William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

you?”
    “Nah. I knows w’en ter push me luck an’ w’en 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 cooperation 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, disheveled, perhaps marked with blood, then there was nothing else left to seek. Evan would have the force of the law behind him when the crime was murder of a respectable member of society rather than the rape of women whom society chose to forget, and with Monk’s help he would have proof enough for any court.
    It took him another complete day, but at last he found the second victim, 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 inarguable, and ithad escalated in violence over the months, then it seemed more than likely that Leighton Duff had found out and had followed Rhys, going to St. Giles just the once. That was borne out by Monk’s lack of ability to find anyone who had recognized 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 Rhys 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 ever accused him of cowardice.
    It was late when he arrived at Ebury Street. A sickle 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 Monk 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 the truth, 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, she would learn it anyway. She would be there 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.”
    She swallowed, her face white. “It doesn’t prove anything!” She was struggling and they both knew it.
    “Don’t, Hester,” he begged. “Rhys was there with two of his friends. Together they answer the descriptions exactly. If Leighton Duff knew, or suspected, and followed Rhys to argue with him, to try to prevent