The Silent Cry Read online

  Praise for

  The Silent Cry

  “Monk and Hester … keep us enthralled with their bold intellectual assaults on the hypocrisy of Victorian moral standards. With her grimly detailed descriptions of the match factories, sweatshops, paupers’ hospitals, and tenement ‘rookeries’ crowded into these slums, Perry brings a rank sense of reality to the wretched living conditions of the working poor.… Her early-Victorian series … has deepened and darkened its insights into the social evils that burdened London’s underclasses.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “The brainy, passionate [Hester] Latterly is good company, as ever.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Reads like a firsthand account of the life and customs of that distant time.”

  —The Cincinnati Post

  “Richly detailed … By the novel’s end, revelations of corruption and depravity break through the severe conventions of upper-class Victorian prudery in a dramatic courtroom scene.… Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  The Silent Cry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2010 Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Edition

  Copyright © 1997 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of

  The Random House Publishing Group, a division of

  Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Ballantine Books,

  an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,

  a division of Random House, Inc., in 1997.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76781-3

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  1

  John Evan stood shivering as the January wind whipped down the alley. P.C. Shotts held his bull’s-eye lantern high so they could see both the bodies at once. They lay crumpled and bloody, about seven feet apart on the icy, cobbled alleyway.

  “Does anybody know what happened?” Evan asked, his teeth chattering.

  “No sir,” Shotts replied bleakly. “Woman found them and ol’ Briggs came an’ told me.”

  Evan was surprised. “In this area?” He glanced around at the grimy walls, the open gutter and the few windows, blacked with dirt. The doors he could see were narrow, straight onto the street, and stained with years of damp and soot. The only lamppost was twenty yards away, gleaming balefully like a lost moon. He was unpleasantly aware of movement just beyond the perimeter of light, of hunched figures watching and waiting, the myriad beggars, thieves and unfortunates who lived in this slum of St. Giles, only a stone’s throw from Regent Street in the heart of London.

  Shotts shrugged, looking down at the bodies. “Well, they obviously in’t drunk or starved or freezin’. All that blood, I reckon as she likely screamed, then were afraid someone ’eard ’er, an’ she din’t wanter get blamed, so she went on screamin’, an’ other folk came.” He shook his head. “They ain’t always bad about lookin’ arter their own around ’ere. I daresay as she’d ’a kept walkin’ if she’d ’ad the nerve, an’ thought of it quick enough.”

  Evan bent down to the body nearest to him. Shotts lowered the light a little so it showed the head and upper torso more clearly. The victim was a man Evan guessed to be in his middle fifties. His hair was gray, thick, his skin smooth. When Evan touched it with his finger it was cold and stiff. His eyes were still open. He had been too badly beaten for Evan to gather anything but a very general impression of his features. He might well have been handsome in life. Certainly his clothes, though torn and stained, had been of excellent quality. As far as Evan could judge, he was of average height and solid build. It was not easy to tell because he was so doubled up, his legs splayed and half under his body.

  “Who in God’s name did this to him?” he asked under his breath.

  “Dunno, sir,” Shotts answered shakily. “I in’t never seen anyone beat this bad before, even ’ere. Must ’a bin a lunatic, that’s all I can say. Is ’e robbed? I s’pose ’e must ’a bin.”

  Evan moved the body very slightly so he could reach into the pockets of the coat. There was nothing in the outside one. He tried the inside and found a handkerchief, clean, folded linen, roll-hemmed, of excellent quality. There was nothing else. He tried the trouser pockets and found a few coppers.

  “Button’ ole’s torn,” Shotts observed, staring down at the waistcoat. “Looks like they ripped orff ’is watch an’ chain. Wonder wot ’e was doin’ ’ere. This is a bit rough fer the likes of a gent. Plenty o’ tarts an’ dolly mops no more ’n a mile west. ’Aymarket’s full of ’em, an’ no danger. Take yer pick. W’y come ’ere?”

  “I don’t know,” Evan replied unnecessarily. “Perhaps if we can find the reason, we’ll know what happened to him.” He stood up and moved across to the other body. This was a younger man, perhaps barely twenty, although his face also was so badly beaten only the clean line of his jaw and the fine texture of his skin gave any indication. Evan was racked with pity and a terrible, blind anger when he saw the clothes on the lower part of the torso soaked in blood, which still seeped out from under the body onto the cobbles.

  “God in heaven,” he said huskily, “what happened here, Shotts? What kind of creature does this?” He did not use the name of deity lightly. He was the son of a country parson, brought up in a small, rural community where everyone knew each other, for better or worse, and the sound of church bells rang out over manor house, farm laborer’s cottage and publican’s inn alike. He knew happiness and tragedy, kindness and all the usual sins of greed and envy.

  Shotts, raised near this uglier, darker slum of London, found his imagination less challenged, but he still looked down at the young man with a shiver of compassion and fear for whoever could do this.

