his opportunities would allow. He had chosen the police as a career where avenues were open for him to exercise his natural gifts, and he had done so with great success. He was not a gentleman born, nor had he the daring and the confidence to bluff his way, as Monk had.

He lacked the grace, the quick-witted ness or the model from whom to learn. Evan thought that very possibly he had received little encouragement from whatever family he possessed. They might see him as being ashamed of his roots, and resent him accordingly.

And he had never married. There must be a story to that. Evan wondered if it were financial. Many men felt they could not afford a home fit for a wife, and the almost certain family which would follow.

Or had it been emotional, a woman who had refused him, or perhaps who had died young, and he had not loved again? Probably Evan would never know, but the possibilities lent a greater humanity to a man whose temper and whose weakness he saw, as well as his competence and his strengths.

He stood on the kerb waiting for the traffic to ease so he could cross the corner at Grosvenor Street. A newspaper seller was calling out headlines about the controversial book published last year by Charles Darwin. A leading bishop had expressed horror and condemnation.

Liberal and progressive thinkers disagreed with him and labelled him reactionary and diehard. The murder in St. Giles was forgotten. There was a brazier on the corner and a man selling roasted chestnuts, and warming his hands at the fire.

There was congestion at the junction of Eccleston Street and Belgrave Road. Two dray men were in a heated discussion. Evan could hear their raised voices from where he stood. The traffic all ground to a halt, and he went across the street, dodging fresh horse droppings, pungent in the cold air. He was a short block from Ebury Street.

The worst of Runcorn, the times he descended into spite, were when Monk's name, or by implication his achievements, were mentioned. There was a shadow between them far deeper than the few clashes Evan had witnessed, or the final quarrel when Monk had left, simultaneously with Runcorn dismissing him.

Monk no longer understood it. It was gone with all the rest of his past, returning only in glimpses and unconnected fragments, leaving him to guess, and fear the rest. Evan would almost certainly never know, but it was there in his mind when he saw the weakness and the vulnerability in Runcorn.

He reached Ebury Street and knocked on the door of number thirty-four.

He was met by the maid, Janet, who smiled at him a slight uncertainty, as if she liked him, but knew his errand only too painfully. She showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while she discovered if Mrs. Duff would see him.

However, when the door opened it was Hester who came in quickly, closing it behind her. She was wearing blue, her hair dressed a little less severely than usual, and she looked flushed, but with vitality rather than fever or any embarrassment. He had always liked her, but now he thought perhaps she was also prettier than he had realised before, softer, more openly feminine. That was another thing he wondered about Monk, why he quarrelled with her so much? He would be the last man on earth to admit it, but perhaps that was exactly why, he could not afford, he did not dare, to see her as she really was!

"Good morning, Hester," he said, informally, echoing his thoughts rather than his usual manners.

"Good morning, John," she answered with a smile, a touch of amusement in it as well as friendship.

"How is Mr. Duff?”

The laughter vanished from her eyes, and even the light in her face seemed to fade.

"He is very poorly still. He has the most dreadful nightmares. He had another again last night. I don't even know how to help him.”

"There is no question he saw what happened to his father," he said regretfully. "If only he could tell us!”

"He can't!" she said instantly.

"I know he can't speak, but…”

"No! You can't ask him," she interrupted. "In fact it would be better if you did not even see him. Really I am not being obstructive. I would like to know who murdered Leighton Duff, and also did this to him, as much as you would. But his recovery has to be my chief concern." She looked at him earnestly. "It has to be, John, regardless of anything else. I could not conceal a crime, or knowingly tell you anything that was not true, but I cannot allow you to cause him the distress and the real damage it may do if you try in any way at all to bring back to his mind what he saw and felt. And if you had witnessed his nightmares as I have, you would not argue with me." Her eyes were dark with her own distress, her face pinched with it, and he knew her well enough to read in her expression far more than she said.

