The Silent Cry Read online

  “Don’t try to talk about what happened,” Hester advised. “All the help you can give is simply to be there.”

  But when Sylvestra came into the bedroom Rhys turned away. He refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting out her hand to touch his arm where it lay on the coverlet, and he snatched it away, then when she reached after him again he lashed out at her, catching her hand with his splints, hurting both her and himself.

  Sylvestra gave a little cry of distress, not for the physical pain, but the rebuff. She sat motionless, not knowing what to do.

  Rhys turned his head and kept his face away from her.

  She looked at Hester.

  Hester had no idea why he had acted with such sudden cruelty. It was impossible even to guess wherever it lay—his recent injury, a feeling of guilt that perhaps he should have been able to save his father or, if not, that he should also have died. She knew of men whose shame at their own survival when their comrades had perished was beyond any reason or comfort to console. It was unreachable, and attempts in words by those who could never truly understand only highlighted the gulf between them, the utter loneliness.

  But none of that would touch the hurt in Sylvestra.

  “Come downstairs,” Hester said quietly. “We’ll let him rest, at least until the doctor comes.”

  “But …”

  Hester shook her head. Rhys was still lying motionless and stiff. Persuasion would not help.

  Reluctantly, Sylvestra rose and followed Hester out and across the corridor and landing and downstairs again. She did not say anything. She was closed in a world of her own confusion.

  Shortly after luncheon the maid announced that the man from the police was there again.

  “Will you stay?” Sylvestra asked quickly. “I should prefer it.”

  “Are you sure?” Hester was surprised. Usually people chose to keep such invasions of their privacy from as many people as possible.

  “Yes.” Sylvestra was quite decisive. “Yes. If he has anything to tell us, it will be easier for Rhys if you know it also. I …” It was not necessary to say how frightened she was for him, it was only too plain in her face.

  Evan was shown in. He looked cold and unhappy. The maid had taken his hat and outer coat, but his trouser legs were wet at the bottoms, his boots were soaked, and his cheeks glistened with splashes of rain. It had been some time since Hester had last seen him, but they had shared many experiences, both of triumph and of fear and pain, and she had always liked him. There was a gentleness and honesty in him which she admired. And he was sometimes more perceptive than Monk gave him credit for. Now it was discreet to behave as if they were strangers.

  Sylvestra introduced them, and Evan made no reference to past acquaintance.

  “How is Mr. Duff?” he asked.

  “He is very ill,” Sylvestra said quickly. “He has not spoken, if that is what you are hoping. I am afraid I know nothing further.”

  “I’m sorry.” His face crumpled a little. It was highly expressive, mirroring his thoughts and feelings more than he wished. He was a trifle thin, with bright hazel eyes and an aquiline nose, rather too long. His words came from sympathy, not annoyance.

  “Have you … learned anything?” she asked. She was breathing rather quickly and her hands were held tightly together on her lap, fingers clenched around each other.

  “Very little, Mrs. Duff,” he replied. “If anyone saw what happened, they are not willing to say so. It is not an area where the police are liked. People live on the fringes of the law and have too much to hide to come forward voluntarily.”

  “I see.” She heard what he said, but it was a world beyond her knowledge or comprehension.

  He looked at her high-boned, severe and oddly beautiful face, and did not try to explain, although he must have understood.

  Hester guessed the question he wanted to ask and why he found it difficult to frame it without offending. Also it was more than possible she had no idea whatever of the truthful answer. Why would a man of Leighton Duff’s standing go to such an area? To gamble illegally, to borrow money, to sell or pawn his belongings, to buy something stolen or forged, or to meet a prostitute. He could tell his wife none of these things. Even if it were something as comparatively praiseworthy as to help a friend in trouble, he still would not be likely to share it with her. Such difficulties were private, between men, not for the knowledge of women.

  Evan decided to be blunt, which did not surprise Hester. It was the nature she knew in him.

  “Mrs. Duff, have you any idea why your husband should go to an area like St. Giles … at night?”

