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“But, Sylvestra, my dear—”
“I am not a child, Corriden, to be protected from the truth. This will happen, whatever I choose to ignore or pretend. Please give me the dignity of bearing it with some courage, not running away.”
Wade hesitated, his face dark.
“Of course,” Rathbone said with admiration. “Whatever the outcome, you will have peace of mind only if you know that you failed in nothing that could conceivably have been of help.”
Sylvestra looked at him, a moment’s gratitude in her eyes.
“So the charge will be murder, Sir Oliver?”
“Yes. I am afraid there is no possible defense of a charge of accident.”
“And it is not imaginable that Leighton attacked Rhys or that Rhys in any way was defending himself,” Wade continued gravely. “Leighton may have been appalled by Rhys’s behavior, but the most he would have done would be raise his hand. He may have struck Rhys, but many a father chastises his son. It does not end in murder. I know of no son who would strike back.”
“Then what defense can there be?” Sylvestra said desperately. For a moment her eyes flashed to Hester, then back to the men. “What else is left? Who else is there? Not Arthur or Duke, surely?”
“I am afraid not, my dear,” Wade said, dropping his voice. “Had they been involved they would be injured also, very profoundly so. And you and I both know that they were not. Unless the police can find two or three ruffians in St. Giles, there was no one. And if they could have done that, they would not have come here to accuse Rhys.” He took a deep breath. “I am truly grieved to say this, but I think the only defense that is believable is that the balance of Rhys’s mind has been affected, and simply he is not sane. That, surely, will be the path you will follow, Sir Oliver? I know of excellent people who may be prevailed upon to examine Rhys and give their opinions—in court, of course.”
“Insanity is not easy to prove,” Rathbone answered. “Rhys appears very rational when one speaks to him. He is obviously a young man of intelligence and conscience.”
“Good God, man!” Wade said with an explosion of emotion. “He beat his father to death, and very nearly at the cost of his own life. How can any sane person do that? They must have fought like animals. He must have been frenzied to … to do such a thing. I saw Leighton’s body—” He stopped as abruptly as he had begun, his face white, eyes hollow. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’m sorry, Sylvestra. I should never have said that. You did not need to know … to hear it like that. I’m so sorry! Leighton was my best friend … a man I admired enormously, with whom I shared experiences I have with no one else. That it should end like this is … devastating.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “You have no need to apologize, Corriden. I understand your anger and your grief.” She looked at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, I think Dr. Wade could be right. I should be obliged if you would make every effort you can to find evidence, testimony, which will substantiate Rhys’s imbalance of mind. Perhaps there were signs beforehand, but we did not understand them. Please call upon the best medical men. I am informed that I have funds to meet any such expenses. It …” She laughed jerkily, painfully. “It seems preposterous that I am using the money Leighton left for us to defend the son who
killed him. If that is not insane, I wonder what is? And yet I have to. Please, Sir Oliver …”
“I will do all I can,” Rathbone promised. “But I cannot go beyond what is provably true. Now, I am sure you wish to see your patient, Dr. Wade, and I would like to take my leave and consider my next step forward.”
“Of course,” Wade agreed quickly. He turned to Hester. “And you, Miss Latterly. You have been of extraordinary strength and courage in the whole affair. You have worked unceasingly for Rhys’s welfare. No one could have done more—in fact, I doubt anyone else would have done as much. I will stay with Rhys tonight. Please allow yourself a little time to rest, and perhaps spend it doing something to enjoy yourself. Mrs. Duff and I can manage here, I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Hester accepted hesitantly. She felt a trifle uncertain about leaving Rhys. Sylvestra was obviously more comforted by Wade than anything Hester could do for her. And Hester would dearly like to go with Rathbone to persuade Monk to accept the case. She had every confidence in Rathbone’s powers of argument, but still she wished to be there. There might be something, a thought, an emotional persuasion she could try. “Thank you very much. That is most thoughtful of you.” She looked at Sylvestra, just to make sure she agreed.
“Please …” Sylvestra added.
There needed no more to be said. Hester bade them goodnight and turned to leave with Rathbone.
* * *
“What?” Monk said incredulously as he stood in the middle of his room facing Hester and Rathbone. It was very late, the fire was almost dead, and it was pouring rain outside. Rathbone and Hester’s coats were both dripping onto the carpet even though they had come directly from Ebury Street in a hansom.
“Investigate the case to see if there is any evidence whatsoever to mitigate what Rhys Duff has done,” Rathbone repeated.
“Why, for God’s sake?” Monk demanded, looking at Rathbone and avoiding Hester’s eyes. “Isn’t it plain enough what happened?”
“No, it isn’t,” Rathbone said patiently. “I have undertaken to defend him, and I cannot begin to do that until I know every whit of truth that I can—”
“You can’t anyway,” Monk said. “It is as indefensible as a human act can be. The only possible thing you can say to procure anything except the rope for him is that he is insane. Which may be true.”
“It is not true,” Rathbone replied, keeping calm with some difficulty. Hester could see it in the muscles of his jaw and the way he stood. His voice was very soft. “In any legal sense, he is perfectly rational and not apparently suffering any delusions. If you refuse to take the case on the grounds that it horrifies and appalls you, then say so. I shall be obliged to accept that.” He also did not look at Hester. There was anger in him, almost as if he would provoke the very answer he did not want.
Monk heard the sharpness. He swiveled to look at Hester.
“I suppose you put him up to this?”
“I asked him to defend Rhys,” she replied.
Rathbone’s acceptance, and Monk’s refusal, hung in the air like a sword between them.
