by Anne Perry
“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 you to find the truth. I have no idea what it is, except that Rhys cannot bear it.”
He smiled at her, and all the memory of past tragedies and horrors they had known was there with its emotion, for an instant shared.
Then the door opened and Sylvestra came in. She looked at Hester with dark eyebrows lifted in question.
“Miss Latterly says that Mr. Duff is not well enough to be spoken to,” Evan explained. “I am sorry. I had hoped he was better for his own sake, as well as for the truth.”
“No … he’s not,” Sylvestra said quickly, relief filling her face, and a softening of gratitude towards Hester. “I’m afraid he still cannot help.”
“Perhaps you can, Mrs. Duff.” Evan was not going to allow her to close him out. “Since I cannot speak with Mr. Duff, I shall have to speak with his friends. Some of them may know something which can tell us why he went to St. Giles and whom he knew there.”
Hester went out silently.
“I doubt it,” Sylvestra said almost before Evan had finished speaking, then seemed to regret her haste, not as having said something untrue but as being tactically mistaken. “I mean … at least I don’t think so. If they did, surely they would have come forward by now. Arthur Kynaston was here yesterday. If he or his brother had known anything at all, they would surely have told us.”
“If they realize the relevance,” Evan said persuasively, as if he had not thought she was being evasive. “Where may I find them?”
“Oh … the Kynastons live in Lowndes Square, number seventeen.”
“Thank you. I daresay they can tell me of any other friends whose company they kept from time to time.” He made his tone casual. “Who would know your husband in his leisure hours, Mrs. Duff? I mean, who else might frequent the same clubs or have the same hobbies or interests?”
She said nothing, staring at him with wide, black eyes. He tried to read in them what she was thinking, and failed completely. She was different from any woman he had seen before. There was a composure to her, a mystery, which filled his mind even when he had thought he was concentrating on something else, some utterly different aspect of the case. He would never understand her until he knew a great deal more about Leighton Duff, what manner of man he had been: brave or cowardly, kind or cruel, honest or deceitful, loving or cold. Had he had wit, charm, gentleness, imagination? Had she loved him, or had it been a marriage of convenience, workable but without passion? Had there even been friendship in it, or trust?
“Mrs. Duff?”
“I suppose Dr. Wade, and Mr. Kynaston principally,” she replied. “There are many others, of course. I think he had interests in common with Mr. Milton, in his law partnership, and Mr. Hodge. He spoke of a James Wellingham once or twice, and he wrote to a Mr. Phillips quite regularly.”
“I’ll speak with them. Perhaps I may see the letters?” He had no idea what possible use they could be, but he must try everything.
“Of course.” She seemed perfectly at ease with the idea. If she had a lover, he did not lie in that direction. He could not help thinking again of Corriden Wade.
He spent a profitless morning reading agreeable but essentially tedious correspondence from Mr. Phillips, largely on the subject of archery. He left and went to the law office of Cullingford, Duff and Partners, where he learned that Leighton Duff had been a brilliant man in his chosen career and the driving force behind the success of the concern. His rise from junior to effective leader had been almost without hindrance. Everyone spoke well of his ability and was concerned for the continued preeminence of the company in its field now that he was no longer with them.
If there was envy or personal malice Evan did not see it. Perhaps he was too easily persuaded. Possibly he lacked Monk’s sharper, harder mind, but he saw in the replies of Leighton Duff’s associates nothing more sinister than respect for a colleague, a decent observance for the etiquette of speaking no ill of the dead, and a lively fear for their own future prosperity. Apparently they had not been socially acquainted, and none of them claimed to know the widow. Evan could catch them in no evasion, let alone untruth.
He left feeling he had wasted his time. All he had learned had confirmed his earlier picture of Leighton Duff as a clever, hardworking and eminently, almost boringly, decent man. The side of his character which took him to St. Giles, for whatever reason, was perfectly hidden from his partners in the law. If they suspected anything, they did not allow Evan to see it.
But then if a gentleman took occasional release for his natural carnal appetites, it was certainly not a matter to be displayed before the vulgar and the inquisitive, and Evan knew that in their minds the police would fall into both those categories.
It was after four o’clock and already dusk, with the lamplighters hurrying to the last few before it was too late, when Evan arrived at the home of Joel Kynaston, friend of Leighton Duff and headmaster of the excellent school at which Rhys had obtained his education. He did not live on the school premises but in a fine Georgian house about a quarter of a mile away.
The door was opened by a rather short butler, straightening to stand up to every fraction of his height.
“Yes sir?” He must be used to parents of pupils turning up at unexpected hours. He showed no surprise at all, except perhaps at Evan’s comparative youth as he stepped into the light.
“Good afternoon. My name is John Evan. I would very much appreciate speaking confidentially with Mr. Kynaston. It is in regard to the recent tragic death of Mr. Leighton Duff.” He did not give his rank or occupation.
