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Rathbone came in, eyes wide, face flushed.
“I want …” Rhys began, then took a shuddering breath. “I want to tell you what happened.…”
Silently, Corriden Wade turned and left, although there was nowhere now for him to go.
Court resumed in the afternoon. Rhys was not present, having been taken back to the hospital and put in the care of Dr. Riley, but under a police guard. He was still accused of a fearful crime.
The gallery was surprisingly empty. There were spare seats in every row. People had assumed that Rhys’s pitch over the railing had been an attempt at suicide, and therefore a tacit admission of guilt. There was no longer any real interest. It was all over but the verdict. The three women, Sylvestra Duff, Eglantyne Wade and Fidelis Kynaston, sat together, very clearly visible now. They did not look at each other, but there was a closeness in them, a silent companionship which was apparent to anyone who regarded them carefully.
The judge called the court to order and commanded Rath
bone to proceed. The jurors looked grim but resigned, as if their duty had been taken from them and they were there only as a matter of form, but purposeless.
“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged. “I call Mrs. Fidelis Kynaston.”
There was a murmur of surprise as Fidelis, white-faced, walked across the floor and climbed the steps. She took the oath and looked at Rathbone with her head high, but her hands on the railing were clenched, as if she needed the railing’s presence to support her.
“Mrs. Kynaston,” he began gently, “did you have a party in your home on the night before Christmas Eve?”
She had known what he was going to say. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. “Yes.”
“Who was present?”
“My two sons, Rhys Duff, Lady Sandon, Rufus Sandon and myself.”
“At what time did Rhys Duff leave your house?”
“About two o’clock in the morning.”
There was a sudden rustle of sound in the gallery. One of the jurors started forward.
“Are you certain as to the time, Mrs. Kynaston?” Rathbone pressed.
“I am positive,” she replied, looking straight ahead at him as if he were an executioner. “If you were to ask Lady Sandon, or any of my household staff, they would tell you the same thing.”
“So the group of men who raped the unfortunate woman in St. Giles at around midnight could not possibly have included Rhys Duff?”
“No …” She swallowed, her throat tight. “It could not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kynaston, that is all I have to ask you.”
Goode considered for a moment or two, then declined his opportunity.
Rathbone called the cabby, Joseph Roscoe.
Roscoe described the man he had seen leaving St. Giles, his hands and face smeared with blood. Rathbone produced a picture of Leighton Duff and showed it to him.
“Is this the man you saw?”
Roscoe did not hesitate. “Yes sir, that’s ’im.”
“My lord, this is a likeness of Leighton Duff, whom Mr. Roscoe has identified.”
He got no further. The noise in the court was like the backwash of the sea. Sylvestra sat frozen, her face a mask of blank, unbelieving horror. Beside her, Eglantyne Wade supported her weight. Fidelis was rigid, still staring at the cabdriver.
The jurors stared from the witness to Rathbone, and back again.
The judge was grave and deeply disturbed. “Are you certain of your ground, Sir Oliver? Are you claiming that Leighton Duff, not Rhys Duff, was the rapist in all these fearful cases?”
