The Silent Cry

Chapter Eleven

Monk was convinced that any attempt to find mitigating circumstances to explain Rhys Duffs behaviour was doomed to failure. He was a young man whose lack of self-control, first of his appetites, then of his temper, had led him from rape to the situation of murder which he now faced.

Curiously, it was the beatings for which Monk could not forgive him.

They, of all the crimes, seemed a gratuitous exercise of cruelty.

Nevertheless he would try, for Hester's sake. He had said he would, perhaps in the emotion of the moment, and now he was bound.

Still, as he set out from St. Giles, it was more at the edge of his mind than the centre. He could not rid himself of the memory of the expression of contempt he had seen in the eyes of the people who had known him before, and liked Runcorn better, felt sorry for him in the exchange. Runcorn, as he was now, irritated Monk like a constant abrasion to the skin. He was pompous, small-minded, self-serving. But perhaps he had not always been like that. It was imaginable that whatever had happened between them had contributed to a warping of his original nature.

If anyone had offered it to Monk as an excuse for his own behaviour, he would have rejected it as precisely that an excuse. If he did not have the strength, the honesty or the courage to rise above it, then he should have. But he would soften the judgement towards others where he could not for himself.

He was in Oxford Street and going south. In a moment or two the hansom would stop and let him down. He would walk the rest of the way, he was not yet sure precisely to what goal. The traffic around him was dense, people shouting in all directions, the air filled with the squeal of horses, rattle of harness and hiss of wheels in the rain.

He should turn his attention to Rhys Duff. What could he look for?

What might a mitigating circumstance be? Accident was impossible. It had to have been a deliberate and sustained battle fought until both men were incapable even of moving. Provocation? That was conceivable for Leighton Duff, in the rage and horror of discovering what his son had done. It was not believable the other way around.

Unless there was something else, some other quarrel which happened to have reached a climax in Water Lane. Would that excuse anything? Were there any circumstances in which such violence ending in murder could be understood? He could imagine none. Leighton Duff had not died of a blow to the head which could have been one dreadful loss of control. He had been beaten to death, blow after blow after blow.

The hansom stopped and he alighted and paid the driver, then turned and walked in the rain towards the first alley opening. The smell of dirt was becoming familiar, the narrow greyness of the buildings, the sloping, leaning walls, the sense of imminent collapse as wood creaked, wind flapped in loose canvas or whistled thinly in broken glass.

The "Holy Land' had been like this twenty years ago, only more dangerous. He turned his collar up, then pushed his hands deeper in his pockets. It was useless trying to avoid stepping in puddles; everywhere the gutters overflowed. The only answer was to keep old boots specifically for this purpose.

What had made Leighton Duff follow Rhys on this particular evening? Did he discern something which, with a horrifying shock, made him realise what his son was doing? What could that be, and why had Evan not found it? Had Leighton Duff destroyed it, or taken it with him in order to confront Rhys? If so, then why had it not been found on his body? Rhys had not left. Then had Arthur or Duke Kynaston taken it with them, and presumably destroyed it?

Or did it not exist, and Leighton Duff had known before, or at least suspected? What had decided him that night to follow Rhys?

Was it possible he had followed him before?

He crossed a narrow yard with a smithy in the building on the far side.

He could feel the warmth from the furnace yards away, and smell the fire, the burning metal and the damp hide and flesh of horses.

A new idea occurred to him as he hurried past before the warmth could ensnare him. Might Leighton Duff also have used prostitutes, and that was how he had learned of Rhys's behaviour? And to reason on the subject, how had he learned? Had Rhys returned injured, and been obliged to explain to his father the blood on him, or scratches, bruises? Surely not. He would have sufficient privacy for that not to be necessary, or another, simple explanation to be given. He could pass it off as a bout of boxing taken a little too far, a riding mishap, a scuffle in the street, a fall, a dozen things. He should check with Sylvestra Duff and see if any such thing had happened.

But what if Leighton had been there himself, perhaps with one particular prostitute? That could at one stroke explain his knowledge of Rhys's presence in St. Giles, and of the series of rapes and beatings; and also perhaps explain something of Rhys's rage at being chastised by his father. The sheer hypocrisy of it, in his eyes, might infuriate him.

And on a darker note, if he knew of his father's association with such women, might it explain his own violence towards prostitutes, a sense of the violation of his family, especially his mother? That would be the begi

The answer was to see if anyone in St. Giles recognised Leighton Duff from any night except that of his death. Was he known in any of the brothels? It would be by sight. A man as sophisticated in the ways of the world was hardly likely to use his own name. While society knew perfectly well that a great many gentlemen took their pleasures in such places, it was still another matter to be caught at it. One's reputation would suffer, perhaps a great deal.

He stopped abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the kerb. He all but overbalanced, memory came to him so sharply. Of course a man could be ruined, become the butt of social jokes, not so much from his carnal weakness as the absurdity of being caught in a ridiculous position. The dignity was shattered for ever. One's inferiors laughed, respect vanished. One could no longer exert authority.

Why had he thought of authority?

A man with a brazier of roasting chestnuts was staring at him curiously. A coster girl giggled and disappeared round the end of the alley into the thoroughfare, carrying a bag in front of her.

A magistrate. It was a magistrate caught in a police raid in a brothel. He had been in bed with a fat, saucy girl of about fourteen.

When the police had gone in, he had come ru

Why did he remember that now? It was still fu

Why? Why should Monk feel any guilt? The man was a hypocrite, sentencing women for a crime in which he himself was the abettor, for selling goods which he only too obviously bought.

And yet the sense of regret remained with him as he turned left and crossed the road again. He was unconsciously heading towards one of the bigger brothels he knew of. Was it to ask about Leighton Duff? Or was this where the old raid had happened? Why would the police raid a brothel in St. Giles or the "Holy Land'? It was riddled with them, and no one cared. There must have been some other reason, theft, forgery, perhaps something more serious, kidnapping or even murder. That would justify storming into the place, without warning.

He passed a man with a bundle of walking sticks, threading his way through the alleys to a main street where he would begin to sell them.