The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [66]
The worst of Runcorn, the times he descended into spite, were when Monk’s name—or, by implication, his achievements—were mentioned. There was a shadow between them far deeper than the few clashes Evan had witnessed or the final quarrel when Monk had left, simultaneously with Runcorn’s dismissing him.
Monk no longer understood it. It was gone with all the rest of his past, returning only in glimpses and unconnected fragments, leaving him to guess, and fear the rest. Evan would almost certainly never know, but it was there in his mind when he saw the weakness and the vulnerability in Runcorn.
He reached Ebury Street and knocked on the door of number thirty-four. He was met by the maid, Janet, who smiled at him a slight uncertainly, as if she liked him but knew his errand only too painfully. She showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while she discovered if Mrs. Duff would see him.
However, when the door opened it was Hester who came in quickly, closing it behind her. She was wearing blue, her hair was dressed a little less severely than usual, and she looked flushed, but with vitality rather than fever or any embarrassment. He had always liked her, but now he thought perhaps she was also prettier than he had realized before, softer, more openly feminine. That was another thing he wondered about, why Monk quarreled with her so much. He would be the last man on earth to admit it, but perhaps that was exactly why he could not afford, he did not dare, to see her as she really was.
“Good morning, Hester,” he said informally, echoing his thoughts rather than his usual manners.
“Good morning, John,” she answered with a smile, a touch of amusement in it as well as friendship.
“How is Mr. Duff?”
The laughter vanished from her eyes, and even the light in her face seemed to fade.
“He is very poorly still. He has the most dreadful nightmares. He had another again last night. I don’t even know how to help him.”
“There is no question he saw what happened to his father,” he said regretfully. “If only he could tell us.”
“He can’t,” she said instantly.
“I know he can’t speak, but—”
“No! You can’t ask him,” she interrupted. “In fact, it would be better if you did not even see him. Really—I am not being obstructive. I would like to know who murdered Leighton Duff, and also did this to Rhys, as much as you would. But his recovery has to be my chief concern.” She looked at him earnestly. “It has to be, John, regardless of anything else. I could not conceal a crime, or knowingly tell you anything that was not true, but I cannot allow you to cause him the distress—and the real damage it may do—if you try in any way at all to bring back to his mind what he saw and felt. And if you had witnessed his nightmares as I have, you would not argue with me.” Her eyes were dark with her own distress, her face pinched with it, and he knew her well enough to read in her expression far more than she said.
“And Dr. Wade has forbidden it,” she added. “He has seen his injuries and knows the damage further hysteria on his part might cause. His wounds could be torn open so easily were he to wrench his body around or move suddenly or violently.”
“I understand,” he conceded, trying not to imagine too vividly the horror and the pain, and finding it hideously real. “I came principally to report to Mrs. Duff.”
Her eyes widened. “Have you found something?” She remained curiously still, and for a moment he thought she was afraid of the answer.
“No.” That was not totally true. She had not asked him openly, but had he been honest to the question which was understood between them, he would have said he had new suspicions about Sylvestra. He had returned not because of a discovery but a realization. “I wish there were new facts,” he went on. “It’s only a matter of trying better to understand the old ones.”
“I can’t help you,” she said quietly. “I’m not even sure whether I want