William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.
    “I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I traveled anywhere.”
    “Where would you like to go?”
    She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.
    It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.
    “Egypt!” she said with a lift of enthusiasm. “I have just been hearing about Signore Belzoni’s discoveries … a trifle late, I know. But I should love to go up the Nile. Wouldn’t you?” Oh God. She had done it again … been far too forthright—and desperately clumsy. There was no retracting it. Again she felt the tide of color hot in her face.
    This time Rathbone laughed outright. “Hester, my dear, don’t ever change. Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signore Belzoni, and what did he discover?”
    Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.
    It was nearly midnight when his carriage stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a cloudless night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help herdown, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.
    “Thank you,” she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness. It had been an island of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. “Thank you, Oliver.”
    He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently, but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.

5
    E van found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw likenesses of both Leighton and Rhys Duff, and he and Shotts had taken them around the area of St. Giles to see if anyone recognized them. Surely two men, a generation apart, would of themselves be something noticeable. They had tried pawnbrokers, brothels and bawdy houses, inns and lodging rooms, gambling dens, gin mills, even the attics high on the rooftops under the skylights where forgers worked, and the massive cellars below, where fencers of stolen goods stored their merchandise. No one showed the slightest recognition. Not even promise of reward could elicit anything worth having.
    “Mebbe it were the first time they came?” Shotts said dismally, pulling his collar up against the falling snow. It was nearly dark. They were walking, heads down into the wind, leaving St. Giles behind them and turning north towards Regent Street and the traffic and lights again. “I dunno ’oo else ter ask.”
    “Do you think they are lying?” Evan said thoughtfully. “It would be natural enough, since Duff was murdered. No one wants to get involved with murder.”
    “No.” Shotts nimbly avoided a puddle. A vegetable cart rattled by them, its driver hunched under half a blanket, the snow beginning to settle on the brim of his high black hat. “I know when at least some o’ them weasels is lyin’. Mebbe they did come ’ere by accident—got lorst.”
    Evan did not bother to give a reply. The suggestion was not worthy of one.
    They crossed George Street. The snow was falling faster, settling white on some of the roofs, but the pavements were still wet and black, showing broken reflections of the gaslights and the carriage lamps as the horses passed by at a brisk trot, eager to get home.
    “Maybe they don’t recognize them because we are