"I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I travelled 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 Signer 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 colour 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 Signor 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 they parted in his carriage where it stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a clear night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, 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 even 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.
Chapter Five
Evan found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw a likeness of both Leighton Duff and Rhys, and he and Shotts had taken them around the area of St. Giles to see if anyone recognised them. Surely two men, a generation apart, would of itself 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 terask.”
"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 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 recognise them because we are asking the wrong questions," Evan mused, half to himself.
"Yeah?" Shotts kept pace with him easily. "What are the right ones, then?”
"I don't know. Perhaps Rhys went there with friends his own age.
Afterall, one doesn't usually go whoring with one's father! Maybe that is what put people off, the older man.”
"Mebbe," Shotts said doubtfully. "Want meter try?”
"Yes… unless you can think of something better? I'm going to the station. It's time I reported to Mr. Runcorn.”
Shotts grinned. "Sooner you'n me, sir. "E won't be 'appy. I'll get sum mink ter eat, then I'll go an' try again.”
Runcorn was a tall, well-built man with a lean face and very steady blue eyes. His nose was long and his cheeks a little hollow, but in his youth he had been good-looking, and now he was an imposing figure.
He could have been even more so, had he the confidence to bear himself with greater ease. He sat in his office behind his large, leather, inlaid desk and surveyed Evan with wariness.
"Well?”
"The Leighton Duff case, sir," Evan replied, still standing. "I am afraid we do not seem to be progressing. We can find no one in St.
Giles who ever saw either of the two men before…”
"Or will admit to it," Runcorn agreed.
"Shotts believes them," Evan said defensively, aware that Runcorn thought he was too soft. It was partly his vague, unspecific anger at a young man of Evan's background choosing to come into the police force. He could not understand it. Evan was a gentleman, something Runcorn both admired and resented. He could have chosen all sorts of occupations, if he had not the brains or the inclination to go up to university and follow one of the professions. If he needed to make his living, then he could quite easily have gone into a bank or a trading house of some description.
Evan had not explained to him that a country parson, with an ailing wife and several daughters to marry, could not afford expensive tuition for their only son. One did not discuss such things. Anyway, the police force interested him. He had begun idealistically. He had not a suit of armour or a white horse, he had a quick mind and good brown boots. Some of the romance had gone, but the energy and the desire had not. He had that much at least in common with Monk.
"Does he?" Runcorn said grimly. "Then you'd better get back to the family. Widow, and the son who was there and can't speak, that right?”
"Yes, sir.”
"What's she like, the widow?" His eyes opened wider. "Could it be a conspiracy of some sort? Son got in the way, perhaps? Wasn't meant to be there, and had to be silenced?”
"Conspiracy?" Evan was astonished. "Between whom?”
"That's for you to find out!" Runcorn said testily. "Use your imagination! Is she handsome?”
"Yes… very, in an unusual sort of way…”
"What do you mean, unusual? What's wrong with her? How old is she?
How old was he?”
Evan found himself resenting the implications.
"She's very dark, sort of Spanish-looking. There's nothing wrong with her, it's just… unusual.”
"How old?" Runcorn repeated.
"About forty, I should think." The thought had never occurred to him until Runcorn had mentioned it, but it should have. It was obvious enough, now that it was there. The whole crime might have nothing to do with St. Giles, that may have been no more than a suitable place.