Or did it not exist, and Leighton Duff had known before, or at least suspected? What had decided him that night to follow Rhys?
Was it possible he had followed him before?
He crossed a narrow yard with a smithy in the building on the far side.
He could feel the warmth from the furnace yards away, and smell the fire, the burning metal and the damp hide and flesh of horses.
A new idea occurred to him as he hurried past before the warmth could ensnare him. Might Leighton Duff also have used prostitutes, and that was how he had learned of Rhys's behaviour? And to reason on the subject, how had he learned? Had Rhys returned injured, and been obliged to explain to his father the blood on him, or scratches, bruises? Surely not. He would have sufficient privacy for that not to be necessary, or another, simple explanation to be given. He could pass it off as a bout of boxing taken a little too far, a riding mishap, a scuffle in the street, a fall, a dozen things. He should check with Sylvestra Duff and see if any such thing had happened.
But what if Leighton had been there himself, perhaps with one particular prostitute? That could at one stroke explain his knowledge of Rhys's presence in St. Giles, and of the series of rapes and beatings; and also perhaps explain something of Rhys's rage at being chastised by his father. The sheer hypocrisy of it, in his eyes, might infuriate him.
And on a darker note, if he knew of his father's association with such women, might it explain his own violence towards prostitutes, a sense of the violation of his family, especially his mother? That would be the beginning of some kind of mitigation… if it were true… and provable.
The answer was to see if anyone in St. Giles recognised Leighton Duff from any night except that of his death. Was he known in any of the brothels? It would be by sight. A man as sophisticated in the ways of the world was hardly likely to use his own name. While society knew perfectly well that a great many gentlemen took their pleasures in such places, it was still another matter to be caught at it. One's reputation would suffer, perhaps a great deal.
He stopped abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the kerb. He all but overbalanced, memory came to him so sharply. Of course a man could be ruined, become the butt of social jokes, not so much from his carnal weakness as the absurdity of being caught in a ridiculous position. The dignity was shattered for ever. One's inferiors laughed, respect vanished. One could no longer exert authority.
Why had he thought of authority?
A man with a brazier of roasting chestnuts was staring at him curiously. A coster girl giggled and disappeared round the end of the alley into the thoroughfare, carrying a bag in front of her.
A magistrate. It was a magistrate caught in a police raid in a brothel. He had been in bed with a fat, saucy girl of about fourteen.
When the police had gone in, he had come running out of the room in his shirt tails, his hair flying, his spectacles left behind, and he had tripped and fallen downstairs, landing at the police officer's feet with his shirt over his head, very little left to the imagination. Monk had not been there. He had heard about it afterwards, and laughed till he was blind with tears and his ribs aching.
Why did he remember that now? It was still funny, but there was a certain injustice to it, a pain.
Why? Why should Monk feel any guilt? The man was a hypocrite, sentencing women for a crime in which he himself was the abettor, for selling goods which he only too obviously bought.
And yet the sense of regret remained with him as he turned left and crossed the road again. He was unconsciously heading towards one of the bigger brothels he knew of. Was it to ask about Leighton Duff? Or was this where the old raid had happened? Why would the police raid a brothel in St. Giles or the "Holy Land'? It was riddled with them, and no one cared. There must have been some other reason, theft, forgery, perhaps something more serious, kidnapping or even murder. That would justify storming into the place, without warning.
He passed a man with a bundle of walking sticks, threading his way through the alleys to a main street where he would begin to sell them.
A beggar moved into a doorway to shelter himself from the rain. For no particular reason Monk gave him threepence.
It would be more intelligent to go to the police station and get a picture of Leighton Duff from Evan. Thousands of men matched his description. It would be an extremely tedious job to comb St. Giles for someone who had seen Leighton Duff and could recognise him, but he had nowhere else to start. And there was only a day or two before the trial began.
But while he was still here in St. Giles he must see if he could trace his own history here with Runcorn. It was what he needed to know. Vida Hopgood was satisfied. He thought, with a smile, of her face when he had told her about Rhys Duff and his friends. It was less than perfect that Arthur and Duke Kynaston should escape, but it was not necessarily a permanent state of affairs. They would be unlikely to return to Seven Dials, and if they did, they would find a most unpleasant reception awaiting them. Perhaps Monk should go and warn them of that?
It might save their lives, which did not concern him over-much, but it would also free his own conscience from the stain of accessory to murder if they should be foolish enough to ignore him.
He reached the station and found Evan, now engaged in a new case.
"May I borrow your pictures of Rhys and Leighton Duff?" he asked when they were in Evan's tiny room.
Evan was surprised. "What for? Isn't Vida Hopgood satisfied?”
"Yes. This isn't for her." He would prefer not to have told Evan that he was trying to save Rhys Duff, to work in a sense against the case Evan had built.
"Then who?" Evan watched him closely, his hazel eyes bright.
Evan would find out sooner or later that Rathbone had taken up the defence. Evan would testify at the trial, he would know then, if not before.
"Rathbone," Monk answered tersely. "He would like to know more about what happened before that night.”
Evan stared at him. There was no anger in his face, no sense of betrayal. In fact if anything he looked relieved.
"You mean Hester persuaded Rathbone to defend Rhys, and you are working to that end," Evan said with something that sounded like satisfaction.
Monk was stung that Evan imagined he was working for Hester, and in a hopeless cause like this one. Worse than that, it was true.
He was tilting at windmills, like a complete fool. It was totally out of character, of everything he knew of himself, and it was to try to ease the pain for Hester when she had to watch Rhys Duff convicted of a crime for which they would hang him, and this time she would be helpless to offer him even the remotest comfort. The knowledge of her pain then twisted inside him like a cramp. And for that alone he could hate Rhys Duff and his selfish, obsessive appetites, his cruelty, his stupidity and his mindless violence.
"I'm working for Rathbone," he snapped at Evan. "It is a total waste of time, but if I don't do it he'll find someone else, and waste poor Mrs. Duffs money, not to mention her grief. If ever a woman did not need a further burden to carry, it is her!”
Evan did not argue. Monk would have preferred it if he had. It was an evasion, and Monk knew that Evan knew it. Instead he simply turned away to his desk drawer with a slight smile and a lift of his shoulders, and pulled out the two pictures. He gave them to Monk.
"I had better have them back when you are finished with them, in case they are required for evidence.”
"Thank you," Monk said rather less courteously than Evan deserved. He folded them up carefully in a piece of paper, and put them in his pocket. He bade Evan goodbye, and went out of the police station quickly. He would prefer it if Runcorn did not know he had been there.