William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

forget,” Sylvestra replied almost under her breath. “I can’t forget what I don’t understand. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You would think that would be the easiest. Why St. Giles? That is what the police keep asking me and I cannot answer them.”
    “You probably never will,” Fidelis said wryly. “You mightbe best advised, happiest, if you do not guess.” She kissed Sylvestra lightly on each cheek and then took her leave, Arthur a few steps behind her.
    Hester offered no comment, and Sylvestra did not raise the matter. Hester had been present as a courtesy, and she was owed no confidences. They both went up to see if Rhys was still in the good spirits Arthur had described, and found him lying half asleep and apparently at as much ease as was possible in his pain.
    That evening Eglantyne Wade called. It was the first time she had come since the funeral, no doubt knowing how ill Rhys was and not wishing to intrude. Hester was curious to see what kind of woman Dr. Wade’s sister might be. Hester hoped she would prove to be not unlike him, a woman of courage, imagination and individuality, perhaps not unlike Fidelis Kynaston.
    In the event, she proved to be far prettier, or far more conventional in appearance, and Hester felt a stab of disappointment. It was totally unreasonable. Why should his sister have any of his intelligence or inner courage of the spirit? Her own brother, Charles, was nothing at all like her. He was kind, in his own way, honest, and infinitely predictable.
    She replied politely to Sylvestra’s introduction, searching Miss Wade’s face for some sign of inner fire, and not finding it. All she met was a bland, blue stare which seemed without thought, or any but the mildest interest. Even Sylvestra’s remark on Hester’s service in the Crimea provoked no surprise but the usual murmur of respect which mention of Scutari and Sebastopol always earned. It seemed as if Eglantyne Wade were not even truly listening.
    Sylvestra had promised Hester that she might have the evening free to do as she pleased. She had even suggested that Hester might like to go out somewhere, visit friends or relatives. Since Oliver Rathbone had asked that if she were permitted an evening’s respite from her new case she would use it to dine with him, she had sent a note to his office at midday. By late afternoon she received the reply that he would be honored if she would allow him to send a carriage for her that theymight dine together. Therefore at seven she waited in the hall, dressed in her one really good gown, and felt a distinct ripple of excitement when the doorbell rang and Wharmby informed her that it was for her.
    It was a bitter night, a rime of ice on the cobbles, steam rising from the horses’ flanks, and the wreaths of fog curling around the lamps and drifting in choking clammy patches. Smoke and soot hung heavy in the air above, blotting out the stars, and a daggerlike wind scythed down the tunnels made by the high house walls on either side of the street.
    She had dined at Rathbone’s home before, but with Monk also present, and to discuss a case and their strategy to fight it. She had also dined with Rathbone several times at his father’s house in Primrose Hill, but she had gathered from the invitation that this was to be in some public place, as was only proper if they were not to be accompanied by any other person.
    The cab drew up at a very handsome inn, and the footman immediately opened the door and offered his hand to assist her to alight. She was shown into a small alcove off the main dining room where Rathbone was waiting.
    He turned from the mantel, where he had been standing in front of the fire. He was formally dressed in black with icy white shirt front, the light from the chandelier catching his fair hair. He smiled and watched her come in until she was in the center of the room, and the door closed behind her, before he came forward. He took her hands in his.
    Her dress was gray-blue, severely cut, but she knew it flattered her eyes and her strong, intelligent face. Frills had always looked absurd on her, out of style with her character.
    “Thank you for coming in such extreme haste,” he said warmly. “It is a most ungentlemanly way of snatching an opportunity to see you purely for pleasure, and not some wretched business, either of yours or of mine. I am happy to say that all my current cases are merely matters of litigation and require no detecting at all.”
    She was not