He broached the subject which was hanging unspoken between them. He knew it, and he thought perhaps she did also. With anyone else, he would have let the moment pass. It was too delicate and had all the possibilities of being too painful as well. With Hester, to have thought it was almost the same as to have spoken it to her.
"Are you sure it cannot be your young man, and his father, or his friends? Tell me about him…”
Again she waited several moments before she replied. At the next table an old man broke into a fit of coughing. Beyond him a woman laughed, they could hear her but not see her. It was a high, braying sound. The room was getting warmer all the time.
"No, I'm not sure," she said so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her, ignoring the last of his food. "Evan is investigating the case. I assume you know that. He has not been able to find out what they were doing in St. Giles. It is hardly likely to be anything admirable." She hesitated, unhappiness profound in her face. "I don't think I believe he would do such a thing, not willingly, not intentionally…
.”
"But you are not sure?" he said quickly.
Her eyes searched his face, longing to find some comfort there, and failing.
"No… I'm not sure. There is a cruelty in him which is very ugly to see. I don't know why. It seems directed largely at his mother…
.”
"I'm sorry…" Without thinking he reached forward and put his hand over hers where it lay on the table. He felt the slenderness of her bones, a strong hand, but so slight his own covered it.
"It doesn't have to be anything to do with this," she said slowly, and he thought it was more to convince herself than him. "It's just… it could be… because he cannot speak. He's alone…" She looked at him with an intensity oblivious of the room around her, or anything else. "He's utterly alone! We don't know what happened to him, and he can't tell us. We guess, we talk to each other, we work at the possibilities, and he can't even tell us where we are wrong, where it is ludicrous or unjust. I can't imagine being more helpless.”
He was torn whether to say what was in his mind or not. She looked so hurt, so involved with the pain she saw.
But this was Hester, not a woman he needed to protect, gentle and vulnerable, used only to the feminine things of life. She had already known the worst, worse than he had.
"Your pity for him now does not alter what he may have done before," he answered her.
She drew her hand away.
He felt vaguely hurt, as if she had withdrawn something of herself. She was so independent. She did not need anyone. She could give, but she could not take!
"I know," she said quietly.
"No, you don't!" He was answering his own thoughts. She did not know how arrogant she was, how so much of her giving was a form of taking; whereas if she had taken, it would have been a gift.
"Yes, I do!" She was angry now, defensive. "I just don't think it was Rhys. I know him! You don't.”
"And your judgement is clear, of course?" he challenged, sitting back in his chair. "You could not be biased, just a trifle?”
A couple passed by them, the woman's skirt brushing Hester's chair.
"That's a stupid remark!" Her voice was sharp, her face flushed.
"You're saying that if you know something about a thing, then you are biased and your judgement is no good, whereas if you know nothing, your mind is clear and so your judgement is fine. If you know nothing, your mind isn't clear, it's empty! By that standard we could do away with juries, simply ask someone who's never heard of the case, and they will give you a perfect, unbiased decision!”
"You don't think perhaps it could be a good idea to know something about the victims as well?" he said sarcastically. "Or even the crimes? Or is all that irrelevant?”
"You'vejust told me what the crimes are, and the victims," she pointed out, her voice rising. "And yes, in a way it is irrelevant in judging Rhys. The horror of a crime has nothing to do with whether a particular person is guilty or not. That is elementary. It only has to do with the punishment. Why are you pretending you don't know that?”
"And liking somebody, or pitying them, has nothing to do with guilt or innocence," he responded, his voice louder also. "Why are you pretending you've forgotten that? It doesn't matter how much you care, Hester, you can't change what has already happened.”
A man at the next table turned to look at them.
"Don't be so patronising!" she said furiously. "I know that! Don't you care any more that you find the truth? Are you so keen to take someone back to Vida Hopgood and prove you can do it, that you'll take anyone, right or wrong?”
He was hurt. It was as if she had suddenly and without warning kicked him. He was determined she should not know it.
"I'll find the truth, comfortable or uncomfortable," he said coldly.
"If it is someone we can all be happy to dislike and rejoice in his punishment, so much the easier." His voice dropped, the emotion tighter. "But if it is someone we like and pity, and his punishment will tear us apart along with him, that won't make me turn the other way and pretend it is not so. If you think the world is divided into those who are good and those who are bad, you are worse than a fool, you are a moral imbecile, refusing to grow up…”
She stood up.
"Would you be so kind as to find me a hansom so I may return to Ebury Street? If not, I imagine I can find one for myself.”
He rose also and bowed his head sarcastically, remembering their meeting earlier. "I am delighted you enjoyed your dinner," he replied cut tingly "It was my pleasure.”
She blushed with annoyance, but he saw the flash of acknowledgement in her eyes.
They went out in silence into the now dense fog in the street. It was bitterly cold, the freezing air catching in the nose and throat. The traffic was forced to a walk and it took him several minutes to find a hansom. He climbed in and they sat side by side in rigid silence all the way back to Ebury Street. She refused to speak, and he had nothing he wanted to say to her. There were hundreds of things in his mind, but none of them he was prepared to share, not now.
They parted with a simple exchange of 'goodnight', and he rode on to Grafton Street, cold, angry and alone.
In the morning he returned yet again to Seven Dials and the pursuit of witnesses who may have seen anything to do with the attacks, most particularly anyone who was a frequent visitor to the area. He had already exhausted the cabbies and was now trying street pedlars, beggars and vagrants. His pockets were full of all the small change he could afford. People often spoke more readily for some slight reward.
It was his own money, not Vida's.
The first three people he approached knew nothing. The fourth was a seller of meat pies, hot and savoury-smelling, but probably made mostly of offal and other cast-offs. He bought one, and overpaid, but without intention of eating it. He held it in his hand while talking to the man. There was a wind this morning. The fog had lifted, but it was intensely cold. The cobbles were slippery with ice. As he stood there the pie became more and more tempting and he was less inclined to consider what was in it.
"Seen or heard anything about two or three strangers roaming around at night?" he said casually. "Gentlemen from up west?”
"Yeah," the pedlar replied without surprise. "They bin beatin' the 'ell out o' some o' our women, poor cows. Wy dyer wanna know, eh? In't rozzers' bus' ness He looked at Monk with steady dislike. "Want 'em for sum mink else, do yer?”
"No, I want them for that. Isn't that enough for you?”
The man's scorn was open. "Yeah? An' yer gonna 'ave 'em up for it, are yer? Don' give me that muck. Since well did your sort give a toss wot 'appened ter the likes o' us? I know you, yer evil bastard. Yer don't even care fer yer own, never mind us poor sods.”
Monk looked at his eyes and could not deny the recognition in them. He was not speaking of police in general, this was personal. Should he ask, capture some tangible fact of the past? Would it be the truth?