William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

gone beyond all control, his latest weaknesses had slipped into open vice. His father followed him and remonstrated with him, at which Rhys became vicious with rage and attacked him … with the consequences which we know only too well.”
    “Did Rhys always have a temper, Mr. Kynaston?”
    “I am afraid so. When he was a boy it was held in check. He was never permitted to lose it while in my charge. What he was allowed at home, of course, I do not know. But his father was concerned about him. He confided that much to me. I do not wish to speak ill of the poor woman, who, God knows, has more grief than any person should be asked to bear, but Mrs. Duff has indulged the boy over the years. She hated to discipline him, and his character has suffered for it.”
    “I see. Is there someone I could ask if Rhys was here on that evening?”
    “You might ask my wife, I suppose. She was at home, as, I believe, were my sons.”
    Monk was disconcerted, but not set out of countenance. It was just possible Rhys had gone alone on this occasion. Or more likely Kynaston was wrong about all of them.
    “Thank you,” Monk accepted, uncertain whether Mrs. Kynaston’s word would satisfy him. As soon as Kynaston turned to the door, Monk made to follow him.
    Kynaston stopped. “You are on my heels, Mr. Monk. I should prefer if you were to wait here, and I shall ask my wife and inform you of the answer.”
    “Possibly,” Monk agreed. “Then I shall have to inform Sir Oliver that I was not permitted to speak to Mrs. Kynaston personally, and he may feel the necessity to call her to testify in court.” He looked at Kynaston squarely and coldly. “However, if I speak to her myself, and to your sons, then that may prove sufficient.”
    Kynaston stiffened. “I do not appreciate being threatened, Mr. Monk.”
    “Few of us do,” Monk said with a thin smile. “But most of us take heed.”
    Kynaston looked at him a moment longer, weighing Monk’s nerve and his intent, then swung on his heel and led the way.
    Monk was startled by Fidelis Kynaston. He had not had any particular expectations of Kynaston’s wife, but this woman of extraordinary composure, with her asymmetrical face and her calm, very lovely voice, took him utterly by surprise. The inner repose of her fascinated him.
    “This is Mr. Monk,” Kynaston said tersely, without looking at him. “He requires to ask you a question about Rhys Duff. It is probably advisable that you answer him.”
    “How do you do, Mr. Monk,” she said graciously. Unlike her husband, her face was filled with sadness rather than tension or anger. Perhaps she was completely unaware of her sons’ part in the crime, or the pattern of behavior which had led up to it. Kynaston might have shielded her from it, in which case there was more in him to be admired than Monk had supposed. And yet Monk could tell, from looking at Fidelis’s face, that there was knowledge of pain beneath her composure, and a kind of stillness in her eyes which springs from self-masteryin the experience of deep unhappiness. Was it conceivable that they both knew, and yet each shielded the other, and the whole tragedy was never shared?
    “I am sorry to disturb your evening, Mrs. Kynaston,” he said sincerely. “But I need to ask you to cast your mind back to the night before Christmas Eve. Can you tell me if you were at home, and if so, who was with you, and until what hour?”
    “Certainly,” she said with a shadow of puzzlement in her eyes. “I was at home, and my sons were here, and Rhys Duff, and Lady Sandon and her son, Mr. Rufus Sandon. We played cards and talked a great deal about all manner of things, Egyptian exploration in particular. Rufus Sandon was most enthusiastic about Monsieur Champollion and his discovery of the Rosetta stone, and its meaning. Rhys was fascinated. I think he would willingly have listened all night.”
    “What time did he leave, Mrs. Kynaston?”
    “About two o’clock, I believe,” she replied. “It was very late indeed. But the following day was Christmas Eve, and they intended to lie in, and be late the evening after as well. I remember them saying so. Marmaduke retired to bed earlier. He was less interested, but the rest of us remained long into the night. May I ask why you wish to know, Mr. Monk? Can it in some way help Rhys now?” There was no need to ask if that was something she wished; it was plain in her entire bearing.
    “I don’t know, ma’am,” he answered