AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Then we will not detain you any further, Mr. Monk,” Kynaston said abruptly just as Fidelis was about to speak again.
Monk bowed and took his leave, thoroughly puzzled. If Rhys had been at the Kynastons’ until two in the morning, then it could not have been he with whom Leighton Duff had fought in St. Giles shortly after midnight. Monk did not doubt Fidelis, but it would be simple to check with Lady Sandon. He had not asked for her address, but a woman of title would not be difficult to locate.
As soon as he reached his rooms he went to his desk and took out all his notes on the times, dates and places of the rapes he had investigated. They were in chronological order, and it took him only moments to ascertain that his memory was correct. There had been a particularly brutal rape and beating on the night before Christmas Eve, shortly before midnight, as near as the victim could tell, probably two men rather than three.
The conclusion was startling, and inescapable. Rhys could not have been guilty of this one. Leighton Duff had been there, and had been involved in a struggle of some sort. Marmaduke Kynaston could have been there. Arthur Kynaston, like Rhys, could not. Monk must be absolutely certain. There were more facts to check—with Lady Sandon, and with Sylvestra Duff, and for extra certainty, with the servants in the Duff house.
Had Leighton Duff followed and confronted Marmaduke Kynaston and his companion in rape, whoever that was … or was he himself the companion? And had Rhys, usually the third, on this occasion been more spellbound by something else, and remained in the Kynaston home listening to tales of Egypt and the Rosetta stone? Was it even possible that the three men who committed the rapes were not always the same ones?
He went to bed with his mind racing, and slept fitfully, haunted by dreams.
In the morning he arose, dressed, and after a hasty breakfast, went out barely feeling the cold. By two in the afternoon he had ascertained his facts. Rhys Duff had been at the Kynaston house until two in the morning and had returned straight to his own home, where he had remained until midday of Christmas Eve. He could not have been in St. Giles.
Leighton Duff had gone out at half past nine in the evening and had returned at an unknown hour. The footman had not waited up for him. Mr. Duff was always most considerate and never required the servants to remain out of their beds on his ac
count.
It was confirmed that Duke Kynaston had retired before the end of the party, but whether he had then gone out or not, no one could say. While he was at the Kynaston house, Monk took the opportunity to deliver a warning. He had doubted whether to do so, or to leave justice to fortune. Now, as the picture grew even less certain in his mind, the doubt vanished. He asked to see both brothers and learned that Arthur was out, but Marmaduke could give him a few moments if he cared to go to the morning room.
Duke looked at him with a mixture of interest and scorn.
“A private agent of enquiry, eh?” he said with a lift of the eyebrow. “What a curious way to make one’s living. Still, I suppose it is better than catching rats, or repossessing the furniture of debtors.”
“There are times when it bears a closer resemblance to catching rats than one might wish,” Monk answered with a corresponding sneer.
“I hear you were the one who caught up with Rhys Duff,” Duke said quickly, cutting across him a little. “Do you think the court will find him guilty?”
“Is that why you consented to see me?” Monk asked with amusement. “Because you think I might know what the outcome will be?”
There was a faint flush on Duke’s cheeks. “Do you?” he demanded.
Monk was surprised. Under the bravado, was it possible Duke actually felt some concern and some responsibility—or guilt?
“No, I don’t,” Monk said more gently. “I thought I knew the answer without doubt, but I have since discerned some information which makes me less sure.”
“Why did you come here?” Duke frowned. “What do you want from us?”
“When you left the party on the night before Christmas Eve, where did you go?”
“To bed. Why? What does that matter?”
“You did not go to St. Giles with Leighton Duff?”
Duke’s utter amazement was too profound to disbelieve.
“What?”
Monk repeated what he had said.
“With Leighton Duff? Have you lost your wits? I’ve been whoring in St. Giles, certainly—with Rhys, for that matter, and my brother Arthur. But Leighton Duff! That pompous, dry-as-dust old stick!” He started to laugh, and it was harsh, critical, but as far as Monk could tell, perfectly genuine.
“I take it you think it unlikely Mr. Duff would have gone to St. Giles in search of a prostitute?”
“About as likely as Her Majesty appearing on the stage of the music halls, I should think,” Duke replied bitterly. “Whatever gave you that notion? You must be very out of touch with the case. You really have not the least idea, have you?”
Monk took the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket.
“Is that a good likeness of him?”
