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“Tall … and thin,” Monk said slowly. “And his face? Was he dark or fair? Young or old?” Surely it must have been Rhys? “And was he injured too?”
“Don’ rush me!” the cabby protested. “Can’t answer more ’n one thing at a time.”
“Did you see his face?” Monk said, controlling himself with difficulty;
“Sort o’—’alf.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Dark. Very dark.”
Monk swallowed. “And was he hurt, that you could see?”
“Yeah, come ter think on it, ’e ’ad blood on ’im too. Not so much, as I could see. But yeah, ’e were messed around. I reckon ’is coat were torn, an’ looked sort o’ wet. W’y, guv? Wot does it matter now? Yer’ve got ’im, in’t yer?”
“Yes. It’s just a matter of tidying it up, for evidence in court. You are positive about the date?”
“Yeah, I told yer.”
“Thank you. You have been a great help. Now, will you please take me to Ebury Street. Have another sandwich.” He gave the sandwich seller threepence and took two more. “And have one yourself,” he added cheerfully to the seller. “They’re very good.” He gave one sandwich to the cabby, and set out at a stride to climb up into the hansom. His only regret was he had nothing for the horse.
At Ebury Street he alighted, paid the cabby and thanked him again, then went up the step and rang the bell. When it was answered by Wharmby, looking grim, he asked to see Mrs. Duff.
“I am sorry sir, but Mrs. Duff is not receiving,” Wharmby said firmly.
“Please inform her that I am working for Sir Oliver Rathbone, and I have a question I must ask her regarding the case,” Monk replied, equally unflinchingly. “It is important that I receive an answer before I can proceed. It is in Mr. Rhys Duff’s interest.”
“Yes sir, I will tell her.” Wharmby hesitated. There was nothing more to say, and yet he did not move.
Monk waited. He wanted to prompt him, but he was afraid if he were too direct he could break the moment and lose it.
“Do you remember Christmas Eve, Wharmby?” he said quite casually.
“Yes sir.” Wharmby seemed surprised.
“And the night before?”
Wharmby nodded. “Yes sir. How can I help you?”
“Who was here that night?”
“No one, sir. In the evening Mrs. Duff went with Mrs. Wade to a concert. Mr. Rhys went to the Kynastons’ to dinner, and Mr. Duff went out on business.”
“I see.” The taste of victory was there again. “And how were they all when they returned home, or the next time you saw them?”
“How were they, sir? Quite normal, considering it was Christmas Eve.”
“Was no one hurt in any way? Perhaps a slight traffic accident, or something of the sort?”
“I believe Mr. Duff had a scratch on his face. He said it had been a flying stone from a carriage going much too fast. Why, sir? Does this mean something? Can you … can you help Mr. Rhys, sir?” His face was crumpled with curiosity, his eyes frightened as if he dreaded the answer. He had been almost too afraid to ask.
Monk was taken aback. Such concern did not fit with the picture of Rhys Duff that Monk had formed. Was the man not more moved by the violent death of his master? Or was it now Sylvestra for whom he grieved, imagining her second loss, so much worse even than the first.
“I don’t know,” Monk said honestly. “I’m doing everything I can. It is possible this may … mitigate things … a little. Perhaps you do not need to disturb Mrs. Duff. If you say that Mr. Rhys said he was going to the Kynastons’ that evening, I can ask them to substantiate that. Can you give me their address?”
“Certainly, sir. I shall write it down for you.” And without waiting for agreement, he disappeared and came back a few moments later with a slip of paper, an address written out in copperplate on it.
Monk thanked him and left, seeking another cab.
