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Hester went out silently.
“I doubt it,” Sylvestra said almost before Evan had finished speaking, then seemed to regret her haste, not as having said something untrue but as being tactically mistaken. “I mean … at least I don’t think so. If they did, surely they would have come forward by now. Arthur Kynaston was here yesterday. If he or his brother had known anything at all, they would surely have told us.”
“If they realize the relevance,” Evan said persuasively, as if he had not thought she was being evasive. “Where may I find them?”
“Oh … the Kynastons live in Lowndes Square, number seventeen.”
“Thank you. I daresay they can tell me of any other friends whose company they kept from time to time.” He made his tone casual. “Who would know your husband in his leisure hours, Mrs. Duff? I mean, who else might frequent the same clubs or have the same hobbies or interests?”
She said nothing, staring at him with wide, black eyes. He tried to read in them what she was thinking, and failed completely. She was different from any woman he had seen before. There was a composure to her, a mystery, which filled his mind even when he had thought he was concentrating on something else, some utterly different aspect of the case. He would never understand her until he knew a great deal more about Leighton Duff, what manner of man he had been: brave or cowardly, kind or cruel, honest or deceitful, loving or cold. Had he had wit, charm, gentleness, imagination? Had she loved him, or had it been a marriage of convenience, workable but without passion? Had there even been friendship in it, or trust?
“Mrs. Duff?”
“I suppose Dr. Wade, and Mr. Kynaston principally,” she replied. “There are many others, of course. I think he had interests in common with Mr. Milton, in his law partnership, and Mr. Hodge. He spoke of a James Wellingham once or twice, and he wrote to a Mr. Phillips quite regularly.”
“I’ll speak with them. Perhaps I may see the letters?” He had no idea what possible use they could be, but he must try everything.
“Of course.” She seemed perfectly at ease with the idea. If she had a lover, he did not lie in that direction. He could not help thinking again of Corriden Wade.
He spent a profitless morning reading agreeable but essentially tedious correspondence from Mr. Phillips, largely on the subject of archery. He left and went to the law office of Cullingford, Duff and Partners, where he learned that Leighton Duff had been a brilliant man in his chosen career and the driving force behind the success of the concern. His rise from junior to effective leader had been almost without hindrance. Everyone spoke well of his ability and was concerned for the continued preeminence of the company in its field now that he was no longer with them.
If there was envy or personal malice Evan did not see it. Perhaps he was too easily persuaded. Possibly he lacked Monk’s sharper, harder mind, but he saw in the replies of Leighton Duff’s associates nothing more sinister than respect for a colleague, a decent observance for the etiquette of speaking no ill of the dead, and a lively fear for their own future prosperity. Apparently they had not been socially acquainted, and none of them claimed to know the widow. Evan could catch them in no evasion, let alone untruth.
He left feeling he had wasted his time. All he had learned had confirmed his earlier picture of Leighton Duff as a clever, hardworking and eminently, almost boringly, decent man. The side of his character which took him to St. Giles, for whatever reason, was perfectly hidden from his partners in the law. If they suspected anything, they did not allow Evan to see it.
But then if a gentleman took occasional release for his natural carnal appetites, it was certainly not a matter to be displayed before the vulgar and the inquisitive, and Evan knew that in their minds the police would fall into both those categories.
It was after four o’clock and already dusk, with the lamplighters hurrying to the last few before it was too late, when Evan arrived at the home of Joel Kynaston, friend of Leighton Duff and headmaster of the excellent school at which Rhys had obtained his education. He did not live on the school premises but in a fine Georgian house about a quarter of a mile away.
The door was opened by a rather short butler, straightening to stand up to every fraction of his height.
“Yes sir?” He must be used to parents of pupils turning up at unexpected hours. He showed no surprise at all, except perhaps at Evan’s comparative youth as he stepped into the light.
“Good afternoon. My name is John Evan. I would very much appreciate speaking confidentially with Mr. Kynaston. It is in regard to the recent tragic death of Mr. Leighton Duff.” He did not give his rank or occupation.
“Indeed, sir,” the butler said without expression. “I shall enquire if Mr. Kynaston is at home. If you will be so good as to wait.”
It was the customary polite fiction. Kynaston would have expected someone to call. It was surely inevitable. He would be prepared in his mind. If he had anything relevant he was willing to say, he would have sought out Evan himself.
Evan looked around the hallway where he had been left. It was elegant, a trifle cold in its lack of personal touches. The umbrella stand held only sticks and umbrellas of one character, one length. Such ornaments as there were, were all of finely wrought brass, possibly Arabic, beautiful but lacking the variety of objects collected by a family over a period of years. Even the pictures on the walls spoke of one taste. Either Kynaston and his wife were remarkably alike in their choices or one person’s character prevailed over the other’s.
But the man who came out of the double oak doors of the withdrawing room was not more than twenty-two or -three. He was handsome, if a little undershot of jaw, with fair hair which curled attractively and bold, direct blue eyes.
“I’m Duke Kynaston, Mr. Evan,” he said coolly, stopping in the middle of the polished floor. “My father is not at home yet. I am not sure when he will be. Naturally we wish to be of any assistance to the police that we can, but I fear there is nothing we know about the matter. Would you not be better pursuing your enquiries in St. Giles? That is where it happened, is it not?”
“Yes it
is,” Evan replied, trying to sum up the young man, make a judgment as to his nature. He wondered how close he had been to Rhys Duff. There was an arrogance in his face, a hint of self-indulgence about the mouth, which made it easy to imagine that if Rhys had indeed gone whoring in St. Giles, Duke Kynaston might well have been his companion. Had he been there that night? At the dark edges of Evan’s mind, something he did not even want to allow into his conscious thought, was the knowledge of Monk’s case, the rapes of poverty-stricken women, amateur prostitutes. But that had been in Seven Dials, beyond Aldwich. Was it just conceivable that Rhys and his companions had been responsible for that, and had this time met their match, a woman who had a brother or a husband who was not as drunk as they had supposed? Possibly even a vigilante group of their own? That would explain the violence of the reprisal. And Leighton Duff had feared as much and had followed his son, and he had been the one who had paid the ultimate price, dying to save his son’s life?
Little wonder Rhys had nightmares and could not speak. It would be a memory no man could live with.
Evan looked at the young Duke Kynaston’s rather supercilious face, with the consciousness of youth, strength, and money so plain in it. But there were no bruises, even healed ones fading, no cuts or scratches except one faint scar on his cheek. It would have been no more than a nick of the razor such as any young man might make.
“So what is it you imagine we can tell you?” Duke said a little impatiently.
“St. Giles is a large area—” Evan began.
“Not very,” Duke contradicted. “Square mile or so.”
