The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [136]
Rhys nodded.
“The same applies to Miss Latterly. That is her bond as well as mine.”
Rhys stared at him.
“Do you know what happened the night your father was killed?”
Rhys winced and seemed to shrink within himself, but he did not move his eyes from Rathbone’s face, and he nodded slowly.
“Good. I know you can indicate only yes or no. I shall ask you questions and if you can answer them so, then do. If you cannot, then wait, and I shall reword them.” He hesitated only a moment. “Did you go with your friends, Arthur and Duke Kynaston, to the area of St. Giles, and when there use the services of prostitutes?”
Rhys bit his lip, and then nodded, a dull flush of pink in his cheeks. His eyes remained steady on Rathbone’s face.
“Did you at any time injure any of these women, or fight with them, even accidentally?”
Rhys shook his head violently.
“Did either Arthur or Duke Kynaston do so?”
Rhys remained still.
“Do you know if they did or not?”
Rhys shook his head.
“Did you also go with them to Seven Dials?”
Rhys nodded very slowly, uncertainly.
“You want to add something?” Rathbone asked. “Did you go often?”
Rhys shook his head.
“Only a few times?”
He nodded.
“Did you injure any women there?”
Again Rhys shook his head, sharply, his eyes angry.
“Did your father go with you?”
Rhys’s eyes widened in amazement.
“No,” Rathbone answered his own question. “But he knew you went, and he did not approve?”
Rhys nodded, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. There was rage in it and hurt and a blazing frustration. He tried to speak, his throat muscles knotting, his head jerking forward.
Hester started up from her chair, then realized she must not interrupt. She might protect him for the moment—and damage him for all the future. Rathbone must learn all he could, however painful.
“Did you quarrel about it?” Rathbone continued.
Rhys nodded slowly.
“Here at home?”
He nodded.
“And when you went to St. Giles the night of his death?”
Again the sharp, violent movement of denial and the jolt forward as if he would laugh, had he the power.
“Did you quarrel about something else?”
Rhys’s eyes filled with tears and he banged his broken hands up and down on the bedclothes, his body locked in an inner pain far worse than the sickening jolting of the bones.
Rathbone turned to Hester, his face white.
She moved forward.
“Rhys!” she said sharply. She sat down on the bed and took hold of his wrists, trying to force him to be still, but his muscles were clenched so hard she could not. He was stronger than she had expected, and his whole body was caught in the emotion. “Rhys!” she said again, more urgently. “Stop it! You’ll move the bones again. I know you think you don’t care, but you do. Please …”
He unclenched his muscles slowly, and the tears spilled over his cheeks. He stared at her, then turned away, and she saw only the back of his head.
“Rhys,” she said firmly. “Did you kill your father?”
There was a long silence. Neither Hester nor Rathbone moved. Then slowly he turned back to her and shook his head, his eyes intent on her face.
“But you know who did?” she pressed.
This time he refused to answer even by a look.
She turned to Rathbone.
“All right, for now,” he conceded, standing up. “I will consider what to do. Try to rest and recover as much as you can. You will need your strength when the time comes. I will do everything I can to help you, that I promise.”
Rhys looked at him without blinking and Rathbone looked back for a long moment, then with a slight smile, not of hope but only of a kind of warmth, he turned and left the room.
Outside on the landing, he waited until Hester joined him and closed the door.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I may have been a little rash,” he acknowledged with a tiny shrug, his voice so low she could only just hear him.
Her heart sank. For a moment she had allowed