William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

opportunities would allow. He had chosen the police as a career where avenues were open for him to exercise his natural gifts, and he had done so with great success. He was not a gentleman born, nor had he the daring and the confidence to bluff his way, as Monk had. He lacked the grace, the quick-wittedness, or the model from whom to learn. Evan thought that very possibly he had received little encouragement from whatever family he possessed. They might see him as being ashamed of his roots, and resent him accordingly.
    And he had never married. There must be a story to that. Evan wondered if it were financial. Many men felt they couldnot afford a home fit for a wife and the almost certain family which would follow. Or had it been emotional, a woman who had refused him, or perhaps who had died young, and he had not loved again? Probably Evan would never know, but the possibilities lent a greater humanity to a man whose temper and whose weakness he saw, as well as his competence and his strengths.
    He stood on the curb waiting for the traffic to ease so he could cross the corner at Grosvenor Street. A newspaper seller was calling out headlines about the controversial book published last year by Charles Darwin. A leading bishop had expressed horror and condemnation. Liberal and progressive thinkers disagreed with him and labeled him reactionary and diehard. The murder in St. Giles was forgotten. There was a brazier on the corner and a man selling roasted chestnuts and warming his hands at the fire.
    There was congestion at the junction of Eccleston Street and Belgrave Road. Two draymen were in a heated discussion. Evan could hear their raised voices from where he stood. The traffic all ground to a halt, and he went across the street, dodging fresh horse droppings, pungent in the cold air. He was a short block from Ebury Street.
    The worst of Runcorn, the times he descended into spite, were when Monk’s name—or, by implication, his achievements—were mentioned. There was a shadow between them far deeper than the few clashes Evan had witnessed or the final quarrel when Monk had left, simultaneously with Runcorn’s dismissing him.
    Monk no longer understood it. It was gone with all the rest of his past, returning only in glimpses and unconnected fragments, leaving him to guess, and fear the rest. Evan would almost certainly never know, but it was there in his mind when he saw the weakness and the vulnerability in Runcorn.
    He reached Ebury Street and knocked on the door of number thirty-four. He was met by the maid, Janet, who smiled at him a slight uncertainly, as if she liked him but knew his errand only too painfully. She showed him into the morning room andasked him to wait while she discovered if Mrs. Duff would see him.
    However, when the door opened it was Hester who came in quickly, closing it behind her. She was wearing blue, her hair was dressed a little less severely than usual, and she looked flushed, but with vitality rather than fever or any embarrassment. He had always liked her, but now he thought perhaps she was also prettier than he had realized before, softer, more openly feminine. That was another thing he wondered about, why Monk quarreled with her so much. He would be the last man on earth to admit it, but perhaps that was exactly why he could not afford, he did not dare, to see her as she really was.
    “Good morning, Hester,” he said informally, echoing his thoughts rather than his usual manners.
    “Good morning, John,” she answered with a smile, a touch of amusement in it as well as friendship.
    “How is Mr. Duff?”
    The laughter vanished from her eyes, and even the light in her face seemed to fade.
    “He is very poorly still. He has the most dreadful nightmares. He had another again last night. I don’t even know how to help him.”
    “There is no question he saw what happened to his father,” he said regretfully. “If only he could tell us.”
    “He can’t,” she said instantly.
    “I know he can’t speak, but—”
    “No! You can’t ask him,” she interrupted. “In fact, it would be better if you did not even see him. Really—I am not being obstructive. I would like to know who murdered Leighton Duff, and also did this to Rhys, as much as you would. But his recovery has to be my chief concern.” She looked at him earnestly. “It has to be, John, regardless of anything else. I could not conceal a crime, or knowingly tell you anything that was not true, but I cannot