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“I argued it with him,” she said with a very slight smile. “It is not what you fear.” She hoped as she was saying it that it was the truth, not merely her wish. “He intended only to expose them to their own society, not to provoke the people of St. Giles to take their revenge.”
Rathbone’s lips curled in a faint, ironic humor. “That sounds like Monk. A nice irony, using society’s hypocrisy to make it punish its own for the very crime it pretends does not exist and will not strengthen the law to judge.” He kept his eyes on her face. “But what has this to do with Rhys Duff and the death of his father?”
“For some time Rhys had been keeping company with women of whom his father did not approve, and to the exclusion of suitable young ladies,” she explained. “At least that is what his mother believed.” She was twisting her hands in her lap without realizing it. “Perhaps, in fact, he had some idea of what Rhys was really doing. Anyway, on that particular evening they quarreled, Rhys left the room, and apparently the house. Leighton Duff left about half an hour afterwards, when he realized that Rhys had gone, and perhaps suspected to where.” She looked at him to make sure he was following her explanation.
“Proceed,” he directed. “It is all perfectly clear so far.”
“One woman was raped and beaten in St. Giles that night,” she went on. “Within a few yards of Water Lane. A short time after that, the bodies of Rhys and his father were found in Water Lane itself. Rhys was insensible, and has not spoken since. Leighton Duff was dead.”
“And the assumption,” he concluded, “is that Leighton Duff caught up with Rhys and his friends while it was still apparent they were the rapists of the woman … either they were in the act or they had just completed it. He was furious, endeavored to reason with them or apprehend them, and one, or all of them, attacked him. He drove off the other two quite quickly, but Rhys, knowing he would not escape the matter, fought until he had killed him.”
“Yes … more or less.” It was a terrible admission, and she could not make it easily. Her voice sounded tight and brittle.
“I see.” He sat silently for several moments, deep in thought, and she did not interrupt him. He looked up. “Have they anything to link Rhys or his companions—Who are they, do you know?”
“Yes, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston. They answer the descriptions given, and one girl, who actually named Rhys, named them also—Arthur and Duke. Marmaduke is known as Duke.”
“I see.” He nodded very slightly. “Were they injured at the time Rhys was, do you know?”
“Yes, I do know, and no, they do not appear to have been.” She realized what he was thinking. “But that only makes them cowards as well.”
“I am afraid so. But can anyone place any of the three in Seven Dials or connect them to the earlier rapes?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“And is there evidence to prove these rapes are not random, committed by several people? There must be many rapes in London in a week.”
“I don’t think many are carried out by three men together, answering the descriptions of one tall and slight, one average and one slender, and all three gentlemen, arriving and leaving by hansom,” she said bleakly.
He sighed. “You sound as if you believe him guilty, Hester. Do you?”
She did not want to answer. Now that the question was put so bluntly, and she faced Rathbone’s clever, subtle gaze, which would not permit evasion and in front of which she could not lie, she must make a decision.
He waited.
“He says he didn’t,” she answered very slowly, choosing her words. “I am not sure what he remembers. It frightens him, horrifies him. I think maybe when he says that, he is saying what he wishes were true. Perhaps he does not entirely know.”
“But you think physically, for whatever reason, he committed the act,” he said.
“Yes … yes, I think so. I can’t avoid it.”
“Then what is it you wish me to do?”
“Help him … I …” Now she realized how much she was being emotional rather than rational, not only regarding Rhys but in her plea to Rathbone as well. Still, she could not turn aside from doing it, even now that she was aware. “Please, Oliver? I don’t know how it happened, or why he should have let himself fall into such a desperate situation. I … I can’t argue anything in mitigation for him … I don’t know what there is, I just have to believe there is something.” She looked at his face with its humor and intelligence, sometimes so cool—and just now, gazing back at her, so gentle.
She forced herself to think of Rhys, his terror, his helplessness.
“Maybe it is not justice I’m asking for, but mercy? He needs someone to speak for him …” She gave a painful little laugh. “Even literally. I don’t believe he’s purely evil. I’ve spent too many hours with him, close to him. I’ve watched his pain. If he did these things, there must be some reason, at least some cause … I mean …”
“You mean insanity,” he finished for her.
“No, I don’t …”
“Yes, you do, my dear.” His voice was very patient, trying not to hurt her more than he had to. “A young man doesn’t rape and beat women he doesn’t know, then murder his father because he found out, if he is anything that ordinary men and women would recognize as sane. Whether the law will make the same nature of distinction I don’t know. I very much doubt it.” His eyes were filled with sadness. “It is precise as to what insanity is, and the fact that Rhys attacked his father suggests he knew very well that his violence against the women was wrong, which is what the law will view. He knew what he was doing, and that is the crucial factor.”
“But there must be something else,” she said desperately. “I can’t let it go at that. I’ve watched him too long …”
He rose to his feet and came around the desk towards her. “Then let me make arrangements to come and see him for myself—that is, if Mrs. Duff wishes me to represent him …”
