William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

to see Rhys, to feel some of her own pity and protectiveness for him. She felt guilty for it, and she admired him for not placing his own reputation, and the failure he faced, before it.
    She wanted Monk to feel the same compassion and acceptthe case, not for her but for Rhys. No … that was not wholly true. She wanted him to accept it for her also, as Rathbone had. And she would be ashamed of herself if he did.
    And all that ought to matter was Rhys. It was his life.
    “You were finding out about the rapes,” she said to Monk. “Now you could find out about Rhys himself, and his father. Discover if Leighton Duff did know what Rhys was doing and followed him to try to stop him.”
    “That will hardly help your case,” Monk pointed out bitterly. “Not that I can think of anything that will.”
    “Well, try!” Suddenly she was shouting at him, helplessness, anger and pain welling up inside her. “I don’t believe Rhys is wicked or mad. There has to be something else … some pain, some … I don’t know … just something. Look for it.”
    “You’re beaten, Hester,” Monk said, surprisingly gently. “Don’t go on fighting anymore. It is not a kindness to anyone.”
    “No, I’m not …” She wanted to cry. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes and throat. It was ridiculous. “Just … try. There has to be something more we can do.”
    He looked at her steadily. He did not believe it, and she could see it in his face. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
    “All right, I’ll try,” he acceded with a little shake of his head. “But it won’t help.”
    “Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly. “It is better than doing nothing.”
    Monk let out his breath in a sigh. “Stop dripping on the floor and tell me what you know.…”

11
    M onk was convinced that any attempt to find mitigating circumstances to explain Rhys Duff’s behavior was doomed to failure. Rhys was a young man whose lack of self-control—first of his appetites, then of his temper—had led him from rape to the situation of murder which he now faced. Curiously, it was the beatings for which Monk could not forgive him. They, of all the crimes, seemed a gratuitous exercise of cruelty.
    Nevertheless, he would try—for Hester’s sake. He had said he would, perhaps in the emotion of the moment, and now he was bound.
    Still, as he set out for St. Giles, it was more at the edge of his mind than at the center. He could not rid himself of the memory of the expression of contempt he had seen in the eyes of the people who had known him before—and liked Runcorn better, felt sorry for him in the exchange. Runcorn, as he was now, irritated Monk like a constant abrasion to the skin. He was pompous, small-minded, self-serving. But perhaps he had not always been like that. It was imaginable that whatever had happened between them had contributed to a warping of his original nature.
    If anyone had offered this thought to Monk as an excuse for his own behavior, he would have rejected it as precisely that—an excuse. If he did not have the strength, the honesty or the courage to rise above it, then he should have. But he would soften the judgment towards others where he could not for himself.
    He was in Oxford Street and going south. In a moment or two the hansom would stop and let him down. He would walk the rest of the way; he was not yet sure precisely to what goal. The traffic around him was dense, people shouting in all directions, the squeal of horses, rattle of harness and hiss of wheels in the rain.
    He should turn his attention to Rhys Duff. What could he look for? What might a mitigating circumstance be? Accident was impossible. It had to have been a deliberate and sustained battle fought until both men were incapable even of moving. Provocation? That was conceivable for Leighton Duff, in the rage and horror of discovering what his son had done. It was not believable the other way around.
    Unless there was something else, some other quarrel which happened to have reached a climax in Water Lane. Would that excuse anything? Were there any circumstances in which such violence ending in murder could be understood? He could imagine none. Leighton Duff had not died of a blow to the head which could have been one dreadful loss of control. He had been beaten to death, blow after blow after blow.
    The hansom stopped and Monk alighted and paid the driver, then turned and walked in the rain towards the first alley opening.