The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [165]
“Who was it?” she said urgently. “You must tell me.” Although she was certain, with an aching coldness, that she knew. There was only one explanation as to why no one had known before, why Corriden Wade had not told anyone, not told her or Rathbone. It explained so much: Rhys’s fear, his cruelty and rejection of his mother, his silence. She remembered with a sick pain the bell removed to the dresser, out of his reach.
“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 agonized 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, moving as if to 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, waiting for a moment to 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 but 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.