  “I … I know nothing about St. Giles.” It was an evasion, a gaining of more time to think.

  He could not afford to be put off.

  “It is an area of extreme poverty and crime both petty and serious,” he explained. “The streets are narrow and dirty and dangerous. The sewage runs down the middle. The doorways are full of drunken and sleeping beggars … sometimes they are even dead, especially this time of the year, when they die of cold and hunger very easily, particularly those who are ill anyway. Tuberculosis is rife …”

  Her face twisted with revulsion, and perhaps pity also, but her horror was too great to tell. She did not wish to know such things, for many reasons. It jarred her past happiness; it frightened and revolted her. It threatened the present. The mere knowledge of it contaminated her thoughts.

  “More children die under six than survive,” he went on. “Most of them have rickets. Many of the women work in sweatshops and factories, but a great number practice a little prostitution on the side—to make ends meet, to feed their children.”

  He had gone too far. It was a picture she could not bear.

  “No …” she said huskily. “I can only imagine that he must have been lost.”

  He showed a streak of ruthlessness that would have been characteristic of Monk.

  “On foot?” He raised his eyebrows. “Did he often walk around parts of London at night where he did not know the way, Mrs. Duff?”

  “Of course not!” she responded too quickly.

  “Where did he say he was going?” he persisted.

  She was very pale, her eyes bright and defensive.

  “He did not say, specifically,” she answered him. “But I believe he went out after my son. They had had words about Rhys’s behavior. I was not in the room, but I heard raised voices. Rhys had left in anger. We had both believed that he had gone to his own room upstairs.” She was sitting very upright, her shoulders high and stiff, her hands folded. “Then when my husband went up to resume the discussion, he discovered he was absent, and he was very angry. He went out also … I believe to try to find him. Before you ask me, I do not know where Rhys went or where Leighton did find him … which obviously he did. Perhaps that was how they became hurt?”

  “Perhaps,” Evan agreed. “It is not unusual for a young man to frequent some questionable places, ma’am. If he is not squandering money, or paying attentions to another man’s wife, it is generally not taken very seriously. Was your husband strict in his moral views?”

  She looked confused. To judge from her expression, it was a question she had never considered.

  “He was not … rigid … or self-righteous, if that is what you mean.” Her eyebrows rose, her eyes widened. “I don’t think he was ever … unfair. He did not expect Rhys to be … abstinent. It was not really a … a quarrel. If I gave that impression, I did not mean to. I did not overhear their words, simply their voices. It may even have been something else altogether.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps Rhys was seeing a woman who was … married? Leighton would not have told me. He could have wished to spare me.…”

  “That may be the case,” Evan conceded. “It would explain a great deal. If her husband confronted them, violence might have followed.”

  Sylvestra shuddered and looked away towards the fire. “To commit murder? What kind of a woman can she be? Would it not have taken several men
… to … to do such terrible things?”

  “Yes … it would,” he agreed quietly. “But perhaps there were several … a father or a brother, or both.”

  She put her hands up to cover her face. “If that is true, then he was wrong—very wrong—but he did not deserve a punishment like this! And my husband did not deserve any punishment at all. It was not his fault!” Unconsciously, she ran her slender fingers through her hair, dislodging a pin, letting a long, black strand of hair fall. “No wonder Rhys will not face me.” She looked up at him. “How do I answer it? How do I learn to forgive him for it … and teach him to forgive himself?”

  Hester put her hand on Sylvestra’s shoulder. “First by not supposing it is true until we know,” she said firmly. “It may not be the case.” Although looking across at Evan, and remembering the scene in the bedroom during the night and today when Sylvestra had been there, she found it very easy to believe they had guessed correctly.

  Sylvestra sat up slowly, her face white.

  Evan rose to his feet. “Perhaps Miss Latterly will take me up to see Mr. Duff. I know he cannot speak, but he may be able to answer with a nod or a shake of his head.”

