"I'll protect you," she promised fiercely. "I'll see that the warders are with you all the time, or I will be, every moment, I swear. Now tell me!”
Slowly, in agonised and broken words, in a whisper as if he could not bear to hear it himself, he told her of the night his father died.
The door burst open and Corriden Wade came in, bag in his hand, his face haggard, his eyes dark and furious. The two warders were just behind him, looming awkwardly.
"What are you doing, Miss Latterly?" Wade demanded, staring at Rhys's white, strained face and wild eyes. "Leave me to my patient, please. He is obviously deeply distressed." He turned to the warders. "I shall need clean water, several bowls of it, and bandages.
Perhaps Miss Latterly can go and obtain those. She will be aware of my needs…”
"I think not," Hester said abruptly, moving to stand between Rhys and Wade. She looked at the warder. "Please will you fetch Sir Oliver Rathbone, immediately. Mr. Duff wants to make a statement. It is imperative you do this with all possible speed. I am sure you understand the urgency… and the importance.”
"Mr. Duff cannot speak!" Wade said with contempt. "This tragedy has obviously unnerved Miss Latterly, not surprisingly. Perhaps you had better take her out, see if you can…”
"Fetch Sir Oliver!" Hester repeated loudly, facing the warder. "Go!”
The man hesitated. The doctor's authority he understood. He would always obey a man before a woman, any woman.
"Fetch my lawyer," Rhys said hoarsely. "I want to make a statement, before I die!”
The blood drained from Wade's face.
The warder gasped. "Go get 'im, Joe," he said quickly. "I'll wait 'ere.”
The other warder turned on his heel and obeyed.
Hester stood without moving.
"This is preposterous!" Wade began, as if he would push his way past, but the warder took him by the shoulder. Medicine was beyond him, but dying statements he understood.
"Let go of me!" Wade commanded furiously.
"I'm sorry, sir," the warder said stiffly. "But we'll wait for the lawyer, afore we start any treatment on the prisoner. "E's well enough for now. The nurse 'ere saw ter 'im. You jus' stand 'ere patient, like, an' as soon as the lawyer's done 'is bit, you can treat all yer need.”
Wade opened his mouth as if to argue, and saw the futility of it. He stood as if trapped, with no hope of escape.
Rhys looked at Hester.
She smiled back at him, then turned and remained facing Wade and the warder. She felt sick with disillusion.
The minutes ticked by.
Rathbone came in, eyes wide, face flushed.
"I want…" Rhys began, then took a shuddering breath. "I want to tell you what happened…”
Silently, Corriden Wade turned and left, although there was nowhere now for him to go.
Court resumed in the afternoon. Rhys was not present, having been taken back to the hospital and put in the care of Dr. Riley, but under a police guard. He was still accused of a fearful crime.
The gallery was surprisingly empty. There were spare seats in every row. People had assumed that Rhys's pitch over the railing had been an attempt at suicide, and therefore a tacit admission of guilt. There was no longer any real interest. It was all over bar the verdict. The three women, Sylvestra Duff, Eglantyne Wade and Fidelis Kynaston, sat together, very clearly visible now. They did not look at each other, but there was a closeness in them, a silent companionship which was apparent to anyone who regarded them carefully.
The judge called the court to order and commanded Rathbone to proceed.
The jurors looked grim but resigned, as if their duty had been taken from them, and they were there only as a matter of form, but purposeless.
"Thank you, my lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "I call Mrs. Fidelis Kynaston.”
There was a murmur of surprise as Fidelis, white-faced, walked across the floor and climbed the steps. She took the oath and looked at Rathbone with her head high, but her hands on the railing were clenched, as if she needed its presence to support her.
"Mrs. Kynaston," he began gently. "Did you have a party in your home on the night before Christmas Eve?”
She had known what he was going to say. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. "Yes.”
"Who was present?”
"My two sons, Rhys Duff, Lady Sandon, Rufus Sandon and myself.”
"At what time did Rhys Duff leave your house?”
"About two o'clock in the morning.”
There was a sudden rustle of sound in the gallery. One of the jurors started forward.
"Are you certain as to the time, Mrs. Kynaston?" Rathbone pressed.
"I am positive," she replied, looking straight ahead at him as if he were an executioner. "If you were to ask Lady Sandon, or any of my household staff, they would tell you the same thing.”
"So the men who raped the unfortunate woman in St. Giles at around midnight could not possibly have included Rhys Duff?”
"No…" she swallowed, her throat tight. "They could not.”
"Thank you, Mrs. Kynaston, that is all I have to ask you.”
Goode considered for a moment or two, then declined his opportunity.
Rathbone called the cabby, Joseph Roscoe.
Roscoe described the man he had seen leaving St. Giles, his hands and face smeared with blood. Rathbone produced a picture of Leighton Duff, and showed it to him.
"Is this the man you saw?”
Roscoe did not hesitate. "Yes, sir, that's 'im.”
"My lord, this is a likeness of Leighton Duff, whom Mr. Roscoe has identified.”
He got no further. The noise in the court was like the backwash of the sea. Sylvestra sat frozen, her face a mask of blank, unbelieving horror. Beside her Eglantyne Wade supported her weight. Fidelis was rigid, still staring at the cab driver.
The jurors stared from the witness to Rathbone, and back again.
The judge was grave and deeply disturbed. "Are you certain of your ground, Sir Oliver? Are you claiming that Leighton Duff, not Rhys Duff, was the rapist in all these fearful cases?”
"Yes, my lord," Rathbone said with conviction. "Leighton Duff was one of three. Rhys Duff had nothing to do with them. He did indeed go to St. Giles, and there use the services of a prostitute. But he paid the price asked, and he exercised no violence whatever. It is a practice about which we may all have our moral judgements, but it is not a crime, and it is certainly not rape, nor is it murder.”
"Then who murdered Leighton Duff, Sir Oliver? He did not commit suicide. It seems apparent he and Rhys fought, and Rhys survived while he did not.”
"I shall explain, my lord, with your permission.”
"You must do more than explain, Sir Oliver, you must prove it to this court and this jury, beyond a reasonable doubt.”
"That is what I intend, my lord. To that end I call Miss Hester Latterly to the stand.”
There was a slight stir of interest. Heads craned as Hester walked across the floor and up the steps, faced Rathbone and took the oath.
"What is your occupation, Miss Latterly?" Rathbone began almost conversationally.
"I am a nurse.”
"Do you presently have a patient?”
"Yes. I have been employed to nurse Rhys Duff since he returned from the hospital after the incident in Water Lane.”
"Was there also a doctor in attendance?”
"Dr. Corriden Wade. He has been the family physician for many years, I understand.”
The judge leaned forward. "Please restrict yourself to what you know, Miss Latterly.”
"I'm sorry, my lord.”
"Have you any experience in the army of men injured in the same manner and degree as Rhys Duff was, Miss Latterly?”
"Yes. I nursed many injured soldiers in Scutari.”
There was a murmur of approval around the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded.