AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“But why would Rhys hate such women? He doesn’t even know them.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter who it is. Anyone will do, the weaker, the more vulnerable, the better …”
“Stop it!” Sylvestra took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. It is not your fault. I asked you, and now I do not want to hear the answer.” Her hands were twisting around one another. She had scratched herself with her nails but she seemed unaware of it. “Poor Leighton. He must have suspected there was something terribly wrong for ages, and at last he had to put it to the test. And when he followed him, and he knew …” She could not finish. They stood there in the quiet, dignified room, two women imagining the same terrible scene in the alley, father and son face-to-face over a horror which had to divide them forever. And then the son had attacked, perhaps out of rage, or guilt, perhaps out of some kind of fear that he would be caught by the law, and he imagined he could escape the consequences if he fought his way out. And they had beaten and punched and kicked at each other until Leighton was dead and Rhys was so badly hurt he lost consciousness and lay there on the stones, soaked with his own blood.
And now it was so terrible to him he could not accept that it was he who had done it. It had been another person, another self, one he did not own.
“We must find a barrister for him,” Hester said aloud. “He must have some defense when he comes to trial. Do you have someone you wish?”
“A barrister?” Sylvestra blinked. “Will they really try him? He is too ill. He must be mad, won’t they realize that? Corriden will tell them—”
“He is not too mad to stand trial,” Hester said with absolute certainty. “Whether insanity will be the best defense or not, I cannot say, but you must find a barrister. Do you have someone?”
Sylvestra seemed to find it difficult to concentrate. Her eyes looked without focus. “A barrister? Mr. Caulfield has always dealt with our affairs. Of course, I have never spoken to him. Leighton handled business, naturally.”
“Is he a solicitor?” Hester asked, almost sure of the answer. “You need a barrister for this, someone who will appear in court to represent Rhys. He must be engaged through Mr. Caulfield, but if you do not have any preferences, I am acquainted with Sir Oliver Rathbone. He is the best barrister there is.”
“I … suppose so …” Sylvestra was uncertain. Hester was not sure if it was her shock at the turn of events, or if now she doubted whether she wished to engage an unknown barrister, at unknown expense, to defend Rhys when she feared him guilty. Maybe it was simply too big a decision for her to make alone. She was not used to decision. She had always had her husband to see to such things. He would find and assess the information. His word would be final. She would probably not even be expected to contribute an opinion.
It was up to Hester to see that Rhys was defended. Possibly no one else would.
“I’ll speak to Sir Oliver and ask him to come to see you.” She chose not to make it a question, so Sylvestra could not so easily refuse. She smiled encouragingly. “Will it be reasonable if I go first thing in the morning?”
Sylvestra drew in her breath, but could not make up her mind.
“Thank you,” Hester accepted, her voice gentle, full of an assurance she was far from feeling.
Hester was in Rathbone’s office at nine o’clock. She waited until his first client had been and gone, then she was ushered into his office, the clerk advised that the next client should be handsomely entertained and informed that Sir Oliver was regrettably kept by an emergency, which was at least half true.
She did not waste his time with preamble. She was sufficiently conscious of the fact that he had seen her without an appointment, and she was presuming on his regard for her to ask a favor. She hated doing it, the more so since their last encounter, and her belief as to his feelings towards her. Had Rhys’s life not depended upon it, she would not have come. Sylvestra’s solicitor could have briefed whomever he wished.
“They have arrested Rhys for the murder of his father,” she said bluntly. “They have not removed him, of course, because he is too ill, but they will bring him to trial. His mother is at her wits’ end, and not in a position or a state of mind to find for him the best barrister for his defense.” She stopped, acutely aware of his dark eyes on her and his expression of concern leaping ahead of what she had already told him.
“I think you had better sit down and tell me the facts of the case, so far as you know them.” He indicated the chair opposite his desk and moved around to sit at the one behind it. He did not yet reach for the quill to make notes.
She tried to compose her mind so that she could tell him sensibly, in order so that it was comprehensible, and without over-weighing it with emotion.
“Rhys Duff and his father, Leighton Duff, were found in Water Lane, an alley in the area of St. Giles,” she started to explain. “Leighton Duff was beaten to death. Rhys was severely injured, in a similar manner, but he survived, although he is unable to speak and both his hands are badly broken, so neither can he hold a pen. That is important, because it means he cannot communicate, except by a nod or a shake of his head.”
“That is an added complication,” he agreed gravely. “I have read something of the case. It is impossible to pick up a newspaper and not at least be aware of it. What evidence is there that leads the police to presume that Rhys killed his father, rather than the more natural assumption that both of them were attacked, and possibly robbed, by thieves or general ruffians of the area? Do you know?”
“Yes. Monk has found evidence which ties them to the rape cases in Seven Dials—”
“Just a minute,” he interrupted, holding up his hand. “You said ‘them.’ Who are we talking about? And what rape cases in Seven Dials? Is he charged with rape as well?”
She was not being as clear as she had intended after all. She had seen the fractional change in his face when she had mentioned Monk’s name, and she felt guilty. What had he seen in her eyes?
She must speak intelligently, in an orderly fashion. She started again.
“Monk was engaged by a woman from Seven Dials to discover who had been first cheating, then, with increasing violence, raping and beating factory women, amateur prostitutes in Seven Dials—” She stopped.
He was frowning. Did he disapprove of Monk or of the women, or did he fear it made Rhys’s case even worse?
“What is it?” The words were out before she intended.
“Rape is a very ugly crime,” he said quietly. “But it is one the courts will not pursue … for a dozen different reasons, both social …” H
e wrinkled his nose very slightly in a wealth of distaste, subtle and deep. “And legal impossibilities also,” he added. “Rape is a difficult crime to prove. Why did Monk pursue it? Whatever else he has forgotten, he must be aware of these things.”
