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“Yes, Doctor?”
“Have …” Wade bit his lip. What he was about to say seemed to hurt him intensely. He struggled with it, hovered on the edge of decision, and finally summoned the strength. “Have you considered the possibility that he is not sane … not responsible, as you and I understand the sense?”
So Wade accepted that Rhys was guilty. Was it simply the evidence they had presented? Or did he know something from Rhys himself, some communication, some long knowledge and perception of the boy’s nature over the years?
“No man could do what was done to those women, Doctor, and be what you and I understand as sane,” Evan replied quickly. “Blame is not for us to decide … thank God.”
Wade took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then nodded his acknowledgment and walked past Evan to the withdrawing room door.
10
After Monk and Evan had left, Corriden Wade remained in the withdrawing room, pacing the floor, unable to be still long enough to sit. Sylvestra was motionless, staring into space as if all will and strength within her had died. Hester stood by the fire.
“I’m sorry,” Wade said passionately, looking at Sylvestra. “I’m so sorry. I had no conception this would happen … it is the most ghastly thing.”
Hester stared at him. Had he seen some darkness in Rhys all the time, and feared disaster, but something less than this, less intense, less irretrievable than death? Looking at his face now, cast in deep shadow, his eyes hollow, his cheeks somber with draining emotion and lack of sleep, it would be easy to believe he was seeing the realization of a long-held dread, but something he had been helpless to prevent.
Then another thought occurred to her. Was Corriden Wade the missing link in Evan’s chain of evidence? Was it he, perhaps, who had tried to warn Leighton Duff of his son’s weakness, his propensity for real vice? Had it been something Wade had said which had made Leighton Duff ultimately piece together all the sharp words, looks, little facts here and there, and realize the terrible truth?
With a shiver of horror she realized she had accepted within herself that Rhys was guilty. She had fought against it so long, and then in a moment had surrendered without even being conscious of it.
Wade stopped pacing and stared down at Sylvestra.
“You must rest, my dear. I shall give you a draft to help you sleep. I am sure Miss Latterly will sit up with Rhys should it be necessary, but I doubt it will. You will need your strength.” He turned to Hester. “I am sorry to place so much upon you, but I have no doubt both your courage and your compassion are equal to it.”
It was a profound compliment, and gravely given. It was not a time for thanks, only acceptance.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Tomorrow we shall begin what is to be done.”
He nodded and at last seemed to relax a fraction. Hester believed it prudent to allow him a few moments alone with Sylvestra. His care for her was apparent. Now, of all times, they should be permitted a privacy to reach towards each other through the tragedy which engulfed them.
“I shall go and see how Rhys is now,” she said. “Good night.” She did not wait for a reply, but turned and went out, closing the door behind her.
Rhys did not call her in the night. Whatever Dr. Wade had given him was sufficient to induce in him not rest but unconsciousness. She had no idea how long he had been awake when she heard the bell fall on the floor.
She rose immediately. It was full daylight. She grasped her shawl and opened the connecting door.
Rhys was lying facing her, his eyes wide and terrified.
She went in and sat on the bed.
“Tell me again, Rhys,” she said quietly. “Did you kill your father?”
He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on her.
“Not even by accident?” she pressed. “Did you fight with him, not realizing who he was, in the dark?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. His expression was filled with horror, his lips drawn back, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck corded with tension inside him.
“Could you see in the alley?” she pressed, the evidence heavy in her mind. “If someone accosted you, attacked you, are you sure you would know who it was?”
He gave a curious little jerk. If he had had the ability to make a sound, it might have been laughter, but bitter, self-hurting. There was some dreadful irony in what he knew, and he could not tell her, even if he would have.
“Could you see?” she asked again.
He stared at her without moving.
There were so many questions. She thought desperately which would be the right one.
