Riley stopped by the bed and looked at him with some concern.
'Good morning, Mr. Duff,' he said gently. 'You are in St. Thomas's hospital. My name is Riley. How are you feeling?”
Rhys Duff rolled his head very slightly until his eyes were focusing on Riley.
'How are you feeling, Mr. Duff?' Riley repeated.
Rhys opened his mouth, his lips moved, but there was no sound whatever.
'Does your throat hurt?' Riley asked with a frown. It was obviously not something he had expected.
Rhys stared at him.
'Does your throat hurt?' Riley asked again. 'Nod if it does.”
Very slowly Rhys shook his head. He looked faintly surprised.
Riley put his hand on Rhys's slender wrist above the bandaging of his broken hand. The other, similarly splinted and bound, lay on the cover.
'Can you speak, Mr. Duff?' Riley asked very softly.
Rhys opened his mouth again, and again no sound came.
Riley waited.
Rhys's eyes were filled with terrible memory, fear and pain held him transfixed. Momentarily his head moved from side to side in denial. He could not speak.
Riley turned to Evan. 'I'm sorry, you'll get nothing from him yet. He may be well enough for 'yes' and 'no' tomorrow, but he may not. At the moment he's too shocked for you to bother him at all. For certain he can't talk to you, or describe anyone. And it will be weeks before he can hold a pen if his hands mend well enough ever.”
Evan hesitated. He needed desperately to know what had happened, but he was torn with pity for this unbearably injured boy. He wished he had his father's faith to help him understand how such things could happen. Why was there not some justice to prevent it? He did not have a blind belief to soothe either his anger or his pity.
Nor did he have Hester's capacity to provide practical help which would have eased the aching helplessness inside him.
Perhaps the nearest he could strive for was Monk's dedication to pursuing truth.
'Do you know who did this to you, Mr. Duff?' he asked, speaking over Riley.
Rhys shut his eyes, and again shook his head. If he had any memory, he was choosing to close it out as too monstrous to bear.
'I think you should leave now, Sergeant,' Riley said with an edge to his voice. 'He can't tell you anything.”
Evan acknowledged the truth of it, and with one last look at the ashen face of the young man lying in the bed, he turned and went about the only duty he dreaded more.
Ebury Street was quiet and elegant in the cold morning air. There was a slick of ice on the pavements and housemaids were indisposed to linger in gossip. The two or three people Evan saw were all keeping moving, whisking dusters and mop heads out of windows and in again as quickly as possible. An errand boy scampered up steps and rang a bell with fingers clumsy with cold.
Evan found number thirty-four and unconsciously copying Monk, he went to the front door. Anyway, news such as he had should not go through the kitchens first.
The bell was answered by a parlour maid in a smart uniform. Her starched linen and lace immediately proclaimed a household of better financial standing than the clothes worn by the dead man suggested.
'Yes, sir?”
'Good morning. I am Police Sergeant Evans. Does a Mr. Leighton Duff live here?”
'Yes, sir, but he isn't home at the moment.' She said it with some anxiety. It was not a piece of information she would normally have offered to a caller, even though she knew it to be true. She looked at his face, and perhaps read the weariness and sadness in it. 'Is everything all right, sir?”
'No, I'm afraid it isn't. Is there a Mrs. Duff?”
Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm, but she did not scream.
'You had better warn her lady's maid, and perhaps the butler. I am afraid I have very bad news.”
Silently she opened the door wider and let him in.
A butler with thin, greying hair came from the back of the hallway, frowning.
'Who is the gentleman, Janet?' He turned to Evan. 'Good morning, sir.
May I be of assistance to you? I am afraid Mr. Duff is not at home at present, and Mrs. Duff is not receiving.' He was less sensitive to Evan's expression than the maid had been.
'I am from the police,' Evan repeated. 'I have extremely bad news to tell Mrs. Duff. I'm very sorry. Perhaps you should remain in case she needs some assistance. Possibly you might send a messenger for your family doctor.”
'What… what has happened?' Now he looked thoroughly horrified.
'I am afraid that Mr. Leighton Duff and Mr. Rhys Duff have met with violence. Mr. Rhys is in St. Thomas's hospital in a very serious condition.”
The butler gulped. 'And… and Mr… Mr. Leighton Duff?”
'I am afraid he is dead.”
'Oh dear… I…' He swayed a little where he stood in the magnificent hallway with its curved staircase, aspidistras in stone urns and brass umbrella stand with silver-topped canes in it.
'You'd better sit down a minute, Mr. Wharmby,' Janet said with sympathy.
Wharmby straightened himself up, but he looked very pallid. 'Certainly not! Whatever next? It is my duty to look after poor Mrs. Duff in every way possible, as it is yours. Go and get Alfred to fetch Dr.
Wade. I shall inform Madam that there is someone to see her. You might return with a decanter of brandy… just in case some restorative is needed.”
But it was not. Sylvestra Duff sat motionless in the large chair in the morning room, her face bloodlessly white under her dark hair with its pronounced widow's peak. She was not immediately beautiful her face was too long, too aquiline, her nose delicately flared, her eyes almost black but she had a distinction which became more marked the longer one was with her. Her voice was low and very measured. In other circumstances it would have been lovely. Now she was too shattered by horror and grief to speak in anything but broken fractions of sentences.
'How…' she started. 'Where? Where did you say?”
'In one of the back streets of an area known as St. Giles,' Evan answered gently, moderating the truth a little. He wished there were some way she would never have to know the full facts.
'St. Giles?' It seemed to mean very little to her. He studied her face, the smooth, high-boned cheeks and curved brow. He thought he saw a slight tightening, but it could have been no more than a change in the light as she turned towards him.
'It is a few hundred yards off Regent Street, towards Aldgate.”
'Aldgate?' she said with a frown.
'Where did he say he was going, Mrs. Duff?' he asked.
'He didn't say.”
'Perhaps you would tell me all you can recall of yesterday.”
She shook her head very slowly. 'No… no, that can wait. First I must go to my son. I must… I must be with him. You said he is very badly hurt?”
'I am afraid so. But he is in the best hands possible.' He leaned a little towards her. 'You can do no more for him at present,' he said earnestly. 'It is best he rests. He is not fully sensible most of the time. No doubt the doctor will give him herbs and sedatives to ease his pain and help him to heal.”
'Are you trying to spare my feelings, Sergeant? I assure you, it is not necessary. I must be where I can do the most good, that is the only thing which will be of any comfort to me.' She looked at him very directly. She had amazing eyes; their darkness almost concealed her emotions and made her a peculiarly private woman. He imagined the great Spanish aristocrats might have looked something like that: proud, secretive, hiding their vulnerability.
'No, Mrs. Duff,' he denied. 'I was trying to find out as much as I can from you about what occurred yesterday while it is fresh in your mind, before you are fully occupied with your son. At the moment it is Dr. Riley's help he needs. I need yours.”
'You are very direct, Sergeant.”
