The Silent Cry

The gallery was surprisingly empty. There were spare seats in every row. People had assumed that Rhys's pitch over the railing had been an attempt at suicide, and therefore a tacit admission of guilt. There was no longer any real interest. It was all over bar the verdict. The three women, Sylvestra Duff, Eglantyne Wade and Fidelis Kynaston, sat together, very clearly visible now. They did not look at each other, but there was a closeness in them, a silent companionship which was apparent to anyone who regarded them carefully.

The judge called the court to order and commanded Rathbone to proceed.

The jurors looked grim but resigned, as if their duty had been taken from them, and they were there only as a matter of form, but purposeless.

"Thank you, my lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "I call Mrs. Fidelis Kynaston.”

There was a murmur of surprise as Fidelis, white-faced, walked across the floor and climbed the steps. She took the oath and looked at Rathbone with her head high, but her hands on the railing were clenched, as if she needed its presence to support her.

"Mrs. Kynaston," he began gently. "Did you have a party in your home on the night before Christmas Eve?”

She had known what he was going to say. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. "Yes.”

"Who was present?”

"My two sons, Rhys Duff, Lady Sandon, Rufus Sandon and myself.”

"At what time did Rhys Duff leave your house?”

"About two o'clock in the morning.”

There was a sudden rustle of sound in the gallery. One of the jurors started forward.

"Are you certain as to the time, Mrs. Kynaston?" Rathbone pressed.

"I am positive," she replied, looking straight ahead at him as if he were an executioner. "If you were to ask Lady Sandon, or any of my household staff, they would tell you the same thing.”

"So the men who raped the unfortunate woman in St. Giles at around midnight could not possibly have included Rhys Duff?”

"No…" she swallowed, her throat tight. "They could not.”

"Thank you, Mrs. Kynaston, that is all I have to ask you.”

Goode considered for a moment or two, then declined his opportunity.

Rathbone called the cabby, Joseph Roscoe.

Roscoe described the man he had seen leaving St. Giles, his hands and face smeared with blood. Rathbone produced a picture of Leighton Duff, and showed it to him.

"Is this the man you saw?”

Roscoe did not hesitate. "Yes, sir, that's 'im.”

"My lord, this is a likeness of Leighton Duff, whom Mr. Roscoe has identified.”

He got no further. The noise in the court was like the backwash of the sea. Sylvestra sat frozen, her face a mask of blank, unbelieving horror. Beside her Eglantyne Wade supported her weight. Fidelis was rigid, still staring at the cab driver.

The jurors stared from the witness to Rathbone, and back again.

The judge was grave and deeply disturbed. "Are you certain of your ground, Sir Oliver? Are you claiming that Leighton Duff, not Rhys Duff, was the rapist in all these fearful cases?”

"Yes, my lord," Rathbone said with conviction. "Leighton Duff was one of three. Rhys Duff had nothing to do with them. He did indeed go to St. Giles, and there use the services of a prostitute. But he paid the price asked, and he exercised no violence whatever. It is a practice about which we may all have our moral judgements, but it is not a crime, and it is certainly not rape, nor is it murder.”

"Then who murdered Leighton Duff, Sir Oliver? He did not commit suicide. It seems apparent he and Rhys fought, and Rhys survived while he did not.”

"I shall explain, my lord, with your permission.”

"You must do more than explain, Sir Oliver, you must prove it to this court and this jury, beyond a reasonable doubt.”

"That is what I intend, my lord. To that end I call Miss Hester Latterly to the stand.”

There was a slight stir of interest. Heads craned as Hester walked across the floor and up the steps, faced Rathbone and took the oath.

"What is your occupation, Miss Latterly?" Rathbone began almost conversationally.

"I am a nurse.”

"Do you presently have a patient?”

"Yes. I have been employed to nurse Rhys Duff since he returned from the hospital after the incident in Water Lane.”

"Was there also a doctor in attendance?”

"Dr. Corriden Wade. He has been the family physician for many years, I understand.”

The judge leaned forward. "Please restrict yourself to what you know, Miss Latterly.”

"I'm sorry, my lord.”

"Have you any experience in the army of men injured in the same ma

"Yes. I nursed many injured soldiers in Scutari.”

There was a murmur of approval around the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded.

"Did you treat his injuries yourself, or merely nurse him, keep him clean, feed him, attend to his wants?" Rathbone must be careful how he phrased his questions. So far no one else seemed to have the slightest idea what he was seeking to prove. He must not lead her, neither must he leave any doubt in their minds, once he had shown them the truth.

Goode was listening intently.

"I treated those wounds above the waist," Hester replied. "They were bruises, very severe, and the broken bones in his hands, and two broken ribs. There was very little to be done for them. The injuries below the waist Dr. Wade told me he bandaged. This was for the sake of Mr.

Duffs sensibilities.”

"I see. So you never observed them yourself?”

"That is correct.”

"But you accepted Dr. Wade's word for their nature and degree, and that they were healing as well as could be expected?”

"Yes.”

The judge leaned forward again. "Sir Oliver, do the nature or site of Mr. Duffs wounds have any relevance to whether he was responsible for his father's death? I admit, I fail to see it!”

"Yes, my lord, they do." Rathbone turned to Hester. "Miss Latterly, was Mr. Duff subject to any unusual degree of emotional turmoil during the time you cared for him?”

Goode rose to his feet. "My lord, Miss Latterly did not know Mr. Duff before the tragedy. She ca

The judge looked at Rathbone. "Sir Oliver? Mr. Goode's point is a fair one.”

"My lord, I meant was he subject to emotions extraordinary in a man in his condition. Miss Latterly has nursed many men severely injured. I think she is in a better position than almost anyone else to know what to expect.”

"I agree." The judge nodded. "You may answer, Miss Latterly.”

"Yes, my lord. Rhys had the most appalling nightmares when he would try to cry out, beat his arms, even though his hands were broken and it must have caused him fearful pain, and he would try to scream. And yet when he was awake, he refused absolutely to respond to questions about the incident, and became extremely distressed, to the point of violent reaction against people, especially his mother, when any pressure was placed upon him.”

"And what did you conclude from that?" Rathbone asked.

"I did not conclude anything. I was puzzled. I… I feared perhaps he had indeed killed his father, and the memory of it was unbearable to him.”

"Are you still of that opinion?”

"No…”

"Why not?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

In the courtroom no one moved. Goode was frowning, listening to her intently.

"Because when I saw him fall, this morning," she replied, "I remembered for an instant something I had learned of in the army. It seemed too appalling to be true, but in his cell, where they carried him, I was alone with him for several minutes before the doctor came. I made a very brief examination of his injuries… below the waist." She stopped. Her face was filled with pain.

Rathbone wished he did not have to make her say this, but there was no possible alternative.