The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [62]
“Mebbe it were the first time they came?” Shotts said dismally, pulling his collar up against the falling snow. It was nearly dark. They were walking, heads down into the wind, leaving St. Giles behind them and turning north towards Regent Street and the traffic and lights again. “I dunno ’oo else ter ask.”
“Do you think they are lying?” Evan said thoughtfully. “It would be natural enough, since Duff was murdered. No one wants to get involved with murder.”
“No.” Shotts nimbly avoided a puddle. A vegetable cart rattled by them, its driver hunched under half a blanket, the snow beginning to settle on the brim of his high black hat. “I know when at least some o’ them weasels is lyin’. Mebbe they did come ’ere by accident—got lorst.”
Evan did not bother to give a reply. The suggestion was not worthy of one.
They crossed George Street. The snow was falling faster, settling white on some of the roofs, but the pavements were still wet and black, showing broken reflections of the gaslights and the carriage lamps as the horses passed by at a brisk trot, eager to get home.
“Maybe they don’t recognize them because we are asking the wrong questions,” Evan mused, half to himself.
“Yeah?” Shotts kept pace with him easily. “What are the right ones, then?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps Rhys went there with friends his own age. After all, one doesn’t usually go whoring with one’s father. Maybe that is what put people off, the older man.”
“Mebbe,” Shotts said doubtfully. “Want me ter try?”
“Yes … unless you can think of something better. I’m going to the station. It’s time I reported to Mr. Runcorn.”
Shotts grinned. “Sooner you’n me, sir. ’E won’t be ’appy. I’ll get summink ter eat, then I’ll go an’ try again.”
Runcorn was a tall, well-built man with a lean face and very steady blue eyes. His nose was long and his cheeks a little hollow, but in his youth he had been good-looking, and now he was an imposing figure. He could have been even more so, had he the confidence to bear himself with greater ease. He sat in his office behind his large leather-inlaid desk and surveyed Evan with wariness.
“Well?”
“The Leighton Duff case, sir,” Evan replied, still standing. “I am afraid we do not seem to be progressing. We can find no one in St. Giles who ever saw either of the two men before—”
“Or will admit to it,” Runcorn agreed.
“Shotts believes them,” Evan said defensively, aware that Runcorn thought he was too soft. It was partly his vague, unspecific anger at a young man of Evan’s background choosing to come into the police force. He could not understand it. Evan was a gentleman, something Runcorn both admired and resented. He could have chosen all sorts of occupations if he had not the brains or the inclination to go to university and follow one of the professions. If he needed to make his living, then he could quite easily have gone into a bank or a trading house of some description.
Evan had not explained to Runcorn that a country parson with an ailing wife and several daughters to marry off could not afford expensive tuition for his only son. One did not discuss such things. Anyway, the police force interested him. He had begun idealistically. He had not a suit of armor or a white horse, he had a quick mind and good brown boots. Some of the romance had gone, but the energy and the desire had not. He had that much at least in common with Monk.
“Does he?” Runcorn said grimly. “Then you’d better get back to the family. Widow, and the son who was there and can’t speak, that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s she like, the widow?” Runcorn’s eyes