  “Dunno, sir. But I ’ope we catch the bastard, and then I trust they’ll ’ang ’im. Will if I ’ave anything ter do with it. Mind, catchin’ ’im won’t be that easy. Don’t see nothin’ ter go on so far. An’ we can’t count on much ’elp from them ’round ’ere.”

  Evan knelt beside the second body and felt in the pockets to see if there was anything left which might at least identify the victim. His fingers brushed against the man’s neck. He stopped, a shiver of incredulity, almost horror, going through him. It was warm! Was it conceivable he was still alive?

  If he was dead, then he had not been so for as long as the older man. He might have lain in this freezing alley bleeding for hours.

  “What is it?” Shotts demanded, staring at Evan, his eyes wide.

  Evan held his hand in front of the man’s nose and lips. He felt nothing, not the faintest warmth of breath.

  Shotts bent and held the lamp closer.

  Evan took out his pocket watch, polished the surface clean on the inside of his sleeve, then held it to the man’s lips.

  “What is it?” Shotts repeated, his voice high and sharp.

  “I think he’s alive,” Evan w
hispered. He drew the watch away and looked at it under the light. There was the faintest clouding of breath on it. “He is alive!” he said jubilantly. “Look!”

  Shotts was a realist. He liked Evan, but he knew he was the son of a parson and he made allowances.

  “Maybe ’e jus’ died after the other one,” he said gently. “ ’E’s ’urt pretty dreadful.”

  “He’s warm! And he’s still breathing!” Evan insisted, bending closer. “Have you called a doctor? Get an ambulance!”

  Shotts shook his head. “You can’t save ’im, Mr. Evan. ’E’s too far gorn. Kinder ter let ’im slip away now, without knowin’ anything about it. I don’t suppose ’e knows ’oo dun ’im anyway.”

  Evan did not look up. “I wasn’t thinking of what he could tell us,” he replied, and it was the truth. “If he’s alive we’ve got to do what we can. There’s no choice to make. Find someone to fetch a doctor and an ambulance. Go now.”

  Shotts hesitated, looking around the deserted alley.

  “I’ll be all right,” Evan said abruptly. He was not sure. He did not wish to be alone in that place. He did not belong there. He was not one of those people, as Shotts was. He was aware of his fear and wondered if it was audible in his voice.

  Shotts obeyed reluctantly, leaving the bull’s-eye behind. Evan saw the constable’s solid form disappear around the corner and felt a moment’s panic. He had nothing with which to defend himself if whoever had committed these murders returned.

  But why should he? Evan knew better. He had been in the police long enough—in fact, over five years, since 1855, halfway through the Crimean War. He remembered his first murder. That had been when he had met William Monk, the best policeman he knew, if also the most ruthless, the bravest, the most instinctively clever. Evan was the only one who had realized also how vulnerable Monk was. Monk had lost his entire memory in a carriage accident, but of course he dared tell no one. He had no knowledge of who he was, what his skills were, his conflicts, his enemies or even his friends. He lived from one threat to another, clue after clue unfolding and then meaning little or nothing, just fragments.

  But Monk would not have been afraid to be alone in that alley. Even the poor and the hungry and the violent of that miserable area would have thought twice before attacking him. There was something dangerous in his face with its smooth cheekbones, broad, aquiline nose and brilliant eyes. Evan’s gentler features, full of humor and imagination, threatened no one.

  He started as there was a sound at the farther end of the alley, at the main street, but it was only a rat running along the gutter. Someone shifted weight in a doorway, but he saw nothing. A rumble of carriage wheels fifty yards away sounded like another world, where there was life and wider spaces, and the broadening daylight would give a little color.

  He was so cold he was shaking. He ought to take his coat off and put it over the boy who was still alive. In fact, he should have done it straightaway. He did it now, gently, tucking it around the boy and feeling the cold bite into his own flesh till his bones ached.

  It seemed an endless wait until Shotts returned, but he brought with him the doctor, a gaunt man with bony hands and a thin, patient face. His high hat was too large for him and slid close to the tops of his ears.

  “Riley,” he introduced himself briefly, then bent to look at the young man. His fingers felt expertly and Evan and Shotts stood waiting, staring down. It was now full daylight, although in the alley between the high, grimy walls it was still shadowed.

  “You’re right,” Riley said after a moment, his voice strained, his eyes dark. “He’s still alive … just.” He climbed to his feet and turned towards the hearselike outline of the ambulance as the driver backed the horses to bring it to the end of the alley. “Help me lift him,” he requested as another figure leaped down from the box and opened the doors at the back.

  Evan and Shotts hastened to obey, lifting the cold figure as gently as they could. Riley superintended their efforts until the youth was lying on the floor inside, wrapped in blankets, and Evan had his coat back, bloodstained, filthy and damp from the wet cobbles.