  Sylvestra hesitated. She was not yet ready to face even the questions, let alone the answers Rhys might give. Nor was she ready to return to the scene where only a short while ago she had witnessed such a sudden and vicious side of her son. Hester saw it in her eyes; she read it easily because she shared the fear.

  “Mr. Duff?” Evan prompted.

  “He is unwell,” Sylvestra said, staring back at him.

  “He is,” Hester reinforced. “He had a most difficult night. I cannot allow you to press him, Sergeant.”

  Evan looked at Hester questioningly. He must have seen some of her feelings, the memories of Rhys cowering against the pillow as his mind relived something unspeakable, so terrible he could not say it in words … any words at all.

  “I will not press him,” he promised, his voice dropping. “But he may wish to tell me. We must give him the opportunity. We need to know the truth. It may be, Mrs. Duff, that he needs to know it also.”

  “Do you think so?” She looked at him skeptically. “No vengeance, or justice, is going to change my husband’s death or Rhys’s injuries. It will help some distant concept of what is fair, and I am not sure how much I care about that.”

  Hester thought for a moment Evan was going to argue, but he said nothing, simply standing back and waiting for her to lead the way.

  Upstairs, Rhys was lying quietly, splinted hands on the covers, his expression peaceful, as if he were nearly asleep. He turned his head as he heard them. He looked guarded but not frightened or unduly wary.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Duff,” Evan began before even Hester or Sylvestra could speak. “But investigation has taken me very little further forward. I know you cannot speak yet, but if I ask you a few questions, you can indicate yes or no to me.”

  Rhys stared back at him, almost unblinkingly.

  Hester found herself gritting her teeth, her hands sticky. She knew Evan had no choice but to press. Rhys was the only one who knew the truth, but she also knew that it could cost him more than even his mother could guess, let alone Evan, who stood there looking so gentle and capable of pain himself.

  “When you went out that evening,” Evan began, “did you meet anyone you knew, a friend?”

  A shadow of a smile touched Rhys’s mouth, bitter and hurt. He did not move.

  “I’ve asked the wrong question.” Evan was undeterred. “Did you go in order to meet a friend? Had you made an arrangement?”

  Rhys shook his head.

  “No,” Evan acknowledged. “Did you meet someone by chance?”

  Rhys moved his shoulder a little; it was almost a shrug.

  “A friend?”

  This time it was definite denial.

  “Someone you do not like? An enemy?”

  Again the shrug, this time angry, impatient.

  “Did you go straight to St. Giles?”

  Rhys nodded very slowly, as if he had trouble remembering.

  “Had you been there before?” Evan asked, lowering his voice.

  Rhys nodded, his eyes unwavering.

  “Did you know your father was going there also?”

  Rhys stiffened, his body tightening till the muscles seemed locked.

  “Did you?” Evan repeated.

  Rhys cringed back into the pillow, wincing as the movement hurt him. He tried to speak, his mouth forming the words, his throat striving, but no sounds came. He started to tremble. He could not get his breath and gasped, the air dragging and catching in his throat.

  Sylvestra bent forward. “Stop it!” she commanded Evan. “Leave him alone.” She placed herself between them as if Evan were offering some physical threat. She swiveled to face Rhys, but he cowered away from her too, as if he could not distinguish the difference.

  Sylvestra’s face was ashen. She struggled for something to say to him, but it was beyond her reason or even her emotion to reach. She was baffled, frightened and hurt.

  “You must both leave,” Hester said firmly. “Please! Now!” As if assuming their obedience, she turned to Rhys, who was shuddering violently and sounded in danger of choking. “Stop it,” she said to him loudly and clearly. “Nobody is going to hurt you now. Don’t try to say anything.… Just breathe in and out steadily. Very steadily. Do as I tell you.”

  She heard the door close as Evan and Sylvestra left.

  Gradually, Rhys’s hysteria subsided. He began to breathe regularly. The scraping sound in his throat eased and he trembled instead of shaking.

  “Keep on breathing slowly,” she told him. “Gently. In, out. In, out.” She smiled at him.

  Warily, shakily, he smiled back.