“Indeed, sir,” the butler said without expression. “I shall enquire if Mr. Kynaston is at home. If you will be so good as to wait.”
It was the customary polite fiction. Kynaston would have expected someone to call. It was surely inevitable. He would be prepared in his mind. If he had anything relevant he was willing to say, he would have sought out Evan himself.
Evan looked around the hallway where he had been left. It was elegant, a trifle cold in its lack of personal touches. The umbrella stand held only sticks and umbrellas of one character, one length. Such ornaments as there were, were all of finely wrought brass, possibly Arabic, beautiful but lacking the variety of objects collected by a family over a period of years. Even the pictures on the walls spoke of one taste. Either Kynaston and his wife were remarkably alike in their choices or one person’s character prevailed over the other’s.
But the man who came out of the double oak doors of the withdrawing room was not more than twenty-two or -three. He was handsome, if a little undershot of jaw, with fair hair which curled attractively and bold, direct blue eyes.
“I’m Duke Kynaston, Mr. Evan,” he said coolly, stopping in the middle of the polished floor. “My father is not at home yet. I am not sure when he will be. Naturally we wish to be of any assistance to the police that we can, but I fear there is nothing we know about the matter. Would you not be better pursuing your enquiries in St. Giles? That is where it happened, is it not?”
“Yes it
is,” Evan replied, trying to sum up the young man, make a judgment as to his nature. He wondered how close he had been to Rhys Duff. There was an arrogance in his face, a hint of self-indulgence about the mouth, which made it easy to imagine that if Rhys had indeed gone whoring in St. Giles, Duke Kynaston might well have been his companion. Had he been there that night? At the dark edges of Evan’s mind, something he did not even want to allow into his conscious thought, was the knowledge of Monk’s case, the rapes of poverty-stricken women, amateur prostitutes. But that had been in Seven Dials, beyond Aldwich. Was it just conceivable that Rhys and his companions had been responsible for that, and had this time met their match, a woman who had a brother or a husband who was not as drunk as they had supposed? Possibly even a vigilante group of their own? That would explain the violence of the reprisal. And Leighton Duff had feared as much and had followed his son, and he had been the one who had paid the ultimate price, dying to save his son’s life?
Little wonder Rhys had nightmares and could not speak. It would be a memory no man could live with.
Evan looked at the young Duke Kynaston’s rather supercilious face, with the consciousness of youth, strength, and money so plain in it. But there were no bruises, even healed ones fading, no cuts or scratches except one faint scar on his cheek. It would have been no more than a nick of the razor such as any young man might make.
“So what is it you imagine we can tell you?” Duke said a little impatiently.
“St. Giles is a large area—” Evan began.
“Not very,” Duke contradicted. “Square mile or so.”
“So you know it?” Evan said with a smile.
Duke flushed. “I know of it, Mr. Evan. That is not the same thing.” But his annoyance betrayed that he perceived it was.
“Then you will know that it is densely populated,” Evan continued, “with people who are most unlikely to offer us any assistance. There is a great deal of poverty there, and crime. It is not a natural place for gentlemen to go. It is crowded, dirty and dangerous.”
“So I have heard.”
“You have never been there?”
“Never. As you said, it is not a place any gentleman would wish to be.” Duke smiled more widely. “If I were to go searching cheap entertainment, I would choose the Haymarket. I had imagined Rhys would do the same, but possibly I was wrong.”
“He has never been to the Haymarket with you?” Evan asked mildly.
For the first time Duke hesitated.
“I hardly think my pleasures are any of your concern, Mr. Evan. But no, I have not been with Rhys to the Haymarket, or anywhere else, for at least a year. I have no idea what he was doing in St. Giles.” He stared back at Evan with steady, defiant eyes.
Evan would have liked to disbelieve him, but he thought it was literally true, even if there was an implicit lie embedded in it somewhere. It was pointless to press him on the subject. He was obviously not willing to offer anything, and Evan had no weapon with which to draw him out against his will. His only tactic was to bide his time and look as if he were content with it.
“Unfortunate,” Evan said blandly. “It would have made our task shorter. But no doubt we shall find those who do. It will take more work, more disruption to others, and I daresay more investigation of private lives, but there is no help for it.”
Duke looked at him narrowly. Evan was not sure if he imagined it, but there seemed a flicker of unease.
“If you want to wait in the morning room, there may be a newspaper there, or something,” Duke said abruptly. “It’s that way.” He indicated the door to his left, Evan’s right. “I expect when Papa comes home he’ll see you. Not that I imagine he can tell you anything either, but he did teach Rhys at school.”
“Do you imagine Rhys might have confided in him?”
Duke gave him a look of such incredible contempt no answer was necessary.
Evan accepted the invitation and went to the cold and very uncomfortable morning room. The fire had long since gone out and he was too chilly to sit. He walked back and forth, half looking at the books on the shelf, noticing a number of classical titles, Tacitus, Sallust, Juvenal, Caesar, Cicero and Pliny in the original Latin, translations of Terence and Plautus, the poems of Catullus, and on the shelf above, the travels of Herodotus and Thucydides’ history of the Peloponnesian war. They were hardly the reading a waiting guest would choose. He wondered what manner of person usually sat there.
