The Silent Cry (31 page)

"Where did they happen, exactly? I need to know. I need to speak to people who might have seen them coming or going, people in the street, traders, beggars, especially cabbies who might have brought them or taken them away afterwards.”

"Wot fer?" She was genuinely puzzled, it was plain in her face. "Yer know 'oo it were, don't yer?”

"I think so, but I need to prove it…”

"Wot fer?" she said again. "If yer think as the law'll take any notice, yer daft! An' yer in't daft, not yer worst enemy'd say that oyer Other things mebbe.”

"Do you want them caught?" he asked. "You imagine after what happened to one of them, they'll come back to St. Giles, for you to knife them and dump them on some midden? It'll be Limehouse, or the Devil's Acre, or Bluegate Fields next time. If we want justice, it will have to be in their territory, and that means with better weapons than yours. It means evidence, proof, not for the law, which as you say, doesn't care, but for society, which does.”

"Abaht prostitutes getting' raped or beat?" she said, her voice cracking high with disbelief. "Yer've lorst your wits, Monk! It's finally got toyer!”

"Society ladies know their men use prostitutes, Minnie," he explained patiently. "They don't like to think other people know it. They certainly don't like to marry their daughters to young men who frequent places like St. Giles to pick up stray women, who could have diseases, and who practise violence against women, extreme violence. What society knows, and what it acknowledges, can be very difficult. There are things which privately can be overlooked, but publicly are never forgiven or forgotten." He looked at her wrinkled face. "You have loyalties to your own. You understand that. You don't betray the tribe with someone else. Neither do they. These young men have let the side down, they will not be forgiven for that.”

"Yer get 'em, Monk," she said slowly, and for the first time her fingers stopped moving on the needles. "Ye're a clever sod, you are.

Yer get 'em for us. We'll not ferget yer.”

"Where did they happen, the two in St. Giles?”

"Fisher's Walk, the first one, an' Ellicitt's Yard the second.”

"Time?”

"Jus' arter midnight, both times.”

"Dates?”

"Three nights afore the murder in Water Lane, night afore Christmas Eve.”

"Thank you, Minnie. You have been a great help. Are you sure you won't give me the names? It would help to talk to the victims themselves.”

"Yeah, I'm sure.”

The following day he went to Evan and aft era little persuasion obtained from him copies of the pictures of Rhys Duff and his father.

He looked at the faces with curiosity. It was the first time he had seen them, and they were neither as he had pictured them. Leighton Duff had powerful features, a strong, broad nose, clear eyes that were blue or grey from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled him. It was the face of a dreamer. He should have been a poet or an explorer of ideas. His eyes were dark under winged brows, his nose good, if a trifle long, his mouth sensitive, even vulnerable.

But it was only a drawing, probably made after the incident, and perhaps the artist had allowed his sense of pity to influence his hand.

Monk put them in his pocket, thanked Evan, and set out through a light drizzle towards St. Giles again.

In Fisher's Walk he began asking street traders, pedlars, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognised either of the two men.

It did not take long to find someone who identified Rhys.

"Yeah," he said, scratching his finger at the side of his head and knocking his cap askew. "Yeah, I seen 'im 'angin' around once or twice, mebbe more. Tall, eh? Nice-lookin' gent. Spoke proper, like them up west. Dressed rough, though. Down on 'is luck, I reckon.”

"Dressed rough?" Monk said quickly. "What do you mean, exactly?" Was it Rhys, or only someone who looked a little like him?

"Well, not like a gent," the man replied, looking at Monk earnestly as if he doubted his intelligence. "I know wot gents look like. Overcoat, 'e 'ad, but nuthink special, no fur on the collar, no 'igh 'at, no stick. In fact no 'at at all, co meter think on it.”

"But it was this man? You are sure?”

"Course I'm sure! Yer fink I dunno wot I sees, or yer fink I'm a liar, eh?”

"I think it's important you are sure," Monk said carefully. "Someone's life might hang on it.”

The man laughed uproariously, his breath coming in gasps between rich, rolling gurgles of merriment.

"Yer a caution, you are! I never 'card yer was a wit afore. On'y 'card yer was clever, an' never ter cross yer. Mean bastard, but fair, most o' the time, but one ter give a bloke enough rope ter 'ang is self an' then watch wile 'e does it. Pull the trap fer 'im, if 'e'd done yer wrong.”