"And Dr. Wade has forbidden it," she added. "He has seen his injuries and knows the damage further hysteria on his part might cause. They could be torn open so easily, were he to wrench his body around, or move suddenly or violently.”

"I understand," he conceded, trying not to imagine too vividly the horror and the pain, and finding it hideously real. "I came principally to report to Mrs. Duff.”

Her eyes widened. "Have you found something?" She remained curiously still, and for a moment he thought she was afraid of the answer.

"No." That was not totally true. She had not asked him openly, but had he been honest to the question which was understood between them, he would have said he had learned new suspicions about Sylvestra.

He had returned not because of a discovery, but a realisation. "I wish there were new facts," he went on. "It's only a matter of trying better to understand the old ones.”

"I can't help you," she said quietly. "I'm not even sure whether I want you to find the truth. I have no idea what it is, except that Rhys cannot bear it.”

He smiled at her, and all the memory of past tragedies and horrors they had known was there with its emotion, for an instant shared.

Then the door opened and Sylvestra came in. She looked at Hester with dark eyebrows lifted in question.

"Miss Latterly says that Mr. Duff is not well enough to be spoken to,”

Evan explained. "I am sorry. I had hoped he was better for his own sake, as well as for the truth.”

"No… he's not," Sylvestra said quickly, relief filling her face, and a softening of gratitude towards Hester. "I'm afraid he still cannot help.”

"Perhaps you can, Mrs. Duff." Evan was not going to allow her to close him out. "Since I cannot speak with Mr. Duff, I shall have to speak with his friends. Some of them may know something which can tell us why he went to St. Giles, and whom he knew there.”

Hester went out silently.

"I doubt it," Sylvestra said almost before Evan had finished speaking, then seemed to regret her haste, not as having said something untrue, but as tactically mistaken. "I mean… at least I don't think so. If they did, surely they would have come forward by now? Arthur Kynaston was here yesterday. If he or his brother had known anything at all, they would surely have told us.”

"If they realise the relevance," Evan said persuasively, as if he had not thought she was being evasive. "Where may I find them?”

"Oh… the Kynastons live in Lowndes Square, number seventeen.”

"Thank you. I dare say they can tell me of any other friends whose company they kept from time to time." He made his tone casual. "Who would know your husband in his leisure hours, Mrs. Duff? I mean, who else might frequent the same clubs, or have the same hobbies or interests?”

She said nothing, staring at him with wide, black eyes. He tried to read in them what she was thinking, and failed completely. She was different from any woman he had seen before. There was a composure to her, a mystery, which filled his mind even when he had thought he was concentrating on something else, some utterly different aspect of the case. He would never understand her until he knew a great deal more about Leighton Duff, what manner of man he had been: brave or cowardly, kind or cruel, honest or deceitful, loving or cold. Had he had wit, charm, gentleness, imagination? Had she loved him, or had it been a marriage of convenience, workable, but without passion? Had there even been friendships in it, or trust?

"Mrs. Duff?”

"I suppose Dr. Wade and Mr. Kynaston principally," she replied.

"There are many others, of course. I think he had interests in common with Mr. Milton, in his law partnership, and Mr. Hodge. He spoke of a James Wellingham once or twice, and he wrote to a Mr. Phillips quite regularly.”

"I'll speak with them. Perhaps I may see the letters?" He had no idea what possible use they could be, but he must try everything.”

"Of course." She seemed perfectly at ease with the idea. If Runcorn were right, her lover did not lie in that direction. He could not help thinking again of Corriden Wade.

He spent a profitless morning reading agreeable but essentially tedious correspondence from Mr. Phillips, largely on the subject of toxophily.

He left and went to the law office of Cullingford, Duff and Partners where he learned that Leighton Duff was a brilliant man in his chosen career, and the driving force behind the success of the concern. His rise from junior to effective leader had been almost without hindrance.

Everyone spoke well of his ability, and was concerned for the continued pre-eminence of the company in its field, now he was no longer with them.

