William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

wet.
    “Well?” Rathbone demanded, finding himself gulping air, his hands stiff, a tingling in his arms. “What have you?”
    “I don’t know,” Monk answered bleakly. “I have no idea whether it makes things better or even worse. Leighton Duff was one of the rapists in Seven Dials, and then later in St. Giles.”
    Rathbone was stunned. “What?” he said, his voice high with disbelief. It was preposterous, totally absurd. He must have misunderstood. “What did you say?”
    “Leighton Duff was one of the rapists in both areas,” Monk repeated. “I have several people who will identify him, in particulara cabby who saw him in St. Giles on the night before Christmas Eve with blood on his hands and face, just after, one of the worst rapes. And Rhys was in Lowndes Square at a quiet evening with Mrs. Kynaston, Arthur Kynaston and Lady Sandon and her son.”
    Rathbone felt a sense of shock so great the room seemed to sway around him.
    “You are sure?” he said, and the instant the words were off his tongue he knew how foolish they were. It was plain in Monk’s face. Anyway, he would not have come with such news were he not certain beyond any doubt at all.
    Monk did not bother to answer. He sat down uninvited, close to the fire. He was still shivering and he looked exhausted.
    “I don’t know what it means,” he continued, staring past Rathbone at the empty chair opposite him, but mostly at something he could see within his own mind. “Perhaps Rhys was not involved in that rape, but he was in some or all of the others,” he said. “Perhaps not. Certainly Leighton Duff did not follow his son in any sense of outrage or horror at what he had done, and then in righteous indignation confront him with it.” He turned to Rathbone, who was still standing on the same spot. “I’m sorry. All it means is that we have misunderstood the motive. It doesn’t prove anything else. I don’t know what you want to make of it. How is the trial going?”
    “Appallingly,” Rathbone replied, at last moving to the other chair and sitting down stiffly. “I have nothing to fight with. I suppose this will at least provide ammunition with which to open up the whole issue as to what happened. It will raise doubts. It will certainly prolong the trial.…” He smiled bitterly. “It will shake Ebenezer Goode!” A well of horror opened up inside him. “It will shatter Mrs. Duff.”
    “Yes, I know that,” Monk replied very quietly. “But it is the truth, and if you allow Rhys to be hanged for something of which he is not guilty, none of us can then undo that, or call him back from the gallows and the grave. There is a certain kind of freedom in the truth, whatever it is. At least your decisions are founded on reality. You can learn to live with them.”
    Rathbone looked at him closely. There was at once pain and the beginning of a kind of peace in Monk’s face which he had not seen before. Monk’s weariness held within it the possibility of rest.
    “Yes,” Rathbone agreed. “Thank you, Monk. You had better give me the names of these people, and all the details … and, of course, your account. You have done very well.” Deliberately, he blocked from his mind the thought of having to tell Hester what he now knew. It was sufficient for the night that he should work out his strategy for Rhys.
    Rathbone worked until six in the morning, and after two hours’ sleep, a hot bath and breakfast, he faced the courtroom again. There was no air of expectation. There were even some empty seats in the spectators’ gallery. The trial had degenerated from high drama into simple tragedy. It was not interesting anymore.
    Rathbone had had messengers out all night. Monk was in court.
    In the dock, Rhys looked white and ill. He was obviously in physical pain as well as mental turmoil, although there was now an air of despair about him which made Rathbone believe he no longer hoped for anything except an end to his ordeal.
    Sylvestra sat like a woman in a nightmare, unable to move or speak. Beside her on one side was Fidelis Kynaston, on the other Eglantyne Wade. Rathbone was pleased she would not be alone, and yet possibly having to hear the things she was going to in the company of friends would be harder. One might wish to absorb such shock in the privacy of solitude, where one could weep unobserved.
    Yet everyone would know. It was not as if she could cover it, as one can some family secrets. Perhaps better she heard it in court