The Silent Cry

A beggar moved into a doorway to shelter himself from the rain. For no particular reason Monk gave him threepence.

It would be more intelligent to go to the police station and get a picture of Leighton Duff from Evan. Thousands of men matched his description. It would be an extremely tedious job to comb St. Giles for someone who had seen Leighton Duff and could recognise him, but he had nowhere else to start. And there was only a day or two before the trial began.

But while he was still here in St. Giles he must see if he could trace his own history here with Runcorn. It was what he needed to know. Vida Hopgood was satisfied. He thought, with a smile, of her face when he had told her about Rhys Duff and his friends. It was less than perfect that Arthur and Duke Kynaston should escape, but it was not necessarily a permanent state of affairs. They would be unlikely to return to Seven Dials, and if they did, they would find a most unpleasant reception awaiting them. Perhaps Monk should go and warn them of that?

It might save their lives, which did not concern him over-much, but it would also free his own conscience from the stain of accessory to murder if they should be foolish enough to ignore him.

He reached the station and found Evan, now engaged in a new case.

"May I borrow your pictures of Rhys and Leighton Duff?" he asked when they were in Evan's tiny room.

Evan was surprised. "What for? Isn't Vida Hopgood satisfied?”

"Yes. This isn't for her." He would prefer not to have told Evan that he was trying to save Rhys Duff, to work in a sense against the case Evan had built.

"Then who?" Evan watched him closely, his hazel eyes bright.

Evan would find out sooner or later that Rathbone had taken up the defence. Evan would testify at the trial, he would know then, if not before.

"Rathbone," Monk answered tersely. "He would like to know more about what happened before that night.”

Evan stared at him. There was no anger in his face, no sense of betrayal. In fact if anything he looked relieved.

"You mean Hester persuaded Rathbone to defend Rhys, and you are working to that end," Evan said with something that sounded like satisfaction.

Monk was stung that Evan imagined he was working for Hester, and in a hopeless cause like this one. Worse than that, it was true.

He was tilting at windmills, like a complete fool. It was totally out of character, of everything he knew of himself, and it was to try to ease the pain for Hester when she had to watch Rhys Duff convicted of a crime for which they would hang him, and this time she would be helpless to offer him even the remotest comfort. The knowledge of her pain then twisted inside him like a cramp. And for that alone he could hate Rhys Duff and his selfish, obsessive appetites, his cruelty, his stupidity and his mindless violence.

"I'm working for Rathbone," he snapped at Evan. "It is a total waste of time, but if I don't do it he'll find someone else, and waste poor Mrs. Duffs money, not to mention her grief. If ever a woman did not need a further burden to carry, it is her!”

Evan did not argue. Monk would have preferred it if he had. It was an evasion, and Monk knew that Evan knew it. Instead he simply turned away to his desk drawer with a slight smile and a lift of his shoulders, and pulled out the two pictures. He gave them to Monk.

"I had better have them back when you are finished with them, in case they are required for evidence.”

"Thank you," Monk said rather less courteously than Evan deserved. He folded them up carefully in a piece of paper, and put them in his pocket. He bade Evan goodbye, and went out of the police station quickly. He would prefer it if Runcorn did not know he had been there.

The last thing he wanted was to run into him by chance… or mischance.

It would be a long and cold day, and evening was when he would have the best chance to find the people who would have been around at the time to see either Rhys or Leighton Duff, or for that matter either of the Kynastons. Feeling angry at the helplessness of it, his feet wet and almost numb with cold, he went back towards St. Giles, stopping at a public house for a hot meat pie, potatoes and onions, and a steamed pudding with a plain sauce.

He spent several hours in the area searching and questioning, walking slowly along the alleys and through the passages, up and down stairways, deeper into the older part, unchanged in generations. Water dripped off rotting eaves, the stones were slimy, wood creaked, doors hung crooked but fast closed. People moved ahead of him and behind like shadows. One moment it would be strange, frightening and bitterly infectious, the next he thought he recognised something. He would turn a corner and see exactly what he expected, a skyline or a crooked wall exactly as he had known it would be, a door with huge iron studs whose pattern he could have traced with his eyes closed.

He learned nothing, except that he had been here before, and that he already knew. The police station he had worked from made that much obvious to anyone.

He began with the larger and more prosperous brothels. If Leighton Duff had used prostitutes in St. Giles, they were the most likely.

He worked until after midnight, asking, threatening, cajoling, coercing, and learning nothing whatever. If Leighton Duff had been to any of these places, either the madams did not remember him, or they were lying to protect their reputation for discretion. Monk believed it was the former. Duff was dead, and they had little to fear from answering Monk. He had not lost so much of his old character that he could not wring information from people who made their living on the edge of crime. He knew the balance too well not to use it.

He was walking along a short alley up towards Regent Street when he saw a cabby standing on the pavement talking to a sandwich seller, shivering as the wind whipped around the corner and caught him in its icy blast.

Monk offered a pe

"Good," he said with his mouth full.

"Find yer rapists yet?" the cabby asked, raising his eyebrows. He had very sad, rather protuberant eyes of pale blue.

"Yes, thank you," Monk replied, smiling. "You been on this patch long?”

"Baht eight years. Why?”

"Just wondered." He turned to the sandwich seller. "And you?”

"Twenty-five," he answered. "More or less.”

"Do you know me?”

The man blinked. "Course I knows yer. Wot kinda question is that?”

Monk steeled himself. "Do you remember a raid in a brothel, a long time ago, where a magistrate was caught? He fell downstairs and hurt himself quite badly." He had not finished before he saw from the man's face that he did. It creased with laughter and a rich chortle of pure joy escaped his lips.

"Yeah!" he said happily. "Yeah, course I 'members it! Rotten bastard, 'e were, ol' Gutteridge. Put Polly Thorp away for three years, jus' cos some feller wot she were doin' a service fer said as she'd took 'is money well 'is trousers was orff!" He laughed again, his cheeks puffing out and shining in the lamplight from across the street. "Got caught proper, 'e did… trousers down an' all. Leff the bench arter that. No more 'and in' down four years 'ere an' five years there, an' the boat all over the place. Yer could 'ear 'em laughin' all over the "Oly Land, yer could. I heard Runcorn got the credit for that one, but I always wondered if that was really down ter you, Mr. Monk.

There was a lot o' us as reckoned it were. Yer just wasn't there at the time, so ter speak.”

"Did you?" Monk said slowly. "Well, it's a long time ago now." He wanted to change the subject. He was floundering. He could not afford to show his vulnerability to these people. His skill depended on their fear and respect for him. He pulled the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket and showed it to the sandwich seller. "Have you ever seen this man?”