  “Now I am going to get you a little hot milk and a herbal draught to make you feel better. You need to rest.”

  Fear darkened his eyes again.

  “No one will come in.”

  It was no comfort.

  Then she thought perhaps she understood. He was afraid of dreams. The horror lay within him.

  “You don’t need to sleep. Just lie there quietly. It won’t make you sleep.”

  He relaxed, his eyes searching hers, trying to make her understand.

  But he did sleep, for several hours, and she sat beside him, watching, ready to waken him if he showed signs of distress.

  Corriden Wade came in the late afternoon. He looked anxious when Hester told him of Rhys’s distress and of the nightmare which had produced such prolonged pain and hysteria. His face creased with sharp concern, his own physical discomfort from the fall from his horse forgotten.

  “It is most worrying, Miss Latterly. I shall go up and examine him. This is not a good turn of events.”

  She made to follow him.

  “No,” he said abruptly, holding his hand up as if physically to prevent her. “I will see him alone. He has obviously been profoundly disturbed by what has happened. In his best interest, to keep him from further hysteria, I shall examine him without the possible embarrassment of a stranger, and a woman, present.” He smiled very briefly, merely a flicker, more of communication than any lift of mood. He was obviously deeply distressed by what had happened. “I have known Rhys since he was a child,” he explained to her. “I knew his father well, God rest his soul, and my sister is a long-standing and dear friend of Sylvestra. No doubt she will call in the near future and offer whatever help or comfort she may …”

  “That would be good—” Hester began.

  “Yes, of course,” he cut her off. “I must see my patient, Miss Latterly. It seems his condition might have taken a turn for the worse. It may be necessary to keep him sedated for a while, so he does not further injure himself in his turmoil of mind …”

  She reached out to touch his arm. “But he is afraid of sleep, Doctor! That is when he dreams—”

  “Miss Latterly, I know very well that you have his interests at heart
.” His voice was quite quiet, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the iron in his will. “But his injuries are severe, more severe than you are aware of. I cannot risk his becoming agitated again and perhaps tearing them open. The results could be fatal.” He stared at her earnestly. “This is not the kind of violence either you or I are accustomed to dealing with. We know war and its heroes, which, God knows, are horrible enough. This is the trial of a different kind of strength. We must protect him from himself, at least for a while. In a few weeks he may be better; we can only hope.”

  There was nothing she could do but acquiesce.

  “Thank you.” His face softened. “I am sure we shall work together excellently. We have much in common, tests of endurance and judgment we have both passed.” He smiled briefly, a look of pain and uncertainty, then turned and continued up the stairs.

  Hester and Sylvestra waited in the withdrawing room. They sat on either side of the fire, stiff-backed, upright, speaking only occasionally in stifled, jerky sentences.

  “I have known Corriden Wade for years,” Sylvestra said suddenly. “He was an excellent friend of my husband’s. Leighton trusted him absolutely. He will do everything for Rhys that is possible.”

  “Of course. I have heard of him. His reputation is excellent. Very high.”

  “Is it? Yes. Yes, of course it is.”

  Minutes ticked by. The coals settled in the fire. Neither of them moved to ring the bell for the maid to add more.

  “His sister … Eglantyne, is a dear friend of mine.”

  “Yes. He told me. He said she may call upon you soon.”

  “I hope so. Did he say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should you be … with him?”

  “No. He said it would be better if he went alone. Less disturbing.”

  “Will it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  More minutes ticked by. Hester decided to rebuild the fire herself.

  Corriden Wade returned, his face grim.

  “How is he?” Sylvestra demanded, her voice tight and high with fear. She rose to her feet without being aware of it.

  “He is very ill, my dear,” he replied quietly. “But I have every hope that he will recover. He must have as much rest as possible. Do not permit him to be disturbed again. He can tell the police nothing. He must not be harassed as he was today. Any reminder of the terrible events which he undoubtedly both saw and suffered will make him considerably worse. They may even cause a complete relapse. That is hardly to be wondered at.”