The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [116]
Her voice was husky, her face pale. “Just orff Water Lane.”
“Thank you. That will be enough … I promise.”
It was sufficient. He would have to take it to Evan. He could not conceal it any longer. It was material evidence on the murder of Leighton Duff. If Rhys and his friends had been using prostitutes in St. Giles, which was now inarguable, and it had escalated in violence over the months, then it seemed more than likely that Leighton Duff had found out and had followed Rhys, going to St. Giles just the once. That was borne out by Monk’s lack of ability to find anyone who had recognized him. That was ample motive for the quarrel which had followed, the battle which had gone so far it could only end in the death of the one person who knew the truth of what Rhys had done … his father. Whether Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston had been present or not, what part they had played, would have to be proved.
But Monk must go to Evan.
First he would tell Hester. She should not learn it when Evan came to arrest Rhys. He hated having to tell her, but it would be worse if he evaded the issue. As the man in the street who had named Fanny had said, not even his worst enemies had ever accused him of cowardice.
It was late when he arrived at Ebury Street. A sickle moon glittered in a frosty sky and over towards the east the clouds obscured the faint light and promised more snow.
The butler opened the door and said he would enquire whether Miss Latterly was able to receive him. Ten minutes later Monk was in the library beside a very small fire when Hester came in. She looked frightened. She closed the door behind her, her eyes fixed on his face, searching.
“What is it?” she said without preamble. “What has happened?”
She looked so fierce and vulnerable he ached to be able to shield her from the truth, but there was no way. He could lie now, but it would open a chasm between them, and in a few hours, a day or two at most, she would learn it anyway. She would be there and see it. The shock, the sense of betrayal, would only be worse.
“I’ve found someone who saw Rhys and Arthur and Duke Kynaston together in St. Giles,” he said quietly. He heard the regret in his own voice. It sounded harsh, as if his throat hurt. “I’m sorry. I have to take it to Evan.”
She swallowed, her face white. “It doesn’t prove anything!” She was struggling and they both knew it.
“Don’t, Hester,” he begged. “Rhys was there with two of his friends. Together they answer the descriptions exactly. If Leighton Duff knew, or suspected, and followed Rhys to argue with him, to try to prevent him from doing it again, then there was plenty of motive to kill him. He may even have found them immediately after they attacked the woman that night. Then they would have no defense.”
“It … it could have been Duke or … Arthur …” Her words trailed away. There was no belief in them, or in her eyes.
“Are they injured?” he asked gently, although he knew the answer from her face.
She shook her head minutely. There was nothing to say. She stared at him. The facts closed in like an iron mesh, unbendable, inescapable. Her mind tried every direction, and he watched her do it and fail each time. There was no real hope in her, and gradually even the determination died.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He thought of adding how much he wished it had not been so, how hard he had looked for other answers, but she knew it already. There was no need for such explanations between them. They understood pain and reality far too well, the dull ache of knowledge that must be faced, the familiarity of pity.
“When will you tell Evan?” she asked when she had mastered the tension in her voice, or almost.
“I shall tell him tomorrow.”
“I see.”
He did not move. He did not know what to say, there was nothing, and yet he wanted to say something. He wanted to remain with her, at least to share the hurt, even though he could not ease it. Sometimes sharing was all there was left.
“Thank you … for telling me first.” She smiled a little crookedly. “I think …”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have,