If there were envy or personal malice Evan did not see it. Perhaps he was too easily persuaded. Possibly he lacked Monk's sharper, harder mind, but he saw in the replies of his associates nothing more sinister than respect for a colleague, a decent observance for the etiquette of speaking no ill of the dead, and a lively fear for their own future prosperity. Apparently they had not been socially acquainted, and none of them claimed to know the widow. He could catch them in no evasion, let alone untruth.

He left feeling he had wasted his time. All he had learned had confirmed his earlier picture of Leighton Duff as a clever, hard-working and eminently, almost boringly decent man. The side of his character which took him to St. Giles, for whatever reason, was perfectly hidden from his partners in the law. If they suspected anything, they did not allow Evan to see it.

But then if a gentleman took occasional release for his natural carnal appetites, it was certainly not a matter to be displayed before the vulgar and the inquisitive, and Evan knew that in their minds the police would fall into both those categories.

It was after four o'clock and already dusk with the lamp lighters hurrying to the last few before it was too late, when Evan arrived at the home of Joel Kynaston, friend of Leighton Duff, and headmaster i in of the excellent school at which Rhys had obtained his education. He did not live on the school premises, but in a fine Georgian house about a quarter of a mile away.

The door was opened by a rather short butler, straightening to stand up to every fraction of his height.

"Yes, sir?" He must be used to parents of pupils turning up at unexpected hours. He showed no surprise at all, except perhaps at Evan's comparative youth as he stepped into the light.

"Good afternoon. My name is John Evan. I would very much appreciate speaking confidentially with Mr. Kynaston. It is in regard to the recent tragic death of Mr. Leighton Duff." He did not give his rank or occupation.

"Indeed, sir," the butler said without expression. "I shall inquire if Mr. Kynaston is at home. If you will be so good as to wait.”

It was the customary polite fiction. Kynaston would have expected someone to call. It was surely inevitable. He would be prepared in his mind. If he had anything relevant he was willing to say, he would have sought out Evan himself.

He looked around the hallway where he had been left. It was elegant, a trifle cold in its lack of personal touches. The umbrella stand held only sticks and umbrellas of one character, one length. Such ornaments as there were, were all of finely wrought brass, possibly Arabic, beautiful but lacking the variety of objects collected by a family over a period of years. Even the pictures on the walls spoke of one taste.

Either Kynaston and his wife were remarkably alike in their choices, or one person's character prevailed over the other.

But the man who came out of the double oak doors of the withdrawing room was not more than twenty-two or three. He was handsome, if a little undershot of jaw, had fair hair which curled attractively, and bold direct blue eyes.

"I'm Duke Kynaston, Mr. Evan," he said coolly, stopping in the middle of the polished floor. "My father is not at home yet. I am not sure when he will be. Naturally we wish to be of any assistance to the police that we can, but I fear there is nothing we know about the matter. Would you not be better pursuing your enquiries in St. Giles?

That is where it happened, is it not?”

"Yes, it is," Evan replied, trying to sum up the young man, make a judgement as to his nature. He wondered how close he had been to Rhys Duff. There was an arrogance in his face, a hint of self-indulgence about the mouth, which made it easy to imagine that if Rhys had indeed gone whoring in St. Giles, Duke Kynaston might well have been his companion. Had he been there that night? At the dark edges of Evan's mind, something he did not even want to allow into his conscious thought, was the knowledge of Monk's case, the rapes of poverty-stricken women, amateur prostitutes. But that had been in Seven Dials, beyond Aldwych. Was it just conceivable Rhys and his companions had been responsible for that, and had this time met their match, a woman who had a brother, or a husband who was not as drunken as they had supposed? Possibly even a vigilante group of their own? That would explain the violence of the reprisal. And Leighton Duff had feared as much and had followed his son, and he had been the one who had paid the ultimate price, dying to save his son's life?