"The number in Ebury Street?" he repeated.

"Yes… yes. I think it is thirty-four, if my memory serves, but I'll look in my books. Yes, of course I will.”

However, Evan did not go straight to Ebury Street. Rather he returned first to St. Thomas's. There was a sense in which it would be kinder to the family if he could tell them at least that Rhys Duff was still alive, perhaps conscious. And if he could speak, maybe he could tell what had happened, and Evan would have to ask fewer questions.

And there was part of him which was simply not ready yet to go and tell some woman that her husband was dead, and her son may or may not survive, and no one knew yet in what degree of injury, pain or disability.

He found Riley straight away, looking as if he had been there all night. Certainly he seemed to be wearing the same clothes with precisely the same wrinkles and bloodstains on them.

"He's still alive," he said as soon as he saw Evan, and before Evan could ask. "He stirred a bit about an hour ago. Let's go and see if he's come around." And he set off with a long-legged stride as if he too were eager to know.

The ward was busy. Two young doctors were changing bandages and examining wounds. A nurse who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen was carrying buckets of slops, her shoulders bent as she strove to keep them off the floor. An elderly woman struggled with a bucket of coals and Evan offered to take them from her, but she refused, looking nervously at Riley. Another nurse gathered up soiled laundry and brushed past them with her face averted. Riley seemed hardly to notice, his attention was solely upon the patients.

Evan followed him to the end of the ward where he saw with a rush of relief, overtaken instantly by anxiety, that Rhys Duff lay motionless on his back, but his eyes were open, large, dark eyes which stared up at the ceiling and seemed to see only horror.

Riley stopped by the bed and looked at him with some concern.

"Good morning, Mr. Duff," he said gently. "You are in St. Thomas's hospital. My name is Riley. How are you feeling?”

Rhys Duff rolled his head very slightly until his eyes were focusing on Riley.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Duff?" Riley repeated.

Rhys opened his mouth, his lips moved, but there was no sound whatever.

"Does your throat hurt?" Riley asked with a frown. It was obviously not something he had expected.

Rhys stared at him.

"Does your throat hurt?" Riley asked again. "Nod if it does.”

Very slowly Rhys shook his head. He looked faintly surprised.

Riley put his hand on Rhys's slender wrist above the bandaging of his broken hand. The other, similarly splinted and bound, lay on the cover.

"Can you speak, Mr. Duff?" Riley asked very softly.

Rhys opened his mouth again, and again no sound came.

Riley waited.

Rhys's eyes were filled with terrible memory, fear and pain held him transfixed. Momentarily his head moved from side to side in denial. He could not speak.

Riley turned to Evan. "I'm sorry, you'll get nothing from him yet. He may be well enough for "yes" and "no" tomorrow, but he may not. At the moment he's too shocked for you to bother him at all. For certain he can't talk to you, or describe anyone. And it will be weeks before he can hold a pen if his hands mend well enough ever.”

Evan hesitated. He needed desperately to know what had happened, but he was torn with pity for this unbearably injured boy. He wished he had his father's faith to help him understand how such things could happen. Why was there not some justice to prevent it? He did not have a blind belief to soothe either his anger or his pity.

Nor did he have Hester's capacity to provide practical help which would have eased the aching helplessness inside him.

Perhaps the nearest he could strive for was Monk's dedication to pursuing truth.

"Do you know who did this to you, Mr. Duff?" he asked, speaking over Riley.

Rhys shut his eyes, and again shook his head. If he had any memory, he was choosing to close it out as too monstrous to bear.

"I think you should leave now, Sergeant," Riley said with an edge to his voice. "He can't tell you anything.”

Evan acknowledged the truth of it, and with one last look at the ashen face of the young man lying in the bed, he turned and went about the only duty he dreaded more.

Ebury Street was quiet and elegant in the cold morning air. There was a slick of ice on the pavements and housemaids were indisposed to linger in gossip. The two or three people Evan saw were all keeping moving, whisking dusters and mop heads out of windows and in again as quickly as possible. An errand boy scampered up steps and rang a bell with fingers clumsy with cold.

Evan found number thirty-four and unconsciously copying Monk, he went to the front door. Anyway, news such as he had should not go through the kitchens first.

The bell was answered by a parlour maid in a smart uniform. Her starched linen and lace immediately proclaimed a household of better financial standing than the clothes worn by the dead man suggested.

"Yes, sir?”

"Good morning. I am Police Sergeant Evans. Does a Mr. Leighton Duff live here?”

"Yes, sir, but he isn't home at the moment." She said it with some anxiety. It was not a piece of information she would normally have offered to a caller, even though she knew it to be true. She looked at his face, and perhaps read the weariness and sadness in it. "Is everything all right, sir?”

"No, I'm afraid it isn't. Is there a Mrs. Duff?”

Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm, but she did not scream.

"You had better warn her lady's maid, and perhaps the butler. I am afraid I have very bad news.”

Silently she opened the door wider and let him in.

A butler with thin, greying hair came from the back of the hallway, frowning.

"Who is the gentleman, Janet?" He turned to Evan. "Good morning, sir.

May I be of assistance to you? I am afraid Mr. Duff is not at home at present, and Mrs. Duff is not receiving." He was less sensitive to Evan's expression than the maid had been.

"I am from the police," Evan repeated. "I have extremely bad news to tell Mrs. Duff. I'm very sorry. Perhaps you should remain in case she needs some assistance. Possibly you might send a messenger for your family doctor.”

"What… what has happened?" Now he looked thoroughly horrified.

"I am afraid that Mr. Leighton Duff and Mr. Rhys Duff have met with violence. Mr. Rhys is in St. Thomas's hospital in a very serious condition.”

The butler gulped. "And… and Mr… Mr. Leighton Duff?”

"I am afraid he is dead.”

"Oh dear… I…" He swayed a little where he stood in the magnificent hallway with its curved staircase, aspidistras in stone urns and brass umbrella stand with silver-topped canes in it.

"You'd better sit down a minute, Mr. Wharmby," Janet said with sympathy.

Wharmby straightened himself up, but he looked very pallid. "Certainly not! Whatever next? It is my duty to look after poor Mrs. Duff in every way possible, as it is yours. Go and get Alfred to fetch Dr.

Wade. I shall inform Madam that there is someone to see her. You might return with a decanter of brandy… just in case some restorative is needed.”

But it was not. Sylvestra Duff sat motionless in the large chair in the morning room, her face bloodlessly white under her dark hair with its pronounced widow's peak. She was not immediately beautiful her face was too long, too aquiline, her nose delicately flared, her eyes almost black but she had a distinction which became more marked the longer one was with her. Her voice was low and very measured. In other circumstances it would have been lovely. Now she was too shattered by horror and grief to speak in anything but broken fractions of sentences.

"How…" she started. "Where? Where did you say?”