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“You told me he knew,” he said as soon as they were a dozen yards away.
Shotts did not look at him. “Must ’a bin someone else,” he replied dismissively.
“Don’t you write down who tells you what?” Evan pressed. “It makes a lot of difference. Did you ever speak to him before on this case?”
Shotts turned into the wind and his answer was half lost.
“ ’Course I did. Said so, didn’t I?”
Evan let the matter rest, but he knew he had been lied to, and it troubled him. His instinct was to like Shotts and to respect his abilities. There was something he did not know. The question was, was it something important?
He saw Monk that evening. Monk had left a note for him at the police station, and he was happy to spend an hour or two over a good meal in a public house and indulge in a little conversation.
Monk was in a dour mood. His case was going badly, but he had considerable sympathy for Evan.
“You think it could be the widow?” he asked, his eyes level and curious. The slight smile on his lips expressed his understanding of Evan’s reluctance to accept such a thing. He knew Evan too well, and his affection for him did not prevent his amusement and slight derision at his friend’s optimism in human nature.
“I think it was probably just what it looked like,” Evan replied gloomily. “Rhys was a young man who had been indulged by his mother and whose father had great expectations of him which he possibly could not live up to—and did not want to. He indulged a selfish and possibly cruel streak in his character. His father went after him to try to stop him, perhaps to warn of the dangers, and somehow they became involved in a fight with others. The father died. The son was severely injured physically, and so horrified by what he saw that now he cannot even speak.”
Monk cut into the thick, light suet crust of his steak-and-kidney pudding.
“The question is,” he said with his mouth full, “were they both attacked by the denizens of St. Giles, or did Rhys kill his own father in a quarrel?”
“Or did Sylvestra Duff have a lover, and did he either do it himself or have someone else do it?” Evan asked.
“Who is he? Samson?” Monk raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
“He took on two men at once, killed one and left the other senseless, and walked away from the scene himself,” Monk pointed out.
“Then there was more than one,” Evan argued. “He hired somebody, two people, and it was coincidence Rhys was there. He was following Leighton Duff, and happened to come on him when he had found Rhys.”
“Or else Rhys was in it with his mother.” Monk swallowed and took a mouthful of his stout. “Have you any way of looking into that?” He ignored Evan’s expression of distaste.
“Hester’s there. She’s nursing Rhys,” Evan replied. He saw the emotion cross Monk’s face, the momentary flicker, the light and then the shadow. He knew something of what Monk felt for her, even though he did not understand the reasons for its complexity. He had seen the trust between them. Hester had fought for Monk when no one else would. She had also quarreled with Monk when, at least to Evan, it made no sense at all. But he knew the dark areas of Monk’s heart prevented him from committing himself as Evan would have. Half memories and fears of what he did not know made it impossible for him. What Evan did not know was whether it was fear for Hester and the hurt he might cause her in that part of himself which lay secret, or simply fear for himself and his own vulnerability if he allowed her to know him so well, to become even more important to him, and to understand it himself.
Nothing in Monk’s behavior let him know. He thought perhaps Hester did not know either.
Monk was halfway through his meal.
“She won’t tell you,” he said, looking at his plate.
“I know that,” Evan replied. “I’m not placing her in the position of asking.”
Monk looked up at him quickly, then down again.
“Made any advance in your case?” Evan asked.
Monk’s expression darkened, the skin on his face tight with the anger inside him.
“Two or three men came into Seven Dials quite regularly, usually a Tuesday or Thursday, about ten in the evening up until two or three in the morning. As far as I can tell they were not drunk, nor did they go into any public houses or brothels. No one seems to have seen their faces clearly. One was of above average height, the other two ordinary, one a little heavier than the other. I’ve found cabbies who have taken them back to Portman Square, Eaton Square …”
“They’re miles apart!” Evan exclaimed. “Well, a good distance.”
“I know,” Monk said. “They’ve also been taken to Cardigan Place, Belgrave Square and Wimpole Street. I am perfectly aware that they may live in three different areas, or more likely very simply have changed cabs. I don’t need you to tell me the obvious. What I need is
for the police to care that over a dozen women have been beaten, some of them badly injured, and could have been dead, for all these animals cared. What I need is a little sense of outrage for the poor as well as the inhabitants of Ebury Street, a little blind justice, instead of justice that looks so damned carefully at the size and shape of your pockets and the cut of your coat before it decides whether to bother with you or not.”
