William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

most of the time. No doubt the doctor will give him herbs and sedatives to ease his pain and help him to heal.”
    “Are you trying to spare my feelings, Sergeant? I assure you, it is not necessary. I must be where I can do the most good, that is the only thing which will be of any comfort to me.” She looked at him very directly. She had amazing eyes; their darkness almost concealed her emotions and made her a peculiarly private woman. He imagined the great Spanish aristocrats might have looked something like that: proud, secretive, hiding their vulnerability.
    “No, Mrs. Duff,” he said. “I was trying to find out as much as I can from you about what occurred yesterday while it is fresh in your mind, before you are fully occupied with your son. At the moment it is Dr. Riley’s help he needs. I need yours.”
    “You are very direct, Sergeant.”
    He did not know if it was a criticism or simply an observation. Her voice was without expression. She was too profoundly shocked from the reality of what he had told her to touch anything but the surface of her mind. She sat upright, her back rigid, shoulders stiff, her hands unmoving in her lap. He imagined if he touched them he would find them locked together, unbending.
    “I am sorry. It seems not the time for niceties. This matters far too much. Did your husband and son leave the house together?”
    “No. No … Rhys left first. I did not see him go.”
    “And your husband?”
    “Yes … yes, I saw him leave. Of course.”
    “Did he say where he was going?”
    “No … no. He quite often went out in the evening … to his club. It is a very usual thing for a gentleman to do. Business, as well as pleasure, depends upon social acquaintances. He did not say … specifically.”
    He was not sure why, but he did not entirely believe her. Wasit possible she was aware that her husband had frequented certain dubious places, perhaps even that he’d used prostitutes? Such behavior was tacitly accepted by many wives, even though they would have been shocked if anyone had been vulgar and insensitive enough to speak it. Everyone was aware of bodily functions. No one referred to them; it was both indelicate and unnecessary.
    “How was he dressed, ma’am?”
    Her arched eyebrows rose. “Dressed? Presumably as you found him, Sergeant. What do you mean?”
    “Did he have a watch, Mrs. Duff?”
    “A watch? Yes. Oh, I see. He was … robbed. Yes, he had a very fine gold watch. It was not on him?”
    “No. Was he in the habit of carrying much money with him?”
    “I don’t know. I can ask Bridlaw, his valet. He could probably tell you. Does it matter?”
    “It might.” Evan was puzzled. “Do you know if he was wearing his gold watch yesterday when he left?” It seemed a strange and rather perverse thing to go into St. Giles, for whatever reason, wearing a conspicuously expensive article like a gold watch, so easily visible. It almost invited robbery. Was he lost? Was he perhaps taken there against his will? “Did he mention meeting anyone?”
    “No.” She was quite certain.
    “And the watch?” he prompted.
    “Yes. I believe he was wearing it.” She stared at him intently. “He almost always did. He was very fond of it. I think I would have noticed were he without it. I remember now he wore a brown suit. Not his best at all—in fact, rather an inferior one. He had it made for the most casual wear, weekends and so forth.”
    “And yet the night he went out was a Wednesday,” Evan reminded her.
    “Then he must have been planning a casual evening,” she replied bluntly. “Why do you ask, Sergeant? What difference does it make now? He was not … murdered … because of what he wore!”
    “I was trying to deduce where he intended to go, Mrs. Duff. St. Giles is not an area where we would expect to find a gentleman of Mr. Duff’s means and social standing. If I knew why he was there, or with whom, I would be a great deal closer to knowing what happened to him.”
    “I see. I suppose it was foolish of me not to have understood.” She looked away from him. The room was comfortable, beautifully proportioned. There was no sound but the crackle of flames in the fireplace and the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantel. Everything about the room was gracious, serene, different in every conceivable way from the alley in which its owner had perished. Quite probably St. Giles was beyond the knowledge or even the imagination of his