What he really wanted was to ask Kynaston about Sylvestra Duff. He wanted to know if she had a lover, if she was the sort of woman to seize her own desires even at the expense of someone else’s life. Had she the strength of will, the courage, the blind, passionate selfishness? But how did you say that to anyone? How did you elicit it from him without his wish?
Not by pacing the floor alone in a cold room, thinking about it. He wished he had Monk’s skill. Monk might have known how to proceed.
He went to the fireplace and pulled the bell rope. When the maid answered he asked if he could see Mrs. Kynaston. The maid promised to enquire.
He had no picture in his mind, but still Fidelis Kynaston surprised him. He would have said at a glance that she was plain. She was certainly over forty, nearer to forty-five, and yet he found himself drawn to her immediately. There was a composure in her, an inner certainty which was integrity.
“Good evening, Mr. Evan.” She came in and closed the door. She had fair hair which was fading a little at the temples, and she wore a dark gray dress of simple cut, without ornament except for a very beautiful cameo brooch, heightened by its solitary presence. The physical resemblance to her son was plain, and yet her personality was so utterly different she seemed nothing like him at all. There was no antagonism in her eyes, no contempt, only amusement and patience.
“Good evening, Mrs. Kynaston,” he said quickly. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your help, if you are able to give it, in endeavoring to learn what happened to Rhys Duff and his father. I cannot question him. As you may know, he cannot speak and is too ill to be distressed by having the subject even mentioned to him. I dislike raising it with Mrs. Duff more than I am obliged to, and I think she is too deeply shocked at present to recall a great deal.”
“I am not sure what I know, Mr. Evan,” she answered with a frown. “The imagination answers why Rhys may have gone to such an area. Young men do. They frequently have more curiosity and appetite than either sense or good taste.”
He was surprised at her candor, and it must have shown in his expression.
She smiled, a lopsided gesture because of the extraordinariness of her face.
“I have sons, and I had brothers, Mr. Evan. Also, my husband is the principal of a school for boys. I should indeed have my eyes closed were I to be unaware of such things.”
“Did you not find it difficult to believe that Rhys would go there?”
“No. He was an average young man, with all the usual desires to flout convention as he thought his parents considered it, and yet to do exactly what all young men have always done.”
“His father before him?” he asked.
Her eyebrows rose. “Probably. If you are asking me if I know, then the answer is that I do not. There are many things a wise woman chooses not to know, unless the knowledge is forced upon her, and most men do not force it.”
He hesitated. Was she referring to the use of prostitutes, or something else as well? There was a shadow in her eyes, a darkness in her voice. She had looked at the world clearly and seen much unpleasantness. He was quite sure she had known pain and accepted it as inevitable, her own no less than that of others. Could it be to do with her son Duke? Might he have a great deal to do with the younger, more impressionable, Rhys’s behavior? Duke was the kind of youth others wanted to impress—and to emulate.
“But nevertheless, you guess?” he said quietly.
“That is not the same, Mr. Evan. What you only guess you can always deny to yourself. The element of uncertainty is enough. But before you
ask: no, I do not know what happened to Rhys or to his father. I can only assume Rhys fell in with bad company, and poor Leighton was so concerned for him that in this instance he followed him, perhaps in an attempt to persuade Rhys to leave, and in the ensuing fight, Leighton was killed and Rhys injured. It is tragic. With a little more consideration, less pride and stubbornness, it need not have happened.”
“Is this guess based on your knowledge of the character of Mr. Duff?”
She was still standing, perhaps also too cold to sit.
“Yes.”
“You knew him quite well?”
“Yes, I did. I have known Mrs. Duff for years. Mr. Duff and my husband were close friends. My husband is profoundly grieved at his death. It has made him quite unwell. He took a severe chill, and I am sure the distress has hindered his recovery.”
“I’m sorry,” Evan said automatically. “Tell me something about Mr. Duff. It may help me to learn the truth.”
She had an ability to stand in one place without looking awkward or moving her hands unnecessarily. She was a woman of peculiar grace.
“He was a very sober man, of deep intelligence,” she answered thoughtfully. “He took his responsibilities to heart. He knew a large number of people depended upon his skills and his hard work.” She made a small gesture of her hands. “Not merely his family, of course, but also all those whose futures lay in the prosperity of his company. And you will understand, he dealt with valuable properties and large amounts of money almost daily.” A flicker crossed her face; her eyes lightened as if a new thought had occurred to her. “I think that is one of the reasons Joel, my husband, found him so easy to speak with. They both understood the burden of responsibility for others, of being trusted without question. It is an extraordinary thing, Mr. Evan, to have people place their confidence in you, not only in your skills but in your honor, and take it for granted that you will do for them all that they require.”