Monk felt the cold close in on him, penetrating his skin. "I wasn't being funny," he said in a voice that caught in his throat. "I meant depend on it, not hang with a rope.”

"Well, if you ain't gonna 'ang them bastards wot raped those women over in Seven Dials, wot yer want 'em for? Ye gonna get 'em orff 'cos they're gents? That in't like yer. I never 'card from nobody, even yer worst enemy, as yer feared nor favoured no one, not for nuffink at all.”

"Well, that's something, I suppose. I'm not going to hang them because I can't. I'd be perfectly happy to." He was not sure of that being true. "Happy' might not be the right word, but he could certainly accede to it. He knew Hester would not, but that was irrelevant…

well, almost.

"It were 'im," the man said, shivering a little as he grew colder standing still on the street corner. "I seen 'im 'ere three, mebbe four times. Always at night.”

"Alone, or with others?”

"Wif others, twice. Once by is self "Who were the others? Describe them! Did you ever see him with women, and what were they like?”

"Ang on! "Ang on! Once 'e were wif an older man, 'cavy set, dressed very smart, like a gent. "E were real angry, shouting at 'im…”

"Who was shouting at whom?" Monk interrupted.

"They was shouting at each other, o' course.”

Monk produced the picture of Leighton Duff. "Was this him, or could it have been?”

The man studied it for several moments, then shook his head. "I dunno.

I don' fink so. W'y? "Oo is 'e?”

"That doesn't matter. Have you ever seen him, the older man?”

"Not as I knows of. Looks like a few as I seen.”

"And the other time? Who was the young man with then?”

"Woman. Young, mebbe sixteen or so. They went together inter an alley. Dunno after that, but I can guess.”

"Thank you. I don't suppose you know the name of the woman, or where I can find her?”

"Looked like Fanny Waterman terme, but that don't mean it were!”

Monk could scarcely believe his good fortune. He tried not to let his sense of victory show too much in his voice.

"Where can I find her?”

"Black "Orse Yard.”

Monk knew better than to try for a number. He would have to go there and simply start asking. He paid the man half a crown, a magnificent reward he feared he would regret later, and then set out for Black Horse Yard.

It took him two hours to find Fanny Waterman, and her answers left him totally puzzled. She recognised Rhys without hesitation.

"Yeah. So wot?”

"When?”

"I dunno. Mebbe free or four times. Wot's it toyer?" She was a slight, skinny girl, hardly handsome, but she had a face which reflected intelligence and some humour behind the belligerence, and in different circumstances she could well have had a kind of charm. She was certainly fluent enough with words, and there was a cockiness in her walk and the attitude of her head. There was nothing of self-pity in her. She seemed as curious about Monk as he was about her. "W'y dyer wanna know, eh? Wot's 'e done toyer? If 'e broke the law, I in't shoppin' 'im.”

"He didn't hurt you?”

"Urt me? Wo's matter wiv yer? Course 'e din't 'urt me! W'y'd 'e 'urt me?”

"Did he pay you?”

"W'y yer wanna know?" She put her head on one side, looking at him out of wide, dark brown eyes. "Like lookin' at fellas, do yer?" There was the beginning of contempt in her voice. "Cost yer!”

"No, I don't," he said tartly. "A lot of women have been raped and beaten, mostly in Seven Dials, but some here. I'm after whoever did it.”

"Geez!" she said in awe. "Well, nobody 'urt me. "E paid proper an' willin'.”

"When was that? Please try to recall.”

She thought for a moment.

"Was it before or after Christmas?" he prompted. "New Year?”

"It were between," she said with sudden enlightenment. "Then 'e came again arter New Year. W'y? Can't yer tell me wy? Ye don' think as it were 'im, do yer?”

"What do you think?”

"Never!" She tilted her head to one side. "Were it? "Onest?”

"When was the last time you saw him?”

"Dunno. I din' see 'im for a couple o' weeks afore them blokes was done in Water Lane. Rozzers all over the place arter that. In't good for business.”

He took out the picture of Leighton Duff. "Did you ever see this man?”

She studied it. "No.”

"Are you sure?”

