William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

to prompt him, but he was afraid if he were too direct he could break the moment and lose it.
    “Do you remember Christmas Eve, Wharmby?” he said quite casually.
    “Yes sir.” Wharmby seemed surprised.
    “And the night before?”
    Wharmby nodded. “Yes sir. How can I help you?”
    “Who was here that night?”
    “No one, sir. In the evening Mrs. Duff went with Mrs. Wade to a concert. Mr. Rhys went to the Kynastons’ to dinner, and Mr. Duff went out on business.”
    “I see.” The taste of victory was there again. “And how were they all when they returned home, or the next time you saw them?”
    “How were they, sir? Quite normal, considering it was Christmas Eve.”
    “Was no one hurt in any way? Perhaps a slight traffic accident, or something of the sort?”
    “I believe Mr. Duff had a scratch on his face. He said it had been a flying stone from a carriage going much too fast. Why, sir? Does this mean something? Can you … can you help Mr. Rhys, sir?” His face was crumpled with curiosity, his eyes frightened as if he dreaded the answer. He had been almost too afraid to ask.
    Monk was taken aback. Such concern did not fit with the picture of Rhys Duff that Monk had formed. Was the man not more moved by the violent death of his master? Or was it now Sylvestra for whom he grieved, imagining her second loss, so much worse even than the first.
    “I don’t know,” Monk said honestly. “I’m doing everything I can. It is possible this may … mitigate things … a little. Perhaps you do not need to disturb Mrs. Duff. If you say that Mr. Rhys said he was going to the Kynastons’ that evening, I can ask them to substantiate that. Can you give me their address?”
    “Certainly, sir. I shall write it down for you.” And without waiting for agreement, he disappeared and came back a few moments later with a slip of paper, an address written out in copperplate on it.
    Monk thanked him and left, seeking another cab.
    At the Kynaston house he asked to speak to Mr. Kynaston.
    He was received, reluctantly, in the library. There was no fire burning, but the ashes were still warm. Joel Kynaston came in and closed the door behind him, looking Monk up and down with distaste. He was a highly individual man with thick, very beautiful hair of an auburn color, a thin nose and an unusual mouth. He was of average height and slight build, and at the moment he was short of patience.
    “What can I do for you, sir?” he said briskly. “My butler informed me you wish to make an enquiry about Rhys Duff, to do with the forthcoming trial. I find the whole matter most disturbing. Mr. Leighton Duff was a close personal friend, and his death is a great tragedy to my whole family. If I can assist the cause of justice, then it is my public duty to do so, and I do not shirk from it. But I must warn you, sir, I have no desire and no intention of involving myself in further hurt to the Duff family, nor will I injure or cause unhappiness to my own family in your interest. What is it you wish of me?”
    “Did Mr. Rhys Duff visit your home on the evening of the day before Christmas Eve, Mr. Kynaston?”
    “I have no idea. I was not at home myself. Why is it important? Leighton Duff was perfectly well and unharmed at that time. What affair is it of yours if Rhys was here?”
    Monk could understand the man’s desire to protect his sons, whom he might well fear had been involved deeply and tragically with the Duff family. He might feel he was to blame for not having been aware of their behavior, as apparently Leighton Duff had been. But for chance, had he been the one to know instead, he could have been beaten to death in Water Lane and Monk could have been asking these questions of Leighton Duff. It was not difficult to see Mr. Kynaston was tense, unhappy, and unwilling to have Monk, or anyone else, prying further into the wound. Perhaps he was owed some explanation.
    “It seems to me possible that the night of Mr. Duff’s death may not have been his first quarrel with his son over his conduct,” Monk replied. “There is evidence to suggest they met and had some heated disagreement on the night before Christmas Eve. I would like to know if that is true.”
    “I cannot see why,” Kynaston said with a frown. “It seems tragically apparent what happened. Leighton realized what Rhys was doing, that his behavior was unacceptable by any standards at all, let alone those of a gentleman. His temper and self-indulgence had