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“Come downstairs,” Hester said quietly. “We’ll let him rest, at least until the doctor comes.”
“But …”
Hester shook her head. Rhys was still lying motionless and stiff. Persuasion would not help.
Reluctantly, Sylvestra rose and followed Hester out and across the corridor and landing and downstairs again. She did not say anything. She was closed in a world of her own confusion.
Shortly after luncheon the maid announced that the man from the police was there again.
“Will you stay?” Sylvestra asked quickly. “I should prefer it.”
“Are you sure?” Hester was surprised. Usually people chose to keep such invasions of their privacy from as many people as possible.
“Yes.” Sylvestra was quite decisive. “Yes. If he has anything to tell us, it will be easier for Rhys if you know it also. I …” It was not necessary to say how frightened she was for him, it was only too plain in her face.
Evan was shown in. He looked cold and unhappy. The maid had taken his hat and outer coat, but his trouser legs were wet at the bottoms, his boots were soaked, and his cheeks glistened with splashes of rain. It had been some time since Hester had last seen him, but they had shared many experiences, both of triumph and of fear and pain, and she had always liked him. There was a gentleness and honesty in him which she admired. And he was sometimes more perceptive than Monk gave him credit for. Now it was discreet to behave as if they were strangers.
Sylvestra introduced them, and Evan made no reference to past acquaintance.
“How is Mr. Duff?” he asked.
“He is very ill,” Sylvestra said quickly. “He has not spoken, if that is what you are hoping. I am afraid I know nothing further.”
“I’m sorry.” His face crumpled a little. It was highly expressive, mirroring his thoughts and feelings more than he wished. He was a trifle thin, with bright hazel eyes and an aquiline nose, rather too long. His words came from sympathy, not annoyance.
“Have you … learned anything?” she asked. She was breathing rather quickly and her hands were held tightly together on her lap, fingers clenched around each other.
“Very little, Mrs. Duff,” he replied. “If anyone saw what happened, they are not willing to say so. It is not an area where the police are liked. People live on the fringes of the law and have too much to hide to come forward voluntarily.”
“I see.” She heard what he said, but it was a world beyond her knowledge or comprehension.
He looked at her high-boned, severe and oddly beautiful face, and did not try to explain, although he must have understood.
Hester guessed the question he wanted to ask and why he found it difficult to frame it without offending. Also it was more than possible she had no idea whatever of the truthful answer. Why would a man of Leighton Duff’s standing go to such an area? To gamble illegally, to borrow money, to sell or pawn his belongings, to buy something stolen or forged, or to meet a prostitute. He could tell his wife none of these things. Even if it were something as comparatively praiseworthy as to help a friend in trouble, he still would not be likely to share it with her. Such difficulties were private, between men, not for the knowledge of women.
Evan decided to be blunt, which did not surprise Hester. It was the nature she knew in him.
“Mrs. Duff, have you any idea why your husband should go to an area like St. Giles … at night?”
“I … I know nothing about St. Giles.” It was an evasion, a gaining of more time to think.
He could not afford to be put off.
“It is an area of extreme poverty and crime both petty and serious,” he explained. “The streets are narrow and dirty and dangerous. The sewage runs down the middle. The doorways are full of drunken and sleeping beggars … sometimes they are even dead, especially this time of the year, when they die of cold and hunger very easily, particularly those who are ill anyway. Tuberculosis is rife …”
Her face twisted with revulsion, and perhaps pity also, but her horror was too great to tell. She did not wish to know such things, for many reasons. It jarred her past happiness; it frightened and revolted her. It threatened the present. The mere knowledge of it contaminated her thoughts.
“More children die under six than survive,” he went on. “Most of them have rickets. Many of the women work in sweatshops and factories, but a great number practice a little prostitution on the side—to make ends meet, to feed their children.”
He had gone too far. It was a picture she could not bear.
“No …” she said huskily. “I can only imagine that he must have been lost.”
He showed a streak of ruthlessness that would have been characteristic of Monk.
“On foot?” He raised his eyebrows. “Did he often walk around parts of London at night where he did not know the way, Mrs. Duff?”
“Of course not!” she responded too quickly.