  Riley looked at Evan and pursed his lips. “You’d better get some dry clothes on and a stiff tot of whiskey, and then a dish of hot gruel,” he said, shaking his head. “Or you’ll have pneumonia yourself, and probably for nothing. I doubt we can save the poor devil.” Pity altered his face in the lantern light, making him look vulnerable. “Nothing I can do for the other one. He’s the undertaker’s job, and yours, of course. Good luck to you. You’ll need it, around here. God knows what happened—or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say the devil does.” And with that he climbed in behind his patient. “Mortuary van’ll come for the other one,” he added as if an afterthought. “I’m taking this one to St. Thomas’s. You can enquire after him there. I don’t suppose you have any idea who he is?”

  “Not yet,” Evan answered, although he knew they might never have.

  Riley closed the door and banged on the wall for the driver to proceed, and the ambulance pulled away.

  The mortuary van took its place and the other body was removed, leaving Evan and Shotts alone in the alley.

  “It’s light enough to look,” Evan said grimly. “I suppose we might find something. Then we’ll start searching for witnesses. What happened to the woman who raised the alarm?”

  “Daisy Mott. I know where ter find ’er. Daytime in the match fact’ry, nights in that block o’ rooms over there, number sixteen.” He gestured with his left arm. “Don’t suppose she can tell us much. If them what done this’d bin ’ere when she come, they’d ’a killed ’er too, no doubt.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Evan agreed reluctantly. “Since she screamed, they’d have silenced her at least. What about old Briggs, who fetched you?”

  “ ’E don’t know nothin’. I asked ’im.”

  Evan began to widen his search, going farther away from where the two bodies had been, walking very slowly, eyes looking down on the ground. He did not know what he was looking for, anything someone might have dropped, a mark, a further bloodstain. There must be other bloodstains.

  “In’t rained,” Shotts said grimly. “Those two fought like tigers fer their lives. Gotter be more blood. Not that I know what it’ll tell us if there is. ’Cept that someone else is ’urt, an’ that I can work out fer meself.”

  “There’s blood here,” Evan answered him, seeing the dark stain over the cobbles towards the central gutter. He had to put his finger into it to be sure if it was red, and not the brown of excrement. “And here. This must be where at least some of the struggle took place.”

  “I got some ’ere too,” Shotts added. “I wonder ’ow many of them there was.”

  “More than two,” Evan replied quietly. “If it had been anything like an equal fight there’d have been four bodies here. Whoever else was here was in good enough shape to leave … unless, of course, someone else took them away. But that isn’t likely. No, I think we’re looking for two or three men at the least.”

  “Armed?” Shotts looked at him.

  “I don’t know. The doctor’ll tell us how they were injured. I didn’t see any knife wounds, or club or bludgeon wounds either. And they certainly weren’t garroted.” He shuddered as he said it. St. Giles particularly was known for the sudden and vile murders by wire around the throat. Any dirty and down-at-heel vagrant could be suspected. There was one notable occasion when two such men had suspected each other and had almost ended up in mutual murder.

  “That’s funny.” Shotts stood still, unconsciously pulling his coat a little tighter around him in the cold. “Thieves wot set out ter rob someone in a place like this usually carry a shiv or a wire. They in’t lookin’ fer a fight, they wants profits and a quick getaway, wi’ no ’urt to theirselves.”

  “Exactly,” Evan agreed. “A wire around the throat or a knife in the side. Silent. Effective. No danger. Take the money and disappear into the night. So what happened here, Shotts?”


  “I dunno, sir. The more I look at it, the less I know. But there in’t no weapon ’ere. If there was one, they took it with them. An’ wot’s more, there in’t no trail o’ blood as I can see, so if they was ’urt theirselves, it weren’t nothing like as bad as these two poor souls the doc and the mortuary van took away. I know they was dead, or as near as makes no difference, wot I mean is …”

  “I know what you mean,” Evan agreed. “It was a very one-sided affair.”

  A hansom went by at the far end of the street, closely followed by a wagon piled with old furniture. From somewhere in the distance came the mournful cry of a rag-and-bone man. A beggar, holding half an old coat around himself, hesitated at the mouth of the alley, then thought better of it and went on his way. Behind the grimy windows there was more movement. Voices were raised. A dog barked.

  “You have to hate a man very much to beat him to death,” Evan said in little more than a whisper. “Unless you’re completely insane.”

  “They didn’t belong around ’ere.” Shotts shook his head. “They were clean … under the surface, well-fed, an’ their clothes was good. They was both from somewhere else, up west for certain, or in from the country.”

  “City,” Evan corrected. “City boots. City skins. Country men would have had more color.”

  “Then up west. They wasn’t from anyw’ere near ’ere, that’s for certain positive. So ’oo around ’ere would know ’em to ’ate ’em that much?”

  Evan pushed his hands into his pockets. There were more people passing the end of the alley now, men going to work in factories and warehouses, women to sweatshops and mills. The unknown numbers who worked in the streets themselves were appearing, peddlers, dealers in one thing and another, scavengers, sellers of information, petty thieves and go-betweens.

  “What does a man come here for?” Evan was talking to himself. “Something he can’t buy in his own part of the city.”

  “Slummin’,” Shotts said succinctly. “Cheap women, money-lenders, card sharps, fence a bit o’ summink stolen, get summink forged.”