William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

to imagine that if Rhys had indeed gone whoring in St. Giles, Duke Kynaston might well have been his companion. Had he been there that night? At the dark edges of Evan’s mind, something he did not even want to allow into his conscious thought, was the knowledge of Monk’s case, the rapes of poverty-stricken women, amateur prostitutes. But that had been in Seven Dials, beyond Aldwich. Was it just conceivable that Rhys and his companions had been responsible for that, and had this time met their match, a woman who had a brother or a husband who was not as drunk as they had supposed? Possibly even a vigilante group of their own? That would explain the violence of the reprisal. And Leighton Duff had feared as much and had followed his son, and he had been the one who had paid the ultimate price, dying to save his son’s life?
    Little wonder Rhys had nightmares and could not speak. It would be a memory no man could live with.
    Evan looked at the young Duke Kynaston’s rather supercilious face, with the consciousness of youth, strength, and money so plain in it. But there were no bruises, even healed ones fading, no cuts or scratches except one faint scar on his cheek. It would have been no more than a nick of the razor such as any young man might make.
    “So what is it you imagine we can tell you?” Duke said a little impatiently.
    “St. Giles is a large area—” Evan began.
    “Not very,” Duke contradicted. “Square mile or so.”
    “So you know it?” Evan said with a smile.
    Duke flushed. “I know of it, Mr. Evan. That is not the same thing.” But his annoyance betrayed that he perceived it was.
    “Then you will know that it is densely populated,” Evan continued, “with people who are most unlikely to offer us any assistance. There is a great deal of poverty there, and crime. Itis not a natural place for gentlemen to go. It is crowded, dirty and dangerous.”
    “So I have heard.”
    “You have never been there?”
    “Never. As you said, it is not a place any gentleman would wish to be.” Duke smiled more widely. “If I were to go searching cheap entertainment, I would choose the Haymarket. I had imagined Rhys would do the same, but possibly I was wrong.”
    “He has never been to the Haymarket with you?” Evan asked mildly.
    For the first time Duke hesitated.
    “I hardly think my pleasures are any of your concern, Mr. Evan. But no, I have not been with Rhys to the Haymarket, or anywhere else, for at least a year. I have no idea what he was doing in St. Giles.” He stared back at Evan with steady, defiant eyes.
    Evan would have liked to disbelieve him, but he thought it was literally true, even if there was an implicit lie embedded in it somewhere. It was pointless to press him on the subject. He was obviously not willing to offer anything, and Evan had no weapon with which to draw him out against his will. His only tactic was to bide his time and look as if he were content with it.
    “Unfortunate,” Evan said blandly. “It would have made our task shorter. But no doubt we shall find those who do. It will take more work, more disruption to others, and I daresay more investigation of private lives, but there is no help for it.”
    Duke looked at him narrowly. Evan was not sure if he imagined it, but there seemed a flicker of unease.
    “If you want to wait in the morning room, there may be a newspaper there, or something,” Duke said abruptly. “It’s that way.” He indicated the door to his left, Evan’s right. “I expect when Papa comes home he’ll see you. Not that I imagine he can tell you anything either, but he did teach Rhys at school.”
    “Do you imagine Rhys might have confided in him?”
    Duke gave him a look of such incredible contempt no answer was necessary.
    Evan accepted the invitation and went to the cold and very uncomfortable morning room. The fire had long since gone out and he was too chilly to sit. He walked back and forth, half looking at the books on the shelf, noticing a number of classical titles, Tacitus, Sallust, Juvenal, Caesar, Cicero and Pliny in the original Latin, translations of Terence and Plautus, the poems of Catullus, and on the shelf above, the travels of Herodotus and Thucydides’ history of the Peloponnesian war. They were hardly the reading a waiting guest would choose. He wondered what manner of person usually sat there.
    What he really wanted was to ask Kynaston about Sylvestra Duff. He wanted to know if she had a lover, if she was the