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He hesitated. Was she referring to the use of prostitutes, or something else as well? There was a shadow in her eyes, a darkness in her voice. She had looked at the world clearly and seen much unpleasantness. He was quite sure she had known pain and accepted it as inevitable, her own no less than that of others. Could it be to do with her son Duke? Might he have a great deal to do with the younger, more impressionable, Rhys’s behavior? Duke was the kind of youth others wanted to impress—and to emulate.
“But nevertheless, you guess?” he said quietly.
“That is not the same, Mr. Evan. What you only guess you can always deny to yourself. The element of uncertainty is enough. But before you
ask: no, I do not know what happened to Rhys or to his father. I can only assume Rhys fell in with bad company, and poor Leighton was so concerned for him that in this instance he followed him, perhaps in an attempt to persuade Rhys to leave, and in the ensuing fight, Leighton was killed and Rhys injured. It is tragic. With a little more consideration, less pride and stubbornness, it need not have happened.”
“Is this guess based on your knowledge of the character of Mr. Duff?”
She was still standing, perhaps also too cold to sit.
“Yes.”
“You knew him quite well?”
“Yes, I did. I have known Mrs. Duff for years. Mr. Duff and my husband were close friends. My husband is profoundly grieved at his death. It has made him quite unwell. He took a severe chill, and I am sure the distress has hindered his recovery.”
“I’m sorry,” Evan said automatically. “Tell me something about Mr. Duff. It may help me to learn the truth.”
She had an ability to stand in one place without looking awkward or moving her hands unnecessarily. She was a woman of peculiar grace.
“He was a very sober man, of deep intelligence,” she answered thoughtfully. “He took his responsibilities to heart. He knew a large number of people depended upon his skills and his hard work.” She made a small gesture of her hands. “Not merely his family, of course, but also all those whose futures lay in the prosperity of his company. And you will understand, he dealt with valuable properties and large amounts of money almost daily.” A flicker crossed her face; her eyes lightened as if a new thought had occurred to her. “I think that is one of the reasons Joel, my husband, found him so easy to speak with. They both understood the burden of responsibility for others, of being trusted without question. It is an extraordinary thing, Mr. Evan, to have people place their confidence in you, not only in your skills but in your honor, and take it for granted that you will do for them all that they require.”
“Yes …” he said slowly, thinking that he too was on occasion treated with that kind of blind faith. It was a remarkable compliment, but it was also a burden when one realized the possibilities of failure.
She was still lost in her thoughts. “My husband is the final judge in so many issues,” she went on, not looking at Evan but at some inner memories of her own. “The decisions upon a boy’s academic education—and, perhaps even more, his moral education—can affect the rest of his life. In fact, I suppose when you speak of the boys who will one day lead our nation, the politicians, inventors, writers, and artists of the future, then it may affect us all. No wonder these decisions have to be made with care, and with much searching of conscience, and with absolute selflessness. There can be no evasions into simplicity. The cost of error may never be recovered.”
“Did he have a sense of humor?” The words were out before Evan realized how inappropriate they were.
“I beg your pardon?”
It was too late to withdraw. “Did Mr. Duff have a sense of humor?” He felt the blush creep up his face.
“No …” She stared back at him in what seemed like a moment’s complete understanding, too fragile for words. Then it was gone. “Not that I saw. But he loved music. He played the pianoforte very well, you know? He liked good music, especially Beethoven and occasionally Bach.”
Evan was forming no picture of him, certainly nothing to explain what he had been doing in St. Giles, except following a wayward and disappointing son whose taste in pleasures he did not understand, and perhaps whose appetites frightened him, knowing the danger to which they could lead—disease being not the least of them. Evan would not ask this woman the questions whose answers he needed, but he would ask Joel Kynaston: he must.
It was another half hour of largely meaningless but pleasant conversation before the butler came back to say that Mr. Kynaston had returned and would see Evan in his study. Evan thanked Fidelis and followed where he was directed.
The study was obviously a room for use. The fire blazed in a large hearth, glinting on wrought brass shovel and tongs and gleaming on the fender. Evan was shivering with cold, and the warmth enveloped him like a welcome blanket. The walls were decorated with glass-fronted bookcases and pictures of country domestic scenes. The oak desk was massive and there were three piles of books and papers on it.
Joel Kynaston sat behind the desk looking at Evan curiously. It was impossible to tell his height, but he gave the impression of being slight. His face was keen, nose a trifle pinched, mouth highly individual. It was not a countenance one would forget, nor easily overlook. His intelligence was inescapable, as was his consciousness of authority.
“Come in, Mr. Evan,” he said with a slight nod. He did not rise, immediately establishing their relative status. “How may I be of service to you? If I had known anything about poor Leighton Duff’s death I should already have told you, naturally. Although I have been ill with a fever and spent the last few days in my bed. However, today I am better, and I cannot lie at home any longer.”
“I’m sorry for your illness, sir,” Evan responded.
“Thank you.” Kynaston waved to the chair opposite. “Do sit down. Now, tell me what you think I can do to be of assistance.”
Evan accepted, finding the chair less comfortable than it looked, although he would have sat on boards to stay near the warmth. He was obliged to sit upright rather than relax.
“I believe you have known Rhys Duff since he was a boy, sir,” he began, making a statement rather than a question.
Kynaston frowned very slightly, drawing his brows together. “Yes?”
“Does it surprise you that he should be in an area like St. Giles?”
Kynaston drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No. I regret to say that it does not. He was always wayward, and lately his choice of company caused his father some concern.”
