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“Yes, my lord. Rhys had the most appalling nightmares when he would try to cry out, beat his arms, even though his hands were broken and it must have caused him fearful pain, and he would try to scream. And yet when he was awake, he refused absolutely to respond to questions about the incident and became extremely distressed, to the point of violent reaction against people, especially his mother, when any pressure was placed upon him.”
“And what did you conclude from that?” Rathbone asked.
“I did not conclude anything. I was puzzled. I … I feared perhaps he had indeed killed his father, and the memory of it was unbearable to him.”
“Are you still of that opinion?”
“No …”
“Why not?”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
In the courtroom no one moved. Goode was frowning, listening to her intently.
“Because after I saw him fall this morning,” she replied, “I remembered for an instant something I had learned of in the army. It seemed too appalling to be true, but in his cell, where they carried him, I was alone with him for several minutes before the doctor came. I made a very brief examination of his injuries … below the waist.” She stopped. Her face was filled with pain.
Rathbone wished he did not have to make her say this, but there was no possible alternative.
She saw it in his eyes and did not flinch.
“He had been raped,” she said very quietly, but very clearly. “Rhys was the rapists’ last victim.”
There was a gasp, and then utter silence except for a moan from Sylvestra as such pain of mind tore through her as was beyond bearing.
“Rhys and his father quarreled because Rhys knew a little of what was happening. His father had criticized h
im for using prostitutes, and the hypocrisy of it infuriated him, but for his mother’s sake he could not be open about it. He flung out of the house and went to St. Giles. By chance, so did his father.”
She took a breath and her voice became huskier.
“The three of them set on him in Water Lane,” she went on, and although it was hearsay, Goode did not interrupt her. His extraordinary face was creased with horror. “They knocked him down and raped him,” she continued, “as they had done the women—and perhaps other young men. We may never know. Then as he struggled and cried out, one of them stopped, realizing who he was.… It was Leighton Duff, who had just raped and beaten his own son.” Her voice was hoarse. “He attempted to defend him from further beating, but his companions had gone too far to retreat. If they let him live, he would stand to accuse them. It was they who killed Leighton Duff—and who believed they had killed Rhys.”
Eglantyne Wade sat helplessly. Fidelis held Sylvestra and rocked her back and forth, oblivious of the crowd whose pity welled around them.
“How can you possibly know this, Miss Latterly?” Rathbone asked.
“Because Rhys has regained his speech,” she answered. “He told me.”
“And did he know the names of his other assailants?”
“Yes … it was Joel Kynaston, his old headmaster, and Corriden Wade, his physician. That was a partial reason why he could not even attempt to tell anyone what had happened to him. The other part was his total shame and humiliation.”
Eglantyne’s head jerked up, her eyes wide, her skin ashen. She seemed to choke for breath. There was no outward change in Fidelis, as if in her heart she was not surprised.
“Thank you, Miss Latterly.” Rathbone turned towards the judge, about to make a plea, and then stopped. The judge’s face was engraved with horror and pity so deep the sight of it shocked.
Rathbone looked at the jurors and saw the same emotions mirrored in them, except for the four whose disbelief could not grasp such a thing. Rape happened to women, loose women who invited it. It did not happen to a man … any man! Men were inviolable … at least in the intimacy of their bodies. The horror and incomprehension left them stunned. They sat staring blindly, almost unaware of the room around them or of the strange, shifting silence in the gallery.
Rathbone looked at Sylvestra Duff. She was so white she looked barely alive. Eglantyne Wade sat with her head bowed forward, her face covered by her hands. Only Fidelis Kynaston moved. She still held Sylvestra, moving very slightly back and forth. She seemed to be saying something to her, bending close to her. Her expression was tender, as if in this last agony she would bear some of it for her, share both their burdens.
“Have you anything further to add, Sir Oliver?” the judge said, breaking the silence.
“No, my lord,” Rathbone answered. “If anyone has doubts, I will have further medical evidence obtained, but I would very much rather not subject Mr. Duff to any more pain or distress than he has already suffered. He has sworn a statement as to what happened in Water Lane the night of his father’s death. No doubt there will be further trials at which he will be required to testify, which will be ordeal enough, should he recover sufficiently both his health and his balance of mind. In the meantime, I am willing to rest on Miss Latterly’s word.”
The judge turned to Ebenezer Goode.
Goode rose to his feet, his face grave. “I am familiar with Miss Latterly’s nursing experience, my lord. If she will verify for the court upon what she bases her judgment, apart from Mr. Duff’s word, I will abide by that.”
