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Rhys opened his mouth again, and again no sound came.
Riley waited.
Rhys’s eyes were filled with terrible memory; fear and pain held him transfixed. Momentarily his head moved from side to side in denial. He could not speak.
Riley turned to Evan. “I’m sorry, you’ll get nothing from him yet. He may be well enough to answer yes and no tomorrow, but he may not. At the moment he’s too shocked for you to bother him at all. For certain, he can’t talk to you or describe anyone. And it will be weeks before he can hold a pen—if his hands mend well enough ever.”
Evan hesitated. He needed desperately to know what had happened, but he was torn with pity for this unbearably injured boy. He wished he had his father’s faith to help him understand how such things could happen. Why was there not some justice to prevent it? He did not have a blind belief to soothe either his anger or his pity.
Nor did he have Hester’s capacity to provide the practical help which would have eased the aching helplessness inside him.
Perhaps the nearest he could strive for was Monk’s dedication to pursuing truth.
“Do you know who did this to you, Mr. Duff?” he asked, speaking over Riley.
Rhys shut his eyes and again shook his head. If he had any memory, he was choosing to close it out as too monstrous to bear.
“I think you should leave now, Sergeant,” Riley said with an edge to his voice. “He can’t tell you anything.”
Evan acknowledged the truth of it, and with one last look at the ashen face of the young man lying in the bed, he turned and went about the only duty he dreaded more.
Ebury Street was quiet and elegant in the cold morning air. There was a slick of ice on the pavements and housemaids were indisposed to linger in gossip. The two or three people Evan saw all kept moving, whisking dusters and mopheads out of windows and in again as quickly as possible. An errand boy scampered up steps and rang a bell with fingers clumsy with cold.
Evan found number thirty-four and, unconsciously copying Monk, he went to the front door. Anyway, news such as he had should not go through the kitchens first.
The bell was answered by a parlormaid in a smart uniform. Her starched linen and lace immediately proclaimed a household of better financial standing than the clothes worn by the dead man suggested.
“Yes sir?”
“Good morning. I am Police Sergeant Evan. Does a Mr. Leighton Duff live here?”
“Yes sir, but he isn’t home at the moment.” She said it with some anxiety. It was not a piece of information she would normally have offered to a caller, even though she knew it to be true. She looked at his face, and perhaps read the weariness and sadness in it. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“No, I’m afraid it isn’t. Is there a Mrs. Duff?”
Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm, but she did not scream.
“You had better warn her lady’s maid and perhaps the butler. I am afraid I have very bad news.”
Silently she opened the door wider and let him in.
A butler with thin, graying hair came from the back of the hallway, frowning.
“Who is the gentleman, Janet?” He turned to Evan. “Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance to you? I am afraid Mr. Duff is not at home at present, and Mrs. Duff is not receiving.” He was less sensitive to Evan’s expression than the maid had been.
“I am from the police,” Evan repeated. “I have extremely bad news to tell Mrs. Duff. I’m very sorry. Perhaps you should remain in case she needs some assistance. Possibly you might send a messenger for your family doctor.”
“What … what has happened?” Now the butler looked thoroughly horrified.
“I am afraid that Mr. Leighton Duff and Mr. Rhys Duff have met with violence. Mr. Rhys is in St. Thomas’s Hospital in a very serious condition.”
The butler gulped. “And … and Mr.… Mr. Leighton Duff?”
“I am afraid he is dead.”
“Oh dear … I …” He swayed a little where he stood in the magnificent hallway with its carved staircase, aspidistras in stone urns and brass umbrella stand with silver-topped canes in it.
“You’d better sit down a minute, Mr. Wharmby,” Janet said with sympathy.
