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And how much of what Sylvestra said was the truth? Were her grief and confusion for her son, and not for her husband at all? Evan must learn very much more of her life, her friends, especially those who were men, and who might possibly now court a fascinating and quite comfortably situated widow. Dr. Wade was the first and most apparent place to begin.
It was a thought which repelled him, and he shivered as he crossed Buckingham Palace Road, running the last few steps to get out of the way of a carriage turning from the mews off Stafford Place. It went past him at a smart clip, harness jingling, horses' hooves loud on the stones, their breath steaming in the icy air.
The other questions which lay unresolved at the back of his mind concerned his relationship with Runcorn. There were many occasions when he saw a side of him he almost liked, at least a side he could understand and feel for. Runcorn’s aspirations to better himself were such as any man might have, most particularly one from a very ordinary background, a good-looking man whose education was unremarkable, but where intelligence and ability were greater than his opportunities would allow. He had chosen the police as a career where avenues were open for him to exercise his natural gifts, and he had done so with great success. He was not a gentleman born, nor had he the daring and the confidence to bluff his way, as Monk had. He lacked the grace, the quick-wittedness, or the model from whom to learn. Evan thought that very possibly he had received little encouragement from whatever family he possessed. They might see him as being ashamed of his roots, and resent him accordingly.
And he had never married. There must be a story to that. Evan wondered if it were financial. Many men felt they could not afford a home fit for a wife and the almost certain family which would follow. Or had it been emotional, a woman who had refused him, or perhaps who had died young, and he had not loved again? Probably Evan would never know, but the possibilities lent a greater humanity to a man whose temper and whose weakness he saw, as well as his competence and his strengths.
He stood on the curb waiting for the traffic to ease so he could cross the corner at Grosvenor Street. A newspaper seller was calling out headlines about the controversial book published last year by Charles Darwin. A leading bishop had expressed horror and condemnation. Liberal and progressive thinkers disagreed with him and labeled him reactionary and diehard. The murder in St. Giles was forgotten. There was a brazier on the corner and a man selling roasted chestnuts and warming his hands at the fire.
There was congestion at the junction of Eccleston Street and Belgrave Road. Two draymen were in a heated discussion. Evan could hear their raised voices from where he stood. The traffic all ground to a halt, and he went across the street, dodging fresh horse droppings, pungent in the cold air. He was a short block from Ebury Street.
The worst of Runcorn, the times he descended into spite, were when Monk’s name—or, by implication, his achievements—were mentioned. There was a shadow between them far deeper than the few clashes Evan had witnessed or the final quarrel when Monk had left, simultaneously with Runcorn’s dismissing him.
Monk no longer understood it. It was gone with all the rest of his past, returning only in glimpses and unconnected fragments, leaving him to guess, and fear the rest. Evan would almost certainly never know, but it was there in his mind when he saw the weakness and the vulnerability in Runcorn.
He reached Ebury Street and knocked on the door of number thirty-four. He was met by the maid, Janet, who sm
iled at him a slight uncertainly, as if she liked him but knew his errand only too painfully. She showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while she discovered if Mrs. Duff would see him.
However, when the door opened it was Hester who came in quickly, closing it behind her. She was wearing blue, her hair was dressed a little less severely than usual, and she looked flushed, but with vitality rather than fever or any embarrassment. He had always liked her, but now he thought perhaps she was also prettier than he had realized before, softer, more openly feminine. That was another thing he wondered about, why Monk quarreled with her so much. He would be the last man on earth to admit it, but perhaps that was exactly why he could not afford, he did not dare, to see her as she really was.
“Good morning, Hester,” he said informally, echoing his thoughts rather than his usual manners.
“Good morning, John,” she answered with a smile, a touch of amusement in it as well as friendship.
“How is Mr. Duff?”
The laughter vanished from her eyes, and even the light in her face seemed to fade.
“He is very poorly still. He has the most dreadful nightmares. He had another again last night. I don’t even know how to help him.”
“There is no question he saw what happened to his father,” he said regretfully. “If only he could tell us.”
“He can’t,” she said instantly.
“I know he can’t speak, but—”
“No! You can’t ask him,” she interrupted. “In fact, it would be better if you did not even see him. Really—I am not being obstructive. I would like to know who murdered Leighton Duff, and also did this to Rhys, as much as you would. But his recovery has to be my chief concern.” She looked at him earnestly. “It has to be, John, regardless of anything else. I could not conceal a crime, or knowingly tell you anything that was not true, but I cannot allow you to cause him the distress—and the real damage it may do—if you try in any way at all to bring back to his mind what he saw and felt. And if you had witnessed his nightmares as I have, you would not argue with me.” Her eyes were dark with her own distress, her face pinched with it, and he knew her well enough to read in her expression far more than she said.
“And Dr. Wade has forbidden it,” she added. “He has seen his injuries and knows the damage further hysteria on his part might cause. His wounds could be torn open so easily were he to wrench his body around or move suddenly or violently.”
“I understand,” he conceded, trying not to imagine too vividly the horror and the pain, and finding it hideously real. “I came principally to report to Mrs. Duff.”
Her eyes widened. “Have you found something?” She remained curiously still, and for a moment he thought she was afraid of the answer.
“No.” That was not totally true. She had not asked him openly, but had he been honest to the question which was understood between them, he would have said he had new suspicions about Sylvestra. He had returned not because of a discovery but a realization. “I wish there were new facts,” he went on. “It’s only a matter of trying better to understand the old ones.”
“I can’t help you,” she said quietly. “I’m not even sure whether I want you to find the truth. I have no idea what it is, except that Rhys cannot bear it.”
He smiled at her, and all the memory of past tragedies and horrors they had known was there with its emotion, for an instant shared.
Then the door opened and Sylvestra came in. She looked at Hester with dark eyebrows lifted in question.
“Miss Latterly says that Mr. Duff is not well enough to be spoken to,” Evan explained. “I am sorry. I had hoped he was better for his own sake, as well as for the truth.”
“No … he’s not,” Sylvestra said quickly, relief filling her face, and a softening of gratitude towards Hester. “I’m afraid he still cannot help.”
“Perhaps you can, Mrs. Duff.” Evan was not going to allow her to close him out. “Since I cannot speak with Mr. Duff, I shall have to speak with his friends. Some of them may know something which can tell us why he went to St. Giles and whom he knew there.”