"Yeah. I never seen 'im. "Oo is 'e? Is 'e the bloke wot got beat ter death?”

"Yes.”

"Well, I see'd Rhys, that's 'is name, wi' other gents, but this geezer weren't one of 'em. They was young, like 'im. One were real and some Called is self "King", or "Prince" or sum mink like that. The other were Arfur.”

"Duke, perhaps?" Monk felt his pulse beating like a hammer. This was it, this was the three of them seen together, and named.

"Yeah… that's right! Were he a duke, for real?”

"No. It's just short for Marmaduke!”

"Oh… Shame. Like ter fink as I'd 'ad a duke. Still, never mind, eh? All the same wif their pants orff." She laughed with genuine humour at the absurdity of pretension.

"And they all paid you?" he pressed one more time.

"Nah… that Duke were a nasty piece o' work. "E'd a 'it me if I'd 'a pushed, so I din't. Jus' took wot I could.”

"Did he hit you?”

"Nah. I knows well ter push me luck, an' well not ter.”

"Did you see him the night of the murder?”

"Nah.”

"None of them?”

"Nah.”

"I see. Thank you." He produced a shilling, all the change he had left, and gave it to her.

He continued in his search. As he was already aware, the word had spread whom he was seeking and why. For once co-operation was less grudgingly given. Once or twice it was even volunteered. He wanted one more piece, if possible. Had there been a victim that night? Had Leighton Duff caught them before they had attacked, or after? Was there any room at all for denial?

If they had been exultant, intoxicated with the excitement of their victory, dishevelled, perhaps marked with blood, then there was nothing else left to seek. Once Evan knew where to look, whom to question, and had the force of law behind him and the crime of murder, no more rape of women society chose to forget, but a man who was at the heart and core of their own, and the rest could be concerned, proof enough for any court.

It took him another complete day, but at last he found her, a woman in her forties, still pretty in spite of her tiredness and persistent cough. Her cheekbone was broken and she limped badly. She was severely bruised. Yes, they had raped her, but she had not had the strength to fight, and that in itself had seemed to anger them. She was lucky. They had been interrupted.

"Don' tell anyone!" she begged. "I'll lose me job!”

He wished he could promise her that. He said what he could.

"They went on to commit murder, within a few minutes of leaving you,” he said grimly. "You won't need to say you were raped. You can swear you were walking along the street and they fell on you… that will be good enough.”

"Yeah?" she looked doubtful.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Where was it?”

Her voice was husky, her face pale. "Just orff Water Lane.”

"Thank you. That will be enough… I promise.”

It was sufficient. He would have to take it to Evan. He could not conceal it any longer. It was material evidence on the murder of Leighton Duff. If Rhys and his friends had been using prostitutes in St. Giles, which was now unarguable, and it had escalated in violence over the months, then it seemed more than likely that Leighton Duff had found out and had followed him, going to St. Giles just the once. That was borne out by Monk's lack of ability to find anyone who had recognised him. That was ample motive for the quarrel which had followed, the battle which had gone so far it could only end in the death of the one person who knew the truth of what he had done… his father. Whether Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston had been present or not, what part they had played, would have to be proved.

But Monk must go to Evan.

First he would tell Hester. She should not learn it when Evan came to arrest Rhys. He hated having to tell her, but it would be worse if he evaded the issue. As the man in the street who had named Fanny had said, not even his worst enemies had accused him of cowardice.

It was late when he arrived at Ebury Street. A pale moon glittered in a frosty sky and over towards the east the clouds obscured the faint light and promised more snow.

The butler opened the door and said he would enquire whether Miss Latterly was able to receive him. Ten minutes later he was in the library beside a very small fire when Hester came in. She looked frightened. She closed the door behind her, her eyes fixed on his face, searching.

"What is it?" she said without preamble. "What has happened?”

She looked so fierce and vulnerable he ached to be able to shield her from it, but there was no way. He could lie now, but it would open a chasm between them, and in a few hours, a day or two at most, and it would happen anyway. She would be here, and see it. The shock, the sense of betrayal would only be worse.

"I've found someone who saw Rhys, and Arthur and Duke Kynaston together in St. Giles," he said quietly. He heard the regret in his own voice.

It sounded harsh, as if his throat hurt. "I'm sorry. I have to take it to Evan.”