"Of course," Wade agreed quickly. He turned to Hester. "And you, Miss Latterly. You have been of extraordinary strength and courage in the whole affair. You have worked unceasingly for Rhys's welfare. No one could have done more, in fact I doubt anyone else would have done as much. I will stay with Rhys tonight. Please allow yourself a little time to rest, and perhaps spend it doing something to enjoy yourself.
Mrs. Duff and I can manage here, I promise you.”
"Thank you," Hesteraccepted hesitantly. She felt a trifle uncertain about leaving Rhys. Sylvestra was obviously more comforted by Wade than anything Hester could do for her. And she would dearly like to go with Rathbone to persuade Monk to accept the case. She had every confidence in Rathbone's powers of argument, but still she wished to be there. There might be something, a thought, an emotional persuasion she could try. "Thank you very much. That is most thoughtful of you.”
She looked at Sylvestra, just to make sure she agreed.
"Please…" Sylvestra added.
There needed no more to be said. Hester bade them goodnight, and turned to leave with Rathbone.
"What?" Monk said incredulously as he stood in the middle of his room facing Hesterand Rathbone. It was very late, the fire was almost dead, and it was pouring with rain outside. Rathbone and Hester's coats were both dripping on to the carpet, even though they had come directly from Ebury Street in a hansom.
"Investigate the case to see if there is any evidence whatsoever to mitigate what Rhys Duff has done," Rathbone repeated.
"Why, for God's sake?" Monk demanded, looking at Rathbone and avoiding Hester's eyes. "Isn't it plain enough what happened?”
"No, it isn't," Rathbone said patiently. "I have undertaken to defend him, and I cannot begin to do that until I know every whit of truth that I can…”
"You can't anyway!" Monk cut across him. "It is as indefensible as a human act can be! The only possible thing you can say to procure anything except the rope for him is that he is insane. Which may be true.”
"It is not true," Rathbone replied, keeping calm with some difficulty.
Hester could see it in the muscles of his jaw and the way he stood. His voice was very soft. "In any legal sense, he is perfectly rational and not apparently suffering any delusions. If you refuse to take the case on the grounds that it horrifies and appals you, then say so. I shall be obliged to accept that." He also did not look at Hester. There was anger in him, almost as if he would provoke the very answer he did not want.
Monk heard the sharpness. He swivelled to look at Hester.
"I suppose you put him up to this?”
"I asked him to defend Rhys," she replied.
Rathbone's acceptance and Monk's refusal hung in the air, like a sword between them.
Hester thought of a dozen things to say. She wanted to excuse Rathbone. He had undertaken an impossible case because she had prevailed upon him. She had persuaded him to see Rhys, to feel some of her own pity and the protectiveness for him. She felt guilty for it, and she admired him for not placing his own reputation, and the failure he faced, before it.
She wanted Monk to feel the same compassion, and accept it, not for her, but for Rhys! No… that was not wholly true. She wanted him to accept it for her also, as Rathbone had. And she would be ashamed of herself if he did.
And all that ought to matter was Rhys. It was his life.
"You were finding out about the rapes," she said to Monk. "Now you could find out about Rhys himself, and his father. Discover if Leighton Duff did know what he was doing, and follow him to try to stop him.”
"That will hardly help your case," Monk pointed out bitterly. "Not that I can think of anything that will!”
"Well, try!" Suddenly she was shouting at him, helplessness, anger and pain welling up inside her. "I don't believe Rhys is wicked, or mad. There has to be something else… some pain, some… I don't know… just something! Look for it!”
"You're beaten, Hester," Monk said, surprisingly gently. "Don't go on fighting any more. It is not a kindness to anyone.”
"No, I'm not…" She wanted to cry. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes and throat. It was ridiculous. "Just… try! There has to be something more we can do!”
He looked at her steadily. He did not believe it, and she could see it in his face. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
"All right, I'll try," he acceded with a little shake of his head. "But it won't help.”
"Thank you," Rathbone said quickly. "It is better than doing nothing.”
Monk let out his breath in a sigh. "Stop dripping on the floor, and tell me what you know…”
Chapter Eleven
Monk was convinced that any attempt to find mitigating circumstances to explain Rhys Duffs behaviour was doomed to failure. He was a young man whose lack of self-control, first of his appetites, then of his temper, had led him from rape to the situation of murder which he now faced.
Curiously, it was the beatings for which Monk could not forgive him.
They, of all the crimes, seemed a gratuitous exercise of cruelty.
Nevertheless he would try, for Hester's sake. He had said he would, perhaps in the emotion of the moment, and now he was bound.
Still, as he set out from St. Giles, it was more at the edge of his mind than the centre. He could not rid himself of the memory of the expression of contempt he had seen in the eyes of the people who had known him before, and liked Runcorn better, felt sorry for him in the exchange. Runcorn, as he was now, irritated Monk like a constant abrasion to the skin. He was pompous, small-minded, self-serving. But perhaps he had not always been like that. It was imaginable that whatever had happened between them had contributed to a warping of his original nature.
If anyone had offered it to Monk as an excuse for his own behaviour, he would have rejected it as precisely that an excuse. If he did not have the strength, the honesty or the courage to rise above it, then he should have. But he would soften the judgement towards others where he could not for himself.
He was in Oxford Street and going south. In a moment or two the hansom would stop and let him down. He would walk the rest of the way, he was not yet sure precisely to what goal. The traffic around him was dense, people shouting in all directions, the air filled with the squeal of horses, rattle of harness and hiss of wheels in the rain.
He should turn his attention to Rhys Duff. What could he look for?
What might a mitigating circumstance be? Accident was impossible. It had to have been a deliberate and sustained battle fought until both men were incapable even of moving. Provocation? That was conceivable for Leighton Duff, in the rage and horror of discovering what his son had done. It was not believable the other way around.
Unless there was something else, some other quarrel which happened to have reached a climax in Water Lane. Would that excuse anything? Were there any circumstances in which such violence ending in murder could be understood? He could imagine none. Leighton Duff had not died of a blow to the head which could have been one dreadful loss of control. He had been beaten to death, blow after blow after blow.
The hansom stopped and he alighted and paid the driver, then turned and walked in the rain towards the first alley opening. The smell of dirt was becoming familiar, the narrow greyness of the buildings, the sloping, leaning walls, the sense of imminent collapse as wood creaked, wind flapped in loose canvas or whistled thinly in broken glass.
The "Holy Land' had been like this twenty years ago, only more dangerous. He turned his collar up, then pushed his hands deeper in his pockets. It was useless trying to avoid stepping in puddles; everywhere the gutters overflowed. The only answer was to keep old boots specifically for this purpose.
What had made Leighton Duff follow Rhys on this particular evening? Did he discern something which, with a horrifying shock, made him realise what his son was doing? What could that be, and why had Evan not found it? Had Leighton Duff destroyed it, or taken it with him in order to confront Rhys? If so, then why had it not been found on his body? Rhys had not left. Then had Arthur or Duke Kynaston taken it with them, and presumably destroyed it?