William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

The smell of dirt was becoming familiar, the narrow grayness of the buildings, the sloping, leaning walls, the sense of imminent collapse as wood creaked, wind flapped in loose canvas or whistled thinly in broken glass.
    The Holy Land had been like this twenty years before, only more dangerous. He turned his collar up, then pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. It was useless trying to avoid stepping in puddles; everywhere the gutters overflowed. The only answer was to keep old boots specifically for this purpose.
    What had made Leighton Duff follow Rhys on that particular evening? Had he discerned something which, with a horrifying shock, made him realize what his son was doing? What could that be, and why had Evan not found it? Had Leighton Duff destroyed it, or taken it with him in order to confront Rhys? If so, then why had it not been found on his body?Rhys had not left. Then had Arthur or Duke Kynaston taken it with them, and presumably destroyed it?
    Or did it not exist, and Leighton Duff had known before, or at least suspected? What had decided him that night to follow Rhys?
    Was it possible he had followed him before?
    Monk crossed a narrow yard with a smithy in the building on the far side. He could feel the warmth from the furnace yards away, and smell the fire, the burning metal and the damp hide and flesh of horses.
    A new idea occurred to him as he hurried past before the warmth could ensnare him. Might Leighton Duff also have used prostitutes, and that was how he had learned of Rhys’s behavior? And to reason on the subject, how had he learned? Had Rhys returned injured and been obliged to explain to his father the blood on him, or scratches, or bruises? Surely not. He would have sufficient privacy for that not to be necessary—or for another simple explanation to be given. He could pass it off as a bout of boxing taken a little too far, a riding mishap, a scuffle in the street, a fall, a dozen things. Monk should check with Sylvestra Duff and see if any such thing had happened.
    But what if Leighton had been there himself, perhaps with one particular prostitute? That could at one stroke explain his knowledge of both Rhys’s presence in St. Giles and the series of rapes and beatings; and also perhaps explain something of Rhys’s rage at being chastised by his father. The sheer hypocrisy of it, in his eyes, might infuriate him.
    And on a darker note, if he knew of his father’s association with such women, might it explain his own violence towards prostitutes, a sense of the violation of his family, especially his mother? That would be the beginning of some kind of mitigation … if it were true … and provable.
    The answer was to see if anyone in St. Giles recognized Leighton Duff from any night except that of his death. Was he known in any of the brothels? It would be by sight. A man as sophisticated in the ways of the world was hardly likely to use his own name. While society knew perfectly well that a greatmany gentlemen took their pleasures in such places, it was still another matter to be caught at it. One’s reputation would suffer, perhaps a great deal.
    He stopped abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the curb. He all but overbalanced, memory came to him so sharply. Of course, a man could be ruined, become the butt of social jokes, not so much from his carnal weakness as the absurdity of being caught in a ridiculous position. The man’s dignity was shattered forever. His inferiors laughed, respect vanished. He could no longer exert authority.
    Why had he thought of authority?
    A man with a brazier of roasting chestnuts was staring at him curiously. A coster girl giggled and disappeared around the end of the alley into the thoroughfare, carrying a bag in front of her.
    A magistrate. It had been a magistrate caught in a police raid in a brothel. He had been in bed with a fat, saucy girl of about fourteen. When the police had gone in, he had come running out of the room in his shirt tails, his hair flying, his spectacles left behind, and he had tripped and fallen downstairs, landing at the police officer’s feet with his shirt over his head, very little left to the imagination. Monk had not been there. He had heard about it afterwards, and laughed till he was blind with tears and his ribs were aching.
    Why did he remember that now? It was still funny, but there was a certain injustice to it, a pain.
    Why? Why should Monk feel any guilt? The man was a hypocrite, sentencing