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Had Monk, with his greater inner strength, his natural courage, intentionally or not, robbed Runcorn of that? Monk feared he had blocked Runcorn’s professional success, stood in his path, taken credit for some victory that rightly belonged to him. The inner loss was the one Evan feared, the confidence, the hope, the courage to put fate to the test and abide the consequences, that was what nestled cold in Evan’s mind. Could one man really rob another of that? Or merely fail to help?
Monk could not bear the silence.
“Did he … want to? I mean, was there someone, do you know?”
Evan recalled a fragment of conversation overheard, a name.
“Yes, I think so. But it was several years ago, fifteen or sixteen or more. Her name was Ellen, I think.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
The cab swung around into Oxford Circus, jolting and lurching as the dense traffic caused it to change course. In a few moments they would be there. After that it would be on foot, all alleys and yards, steps up and down, icy rooms while Monk retraced his questions and Evan made notes for evidence. There was no more time for conversation.
Monk drew in his breath and let out a sigh.
The next afternoon Evan had all he needed. As Monk had told him, it was inescapable. He sent up a message that he wished to see Runcorn, and at five minutes to three he knocked on the office door.
“Come in,” Runcorn called from inside.
Evan opened the door, went into the warmth that filled the room from the fire, but the chill that he carried with him did not ease.
“Yes?” Runcorn looked up from the papers he had been reading. “This news had better be definite. I don’t want any more feelings. Sometimes you are too soft for your own good, Evan. If you want to be a preacher you should have stayed at home.”
“If I had wanted to be a minister, sir, I would have,” Evan replied, meeting Runcorn’s eyes boldly. He recognized in himself the same shortness of temper he saw in Monk, the same desire to win, the temptation to fight for the sake of it. Runcorn brought out the least admirable traits in him, as he did in Monk.
“Come to the point.” Runcorn pursed his lips. “What do you have? I assume we are talking about the murder of Leighton Duff? You are not off on some crusade for Monk?” His eyes were hard, as if part of him actually wanted to catch Evan in the trespass. He wanted to like Evan. Instinctively, he did. And yet Evan’s closeness to Monk so often soured it.
“Yes sir.” Evan stood to attention, or as nearly as possible for a man of his natural ease. “I have witnesses to Rhys Duff and his two friends using prostitutes in St. Giles. His picture had been recognized by one of the women. I have her statement. She also names him. Rhys is not a common Christian name, sir.”
Runcorn leaned forward, the other papers pushed aside.
“Goon …”
“I also have testimony from the last victim of rape, sir, on the night of the murder. She describes three men who answer the physical characteristics of Rhys Duff and his two friends, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston.”
Runcorn let out his breath slowly and sat back, linking his fingers across his stomach.
“Any proof that the Kynaston brothers were involved in the murder? I mean proof, not reasonable supposition. We have to be absolute.”
“I know that, sir. And no, no proof. If we can convict Rhys Duff, then the others may follow.” It infuriated him to have to allow their freedom until then. Whoever had actually killed Leighton Duff, the other two were guilty of the string of crimes which had precipitated it. If they had run away at the final moment, it was an act of cowardice, not compassion or honor. Decency of any kind at all would have intervened and prevented the ultimate tragedy.
“Can you place them there?” Runcorn questioned sharply.
“I can place them whoring in St. Giles with Rhys, but not that night, not by name. He was with two other men who answer their descriptions. That is all … so far. The worst thing is that they neither of them seem to be hurt, which would indicate they were not involved in the last fight with Leighton Duff.”
“Well, we’re not charging them with rape,” Runcorn said decisively. “That is not a possibility, so dismiss it. What we have is evidence that three young men, of whom Rhys Duff was one, have been beating and raping women in St. Giles—specifically, on the night on which Leighton Duff was murdered.” Outside in the passage someone’s footsteps stopped and then went on. Runcorn did not seem to hear them. “Did Rhys and his father go separately or together, do you know?” he asked.
“Separately, sir. We have cabdrivers’ testimony to that.”
“Good. So apparently on this occasion Leighton Duff followed his son. Presumably he had cause to suspect what his son was doing. It would be excellent if you could know what that was. The wife may know, but I imagine it will take some skill to elicit it from her.” His face did not betray the imagination to conceive of her suffering. Evan hardly dared think of what such knowledge would do to her. He hoped profoundly that she did have some relationship of tenderness with Dr. Wade. She would surely need all his support now.
“But you had better try,” Runcorn went on. “Be very careful how you question her, Evan. She will be a vital witness when it comes to trial. You will search the house, of course. You may find clothes with bloodstains from his earlier attacks. You must establish that he was out on every occasion you intend to specify. Don’t get caught on details! I imagine if he does not confess to it, and there is a major case, then his mother will employ the best Queen’s Counsel she can find in his defense.” He compressed his lips. “Although why anyone would wish to take on such a battle, I don’t know. If you do your job properly, he cannot win.”
Evan said nothing. As far as he was concerned, nobody won.
“What finally led you to it?” Runcorn asked curiously. “Was it just persistence? The right question, eventually?”
