"I… I know nothing about St. Giles." It was an evasion, a gaining of more time to think.
He could not afford to be put off.
"It is an area of extreme poverty, and crime both petty and serious,” he explained. "The streets are narrow and dirty and dangerous. The sewage runs down the middle. The doorways are full of drunken and sleeping beggars… sometimes they are even dead, especially this time of the year when they die of cold and hunger very easily, particularly those who are ill anyway. Tuberculosis is rife…”
Her face twisted with revulsion, and perhaps pity also, but her horror was too great to tell. She did not wish to know such things, for many reasons. It jarred her past happiness, it frightened and revolted her.
It threatened the present. The mere knowledge of it contaminated the thoughts.
"More children die under six than survive," he went on. "Most of them have rickets. Many of the women work in sweatshops and factories, but a great number practise a little prostitution on the side, to make ends meet, to feed their children.”
He had gone too far. It was a picture she could not bear.
"No…" she said huskily. "I can only imagine that he must have been lost.”
He showed a streak of ruthlessness that would have been characteristic of Monk.
"On foot?" he raised his eyebrows. "Did he often walk around parts of London at night where he did not know the way, Mrs. Duff?”
"Of course not!" she responded too quickly.
"Where did he say he was going?" he persisted.
She was very pale, her eyes bright and defensive.
"He did not say, specifically," she answered him. "But I believe he went out after my son. They had had words about Rhys's behaviour. I was not in the room, but I heard raised voices. Rhys had left in anger. We had both believed that he had gone to his own room upstairs." She was sitting very upright, her shoulders high and stiff, her hands folded. "Then when my husband went up to resume the discussion, he discovered he was absent, and he was very angry. He went out also… I believe to try to find him. Before you ask me, I do not know where Rhys went, or where Leighton did find him… which obviously he did. Perhaps that was how they became hurt?”
"Perhaps," Evan agreed. "It is not unusual for a young man to frequent some questionable places, ma'am. If he is not squandering money, or paying attentions to another man's wife, it is generally not taken very seriously. Was your husband strict in his moral views?”
She looked confused. To judge from her expression, it was a question she had never considered.
"He was not… rigid… or self-righteous, if that is what you mean." Her eyebrows rose, her eyes wide. "I don't think he was ever… unfair. He did not expect Rhys to be… abstinent. It was not really a – a quarrel. If I gave that impression, I did not mean to. I did not overhear their words, simply their voices. It may even have been something else altogether." She bit her lip. "Perhaps Rhys was seeing a woman who was… married? Leighton would not have told me.
He could have wished to spare me…”
"That may be the case," Evan conceded. "It would explain a great deal. If her husband confronted them, violence might have followed.”
Sylvestra shuddered and looked away towards the fire. "To commit murder? What kind of a woman can she be? Would it not have taken several men… to… to do such terrible things?”
"Yes… it would," he agreed quietly. "But perhaps there were several… a father or a brother, or both.”
She put her hands up to cover her face. "If that is true, then he was wrong very wrong but he did not deserve a punishment like this! And my husband did not deserve any punishment at all. It was not his fault!”
Unconsciously she ran her slender fingers through her hair, dislodging a pin, letting a long, black strand of it fall. "No wonder Rhys will not face me!" She looked up at him. "How do I answer it? How do I learn to forgive him for it… and teach him to forgive himself?”
Hester put her hand on Sylvestra's shoulder. "First by not supposing it is true until we know," she said firmly. "It may not be the case.”
Although looking across at Evan, and remembering the scene in the bedroom during the night, and today when Sylvestra had been there, she found it very easy to believe they had guessed correctly.
Sylvestra sat up slowly, her face white.
Evan rose to his feet. "Perhaps Miss Latterly will take me up to see Mr. Duff. I know he cannot speak, but he may be able to answer with a nod or a shake of his head.”
Sylvestra hesitated. She was not yet ready to face even the questions, let alone the answers Rhys might give. Nor was she ready to return to the scene where only a short while ago she had witnessed such a sudden and vicious side of her son. Hester saw it in her eyes, she read it easily because she shared the fear.
"Mr. Duff?" Evan prompted.
"He is unwell," she said, staring back at him.
"He is," Hester reinforced. "He had a most difficult night. I cannot allow you to press him, Sergeant.”
Evan looked at her questioningly. He must have seen some of her feelings, the memories of Rhys cowering against the pillow as his mind relived something unspeakable, so terrible he could not say it in words… any words at all.
"I will not press him," he promised, his voice dropping. "But he may wish to tell me. We must give him the opportunity. We need to know the truth. It may be, Mrs. Duff, that he needs to know it also.”
"Do you think so?" She looked at him sceptic ally "No vengeance, or justice, is going to change my husband's death, or Rhys's injuries. It will help some distant concept of what is fair, and I am not sure how much I care about that.”
Hester thought for a moment Evan was going to argue, but he said nothing, simply standing back and waiting for her to lead the way.
Upstairs Rhys was lying quietly, splinted hands on the covers, his expression peaceful, as if he were nearly asleep. He turned his head as he heard them. He looked guarded, but not frightened or unduly wary.
"I'm sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Duff," Evan began before even Hester or Sylvestra could speak. "But investigation has taken me very little further forward. I know you cannot speak yet, but if I ask you a few questions, you can indicate yes or no to me.”
Rhys stared back at him, almost unblinkingly.
Hester found herself gritting her teeth, her hands sticky. She knew Evan had no choice but to press. Rhys was the only one who knew the truth, but she also knew that it could cost him more than even his mother could guess, let alone Evan, who stood there looking so gentle and capable of pain himself.
"When you went out that evening," Evan began, 'did you meet anyone you knew, a friend?”
A shadow of a smile touched Rhys's mouth, bitter and hurt. He did not move. "I've asked the wrong question." Evan was undeterred. "Did you go in order to meet a friend? Had you made an arrangement?”
Rhys shook his head.
"No." Evan acknowledged. "Did you meet someone by chance?”
Rhys moved his shoulder a little, it was almost a shrug.
"A friend?”
This time it was definite denial.
"Someone you do not like? An enemy?”
Again the shrug, this time angry, impatient.
"Did you go straight to St. Giles?”
Rhys nodded very slowly, as if he had trouble remembering.
"Had you been there before?" Evan asked, lowering his voice.
Rhys nodded, his eyes unwavering.
"Did you know your father was going there also?”
Rhys stiffened, his body tightening till the muscles seemed locked.
"Did you?" Evan repeated.
Rhys cringed back into the pillow, wincing as the movement hurt him. He tried to speak, his mouth forming the words, his throat striving, but no sounds came. He started to tremble. He could not get his breath and gasped, the air dragging and catching in his throat.
Sylvestra bent forward. "Stop it!" she commanded Evan. "Leave him alone." She placed herself between them as if Evan were offering some physical threat. She swivelled round to Rhys, but he cowered away from her too as if he could not distinguish the difference.