The Silent Cry

Wade stared at him. He looked extremely tired. There was little colour in his face and his body slumped as though he had no strength left, and his muscles hurt him.

"I imagine he knew it as well as we do," he said bleakly. "He must have gone in after Rhys. You have only seen Rhys as he is now, Mr.

Evan, a victim of violence, a man confused and in pain, and extremely frightened." He pushed out his lower lip. "He is not always so.

Before this… incident… he was a young man of considerable bravado and appetite, and with much of youth's belief in its own superiority, invincibility, and insensitivity to the feelings of others. He had the average capacity to be cruel, and to enjoy a certain power." His mouth tightened. "I make no judgements, and God knows, I would cure him of all of this if I could, but it is not impossible he was involved with a woman of that area, and exercised certain desires without regard to their consequences upon others. She may have belonged to someone else. He may even have been rougher than was acceptable. Perhaps she had family who…" He did not bother to finish, it was u

Evan frowned, searching his way through crowding possibilities.

"Dr. Wade, are you saying that you have observed a streak of cruelty or violence in Rhys Duff before this incident?”

Wade hesitated. "No, Sergeant, I am not," he said finally. "I am saying that I knew Leighton Duff for close to twenty years, and I ca

Giles, except to try to reason with his son, and prevent him from committing some act of folly from which he could not extricate himself.

In the light of what has happened, I can only believe that he was right.”

"Did he speak to you of such fears, Dr. Wade?”

"You must know, Sergeant, that I ca

"Yes," Evan agreed with a sigh. "Yes, of course I do. I do not think I need to trouble you further, at least not tonight. Thank you for your time.”

"You are welcome, Sergeant.”

Evan stood up and went to the door.

"Sergeant!”

He turned. "Yes, sir?”

"I think your case may be insoluble. Please try to consider Mrs. Duffs feelings as much as you can. Do not pursue tragic and sordid details of her son's life which ca

"Do you mean his speech, or his life?”

"Both.”

"I see. Thank you for your kindness. Goodnight, Dr. Wade.”

"Goodnight, Sergeant.”

Evan left with a deep grief inside him. He went out into the dark street. The fog had descended since he had gone inside, and now he could barely see four or five yards in front of him. The gas lamps were no more than blurs in the gloom before and behind him. Beyond that it was a dense wall. The sound of traffic was muffled, wheels almost silent, hooves a dull sound on stone, eaten by the fog as soon as they touched. Carriage lamps lurched towards him, passed and disappeared.

He walked with his collar up and his hat pulled forward over his brow.

The air was wet and clung to his skin, smelling of soot. He thought of the people of St. Giles on a night like this, the ones huddled together, a dozen to a room, cold and hungry. And he thought of those outside in doorways, without even shelter.

What had happened to Rhys Duff? Why had he thrown away everything he had, warmth, home, love, opportunity of achievement, respect of his father, to chase after some appetite which would end in destroying him?

He thought of his own youth, of his mother's kitchen full of herbs and vegetables and the smell of baking. There was always soup on the stove all winter long. His sisters were noisy, laughing, quarrelling, gossiping. Their pretty clothes were all over the place, their dolls, and later their books and letters, paint brushes and embroidery.

He had sat for hours in his father's study, talking about all ma

He felt no anger, no bitterness, only confusion.

The following morning he met Shotts back in the alley in St. Giles and started over again in the search for witnesses, evidence, anything which would lead to the truth. He could not disown the possibility that Sylvestra Duff had had some part in her husband's death. It was an ugly thought, but now it had entered his mind, he saw more that upheld it, at least sufficiently to warrant its investigation.

Was it that knowledge which had horrified Rhys so much he could not speak? Was it at the core of his apparent chill now towards his mother? Was that burden the one which tormented him, and kept him silent?

Who was the man? Was he implicated, or merely the unknowing motive?

Was it Corriden Wade, and did Rhys know that?

Or was it, as the doctor had implied, Rhys's own weakness which had taken him to St. Giles, and his father, in desperation for him, had followed, interrupted him, and been killed for his trouble?

Which led to the other dreadful question: what hand had Rhys in his father's death? A witness… or more?

"Have you got those pictures?" he asked Shotts.

"What? Oh yeah!" Shotts took out of his pocket two drawings, one of Rhys, as close as the artist could estimate, removing the present bruises; the other of Leighton Duff, necessarily poorer, less accurate, made from a portrait in the hall. But they were sufficient to give a very lively impression of how each man must have appeared in life.

"Have you found nothing more?" Evan pressed. "Pedlars, street traders or cabbies? Someone must have seen them!”

Shotts bit his lip. "Nobody wants ter 'ave seen 'em," he said candidly.

"What about women?" Evan went on. "If they were here for women, someone must know them!”

"Not for sure," Shotts argued. "Quick fumble in an alley or a doorway.

"Oo cares about faces?”

Evan shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he felt it eating inside him as well as numbing his face, his hands and his feet. It was begi

"Would have thought women would be careful about familiarity in the street these days. I hear there have been several bad rapes of dolly mops and amateur prostitutes lately," he remarked.

"Yeah," Shotts said with a frown. "I 'card that too. But it's over Seven Dials way, not 'ere.”

"Who did you hear it from?" Evan asked.

There was a moment's silence.

"What?”

"Who did you hear it from?" Evan repeated.

"Oh… ru

"Yes…" Evan agreed. "Unfortunately there is. Is that all you found?”

"Yeah. Least about the father. Got a few likely visits o' the son, women 'oo think they 'adim. But none's fer sure. They don't take no notice o' faces, even if they see 'em. "Ow many young men dyer suppose there are 'oo are tall, a bit on the thin side, an' wi' dark 'air?”

"Not so many who come from Ebury Street to take their pleasures in St.

Giles," Evan answered drily.

Shotts did not say anything further. Together they trudged from one wretched bawdy house to another with the pictures, asking questions, pressing, wheedling, sometimes threatening. Evan learned a considerable respect for Shotts' skills. He seemed to know instinctively how to treat each person in order to obtain the most cooperation from them. He knew surprisingly many, some with what looked like a quite genuine camaraderie. A few jokes were exchanged.