William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

The two or three people Evan saw all kept moving, whisking dusters and mopheads out of windows and in again as quickly as possible. An errand boy scampered up steps and rang a bell with fingers clumsy with cold.
    Evan found number thirty-four and, unconsciously copying Monk, he went to the front door. Anyway, news such as he had should not go through the kitchens first.
    The bell was answered by a parlormaid in a smart uniform.Her starched linen and lace immediately proclaimed a household of better financial standing than the clothes worn by the dead man suggested.
    “Yes sir?”
    “Good morning. I am Police Sergeant Evan. Does a Mr. Leighton Duff live here?”
    “Yes sir, but he isn’t home at the moment.” She said it with some anxiety. It was not a piece of information she would normally have offered to a caller, even though she knew it to be true. She looked at his face, and perhaps read the weariness and sadness in it. “Is everything all right, sir?”
    “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. Is there a Mrs. Duff?”
    Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm, but she did not scream.
    “You had better warn her lady’s maid and perhaps the butler. I am afraid I have very bad news.”
    Silently she opened the door wider and let him in.
    A butler with thin, graying hair came from the back of the hallway, frowning.
    “Who is the gentleman, Janet?” He turned to Evan. “Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance to you? I am afraid Mr. Duff is not at home at present, and Mrs. Duff is not receiving.” He was less sensitive to Evan’s expression than the maid had been.
    “I am from the police,” Evan repeated. “I have extremely bad news to tell Mrs. Duff. I’m very sorry. Perhaps you should remain in case she needs some assistance. Possibly you might send a messenger for your family doctor.”
    “What … what has happened?” Now the butler looked thoroughly horrified.
    “I am afraid that Mr. Leighton Duff and Mr. Rhys Duff have met with violence. Mr. Rhys is in St. Thomas’s Hospital in a very serious condition.”
    The butler gulped. “And … and Mr.… Mr. Leighton Duff?”
    “I am afraid he is dead.”
    “Oh dear … I …” He swayed a little where he stood in the magnificent hallway with its carved staircase, aspidistras instone urns and brass umbrella stand with silver-topped canes in it.
    “You’d better sit down a minute, Mr. Wharmby,” Janet said with sympathy.
    Wharmby straightened himself, but he looked very pallid. “Certainly not! Whatever next? It is my duty to look after poor Mrs. Duff in every way possible, as it is yours. Go and get Alfred to fetch Dr. Wade. I shall inform Madam that there is someone to see her. You might return with a decanter of brandy … just in case some restorative is needed.”
    But it was not. Sylvestra Duff sat motionless in the large chair in the morning room, her face bloodlessly white under her dark hair with its pronounced widow’s peak. She was not immediately beautiful—her face was too long, too aquiline, her nose delicately flared, her eyes almost black—but she had a distinction which became more marked the longer one was with her. Her voice was low and very measured. In other circumstances it would have been lovely. Now she was too shattered by horror and grief to speak in anything but broken fractions of sentences.
    “How …” she started. “Where? Where did you say?”
    “In one of the back streets of an area known as St. Giles,” Evan answered gently, moderating the truth a little. He wished there were some way she would never have to know the full facts.
    “St. Giles?” It seemed to mean very little to her. He studied her face, the smooth, high-boned cheeks and curved brow. He thought he saw a slight tightening, but it could have been no more than a change in the light as she turned towards him.
    “It is a few hundred yards off Regent Street, towards Aldgate.”
    “Aldgate?” she said with a frown.
    “Where did he say he was going, Mrs. Duff?” he asked.
    “He didn’t say.”
    “Perhaps you would tell me all you can recall of yesterday.”
    She shook her head very slowly. “No … no, that can wait. First I must go to my son. I must … I must be with him. You said he is very badly hurt?”
    “I am afraid so. But he is in the best hands possible.” He leaned a little towards her. “You can do no more for him at present,” he said earnestly. “It is best he rests. He is not fully sensible