William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

humor and intelligence, sometimes so cool—and just now, gazing back at her, so gentle.
    She forced herself to think of Rhys, his terror, his helplessness.
    “Maybe it is not justice I’m asking for, but mercy? He needs someone to speak for him …” She gave a painful little laugh. “Even literally. I don’t believe he’s purely evil. I’ve spent too many hours with him, close to him. I’ve watched his pain. If he did these things, there must be some reason, at least some cause … I mean …”
    “You mean insanity,” he finished for her.
    “No, I don’t …”
    “Yes, you do, my dear.” His voice was very patient, trying not to hurt her more than he had to. “A young man doesn’t rape and beat women he doesn’t know, then murder his father because he found out, if he is anything that ordinary men and women would recognize as sane. Whether the law will make the same nature of distinction I don’t know. I very much doubt it.” His eyes were filled with sadness. “It is precise as to what insanity is, and the fact that Rhys attacked his father suggests he knew very well that his violence against the women was wrong, which is what the law will view. He knew what he was doing, and that is the crucial factor.”
    “But there must be something else,” she said desperately. “I can’t let it go at that. I’ve watched him too long …”
    He rose to his feet and came around the desk towards her. “Then let me make arrangements to come and see him for myself—that is, if Mrs. Duff wishes me to represent him …”
    “He’s not underage!” she said hotly, rising also. “It is if he wants you to!”
    He smiled with dry, rueful amusement. “My dear Hester, if he cannot speak or write, and has no occupation of his own, he will not only have very little power to defend himself, he will have no financial means.”
    “His father is—was—wealthy. He will have been left provided for,” she protested.
    “Not if he killed his father, Hester. You know that as well as I do. If he is convicted of the crime, he cannot inherit.”
    She was furious. “You mean he cannot have a defense because if he is found guilty he will not be able to pay? That is monstrous.” She was so angry she almost choked on the words. “It’s …”
    He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her so firmly she was obliged to face him.
    “I did not say that, Hester. I think you know me better than to imagine I work only for money.…”
    She swallowed. She had cause to be ashamed. She had come to plead with him to take on an impossible case because she believed he would.
    “I am sorry.”
    “But I do work within the law,” he finished. “In the circumstances, I shall have to speak first to his mother.” His lips twisted with genuine humor. “Although I imagine that with you in the house, and doubtless in charge, I shall find her cooperative.”
    She blushed. “Thank you, Oliver.”
    He said nothing, but made a little sound of acquiescence.
    It was mid-evening before Rathbone arrived at Ebury Street. Hester had informed Sylvestra of his willingness at least to consider the case, and Sylvestra had been too confused and unhappy to argue. She had consulted her own solicitor, a mild man skilled in the matters of property, inheritance and finance, and totally out of his depth where the criminal law was concerned. He was willing to engage anyone recommended to him who was willing to undertake such an unpromising cause.
    “Sir Oliver Rathbone,” the butler announced, and Rathbone came into the withdrawing room almost on his heels. He was as elegant as always, with the ease of someone who knows his own power and feels no need to impress.
    “How do you do, Mrs. Duff,” he said with a very slight smile. “Miss Latterly.”
    “How do you do, Sir Oliver,” Sylvestra replied with a commendable calm she could not have felt. “It is good of you to have come. I am not sure what you can do for my son. Miss Latterly speaks most highly of you, but I fear our situation may be beyond any help. Please do sit down.” She indicated the chair opposite and he accepted.
    Hester sat on the sofa, a little removed from them, but where she could watch both their faces.
    “One does not always know what a defense will be until one begins, Mrs. Duff,” Rathbone replied calmly. “May I assume that you wish your son to have any assistance that is possible, in his present tragic circumstances?” He looked at her patiently, gently,