William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

intensely than you can know, that I could offer some testimony which would mitigate this appalling tragedy, but I have been unable to think of any.” He still had his arm resting lightly on Sylvestra’s. “What will be your defense, Sir Oliver?”
    “I do not yet know sufficient to say,” Rathbone replied smoothly. If he was as frightened as Hester felt, he hid it superbly. She thought he probably was. There was a stiffness to the way he stood, a hesitation in his voice which she had seen before, at the worst times in past cases, when it seemed there was no escape from disaster, no solution but tragedy and failure.
    “What more is there to learn?” Wade asked. “Mrs. Duff hastold me what the police believe: that Rhys had been keeping company with women of the street, the lowest element in our society, spreaders of disease and depravity; that he had exercised a certain amount of violence in these relationships; and that Leighton had come to suspect as much. When he followed him and taxed him with his behavior, they fought. Rhys was injured, as you know, and Leighton, perhaps being an older man, taken by surprise, was killed. Is it any defense to suggest the fight was not intended to go so far and that death was accidental?” He looked doubtful even as he said it.
    “If two men fight and one of them dies, unless it can be demonstrated that it was accidental,” Rathbone replied, “it will be proved to be murder. For it to be manslaughter, we should have to show that Leighton Duff tripped over by mischance, or fell on some weapon he was carrying himself, or something of that nature. I am afraid that was very clearly not so. The injuries were all inflicted by fist or boot. Such things are not accidental.”
    Wade nodded. “That is what I had feared. Sir Oliver, do you think we might continue this discussion in private. It can only be most distressing for Mrs. Duff to listen to.”
    “No,” Sylvestra said sharply. “I will not be excluded from … something which may affect my son’s life! Anyway, if it is evidence, I shall hear it in court. I should prefer to hear it now and at least be prepared.”
    “But, Sylvestra, my dear—”
    “I am not a child, Corriden, to be protected from the truth. This will happen, whatever I choose to ignore or pretend. Please give me the dignity of bearing it with some courage, not running away.”
    Wade hesitated, his face dark.
    “Of course,” Rathbone said with admiration. “Whatever the outcome, you will have peace of mind only if you know that you failed in nothing that could conceivably have been of help.”
    Sylvestra looked at him, a moment’s gratitude in her eyes.
    “So the charge will be murder, Sir Oliver?”
    “Yes. I am afraid there is no possible defense of a charge of accident.”
    “And it is not imaginable that Leighton attacked Rhys or that Rhys in any way was defending himself,” Wade continued gravely. “Leighton may have been appalled by Rhys’s behavior, but the most he would have done would be raise his hand. He may have struck Rhys, but many a father chastises his son. It does not end in murder. I know of no son who would strike back.”
    “Then what defense can there be?” Sylvestra said desperately. For a moment her eyes flashed to Hester, then back to the men. “What else is left? Who else is there? Not Arthur or Duke, surely?”
    “I am afraid not, my dear,” Wade said, dropping his voice. “Had they been involved they would be injured also, very profoundly so. And you and I both know that they were not. Unless the police can find two or three ruffians in St. Giles, there was no one. And if they could have done that, they would not have come here to accuse Rhys.” He took a deep breath. “I am truly grieved to say this, but I think the only defense that is believable is that the balance of Rhys’s mind has been affected, and simply he is not sane. That, surely, will be the path you will follow, Sir Oliver? I know of excellent people who may be prevailed upon to examine Rhys and give their opinions—in court, of course.”
    “Insanity is not easy to prove,” Rathbone answered. “Rhys appears very rational when one speaks to him. He is obviously a young man of intelligence and conscience.”
    “Good God, man!” Wade said with an explosion of emotion. “He beat his father to death, and very nearly at the cost of his own life. How can any sane person do that? They must have fought like animals. He must have been