"I am sorry, sir, but Mrs. Duff is not receiving," Wharmby said firmly.
"Please inform her that I am working for Sir Oliver Rathbone, and I have a question I must ask her regarding the case," Monk replied, equally unflinchingly. "It is important that I receive an answer before I can proceed. It is in Mr. Rhys Duffs interest.”
"Yes, sir, I will tell her." He hesitated. There was nothing more to say, and yet he did not move.
Monk waited. He wanted to prompt him, but he was afraid if he were too direct he could break the moment and lose it.
"Do you remember Christmas Eve, Wharmby?" he said quite casually.
"Yes, sir." Wharmby was surprised.
"And the night before?”
Wharmby nodded. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
"Who was here that night?”
"No one, sir. In the evening Mrs. Duff went with Mrs. Wade to a concert. Mr. Rhys went to the Kynastons' to dinner, and Mr. Duff went out on business.”
"I see." The taste of victory was there again. "And how were they all when they returned home, or the next time you saw them?”
"How were they, sir? Quite normal, considering it was Christmas Eve.”
"Was no one hurt in any way? Perhaps a slight traffic accident, or something of the sort?”
"I believe Mr. Duff had a scratch on his face. He said it had been a flying stone from a carriage going much too fast. Why, sir? Does this mean something? Can you… can you help Mr. Rhys, sir?" His face was crumpled with curiosity, his eyes frightened as if he dreaded the answer. He had been almost too afraid to ask.
Monk was taken aback. Such concern did not fit with the picture of Rhys Duff that Monk had formed. Was the man not more moved by the violent death of his master? Or was it now Sylvestra for whom he grieved, imagining her second loss, so much worse even than the first.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I'm doing everything I can. It is possible this may… mitigate things… a little. Perhaps you do not need to disturb Mrs. Duff. If you say that Mr. Rhys said he was going to the Kynastons' that evening, I can ask them to substantiate that. Can you give me their address?”
"Certainly, sir. I shall write it down for you." And without waiting for agreement, he disappeared and came back a few moments later with a slip of paper, and an address written out in copperplate.
Monk thanked him, and left, seeking another cab.
At the Kynaston house he asked to speak to Mr. Kynaston.
He was received, reluctantly, in the library. There was no fire burning, but the ashes were still warm. Joel Kynaston came in and closed the door behind him, looking Monk up and down with distaste. He was a highly individual man with thick, very beautiful hair of an auburn colour, a thin nose and unusual mouth. He was of average height and slight build, and at the moment he was short of patience.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he said briskly. "My butler informed me you wish to make an enquiry about Rhys Duff, to do with the forthcoming trial. I find the whole matter most disturbing. Mr. Leighton Duff was a close personal friend, and his death is a great tragedy to my whole family. If I can assist the cause of justice, then it is my public duty to do so, and I do not shirk from it. But I must warn you, sir, I have no desire and no intention of involving myself in further hurt to the Duff family, nor will I injure or cause unhappiness to my own family in your interest. What is it you wish of me?”
"Did Mr. Rhys Duff visit your home on the evening of the day before Christmas Eve, Mr. Kynaston?”
"I have no idea. I was not at home myself. Why is it important?
Leighton Duff was perfectly well and unharmed at that time. What affair is it of yours if Rhys was here?”
Monk could understand his desire to protect his sons, whom he might well fear had been involved deeply and tragically with the Duff family.
He might feel he was to blame for not having been aware of their behaviour, as apparently Leighton Duff had been. But for chance, had he been the one to know instead, he could have been beaten to death in Water Lane, and Monk could have been asking these questions of Leighton Duff. It was not difficult to see Mr. Kynaston was tense, unhappy, and unwilling to have Monk, or anyone else, prying further into the wound. Perhaps he was owed some explanation.
"It seems to me possible that the night of Mr. Duffs death may not have been his first quarrel with his son over his conduct," Monk replied. "There is evidence to suggest they met and had some heated disagreement on the night before Christmas Eve. I would like to know if that is true.”
"I cannot see why," Kynaston said with a frown. "It seems tragically apparent what happened. Leighton realised what Rhys was doing, that his behaviour was unacceptable by any standards at all, let alone those of a gentleman. His temper and self-indulgence had gone beyond all control, his latest weaknesses had slipped into open vice. His father followed him and remonstrated with him, at which Rhys became vicious with rage and attacked him… with the consequences which we know only too well.”
"Did Rhys always have a temper, Mr. Kynaston?”
"I am afraid so. When he was a boy it was held in check. He was never permitted to lose it while in my charge. What he was allowed at home, of course, I do not know. But his father was concerned about him. He confided that much to me. I do not wish to speak ill of the poor woman who, God knows, has more grief than any person should be asked to bear, but Mrs. Duff has indulged the boy over the years. She hated to discipline him, and his character has suffered for it.”
"I see. Is there someone I could ask if Rhys was here on that evening?”
"You might ask my wife, I suppose. She was at home, as I believe were my sons.”
Monk was disconcerted, but not set out of countenance. It was just possible Rhys had gone alone on this occasion. Or more likely Kynaston was wrong about all of them.
"Thank you," Monk accepted, uncertain whether Mrs. Kynaston's word would satisfy him. As soon as Kynaston turned to the door, Monk made to follow him.
Kynaston stopped. "You are on my heels, Mr. Monk. I should prefer if you were to wait here, and I shall ask my wife, and inform you of the answer.”
"Possibly," Monk agreed. "Then I shall have to inform Sir Oliver that I was not permitted to speak to Mrs. Kynaston personally, and he may feel the necessity to call her to testify in court." He looked at him squarely and coldly. "However, if I speak to her myself, and to your sons, then that may prove sufficient.”
Kynaston stiffened. "I do not appreciate being threatened, Mr.
Monk!”
"Few of us do," Monk said with a thin smile. "But most of us take heed.”
Kynaston looked at him a moment longer, weighing his nerve and his intent, then swung on his heel and led the way.
Monk was startled by Fidelis Kynaston. He had not had any particular expectations of Kynaston's wife, but this woman of extraordinary composure, with her asymmetrical face and her calm, very lovely voice, took him utterly by surprise. The inner repose of her fascinated him.
"This is Mr. Monk," Kynaston said tersely, without looking at him. "He requires to ask you a question about Rhys Duff. It is probably advisable that you answer him.”
"How do you do, Mr. Monk," she said graciously. Unlike her husband, her face was filled with sadness rather than tension or anger. Perhaps she was completely unaware of her sons' part in the crime, or the pattern of behaviour which had led up to it. Kynaston may have shielded her from it, in which case there was more in him to be admired than Monk had supposed. And yet looking at Fidelis' face there was knowledge of pain beneath her composure, and a kind of stillness in her eyes which springs from self-mastery in the experience of deep unhappiness. Was it conceivable that they both knew, and yet each shielded the other, and the whole tragedy was never shared?