The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [166]
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 the railing’s 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 group of 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. “It 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 cabdriver.
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 judgments, 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.