He struggled for anything to say which could be of comfort, and there was nothing. In his mind he saw so clearly the pale, bruised face of the young man lying first in the alley, crumpled and bleeding, and then in St. Thomas's, his eyes filled with horror which was quite literally unspeakable. He saw again his mouth open as he struggled, and failed even to ut tera word. What could anyone say to comfort his mother?

He made a resolve that however long it took him, however hard it was, he would find out what had happened in that alley, and make whoever was responsible answer for it.

"He said nothing of where he might go?" he resumed. "Had he any usual haunts?”

"He left in some… heat," she replied. She seemed to have steadied herself again. "I believe his father had an idea as to where he frequented. Perhaps it is known to men in general? There are…

places. It was only an impression. I cannot help you, Sergeant.”

"But both men were in some temper when they left?”

"Yes.”

"How long apart in time was that?”

"I am not sure, because Rhys left the room, and it was not until about half an hour after that when we realised he had also left the house. My husband then went out immediately.”

"I see.”

"They were found together?" Again her voice wavered and she had to make a visible effort to control herself.

"Yes. It looks as if perhaps your husband caught up with your son, and some time after that they were set upon.”

"Maybe they were lost?" she looked at him anxiously.

"Quite possibly," he agreed, hoping it was true. Of all the explanations it would be the kindest, the easiest for her to bear. "It would not be hard to become lost in such a warren of alleys and passages. Merely a few yards in the wrong direction… he left the rest unsaid. He wanted to believe it almost as much as she did, because he knew so much more of the alternatives.

There was a knock on the door, an unusual thing for a servant to do.

It was normal for a butler simply to come in and then await a convenient moment either to serve whatever was required, or to deliver a message.

"Come in?" Sylvestra said with a lift of surprise.

The man who entered was lean and dark with a handsome face, deep-set eyes and a nose perhaps a trifle small. Now his expression was one of acute concern and distress. He all but ignored Evan and went immediately to Sylvestra, but his manner was professional as well as personal. Presumably he was the doctor Wharmby had sent for.

"My dear, I cannot begin to express my sorrow. Naturally anything I can do, you have but to name. I shall remain with you as long as you wish. Certainly I shall prescribe something to help you sleep, and to calm and assist you through these first dreadful days. Eglantyne says if you wish to leave here and stay with us, we shall see that you have all the peace and privacy you could wish. Our house will be yours.”

"Thank you… you are very kind. I…" She gave a little shiver.

"I don't even know what I want yet… what there is to be done." She rose to her feet, swayed a moment and grasped for his arm which he gave instantly. "First I must go to St. Thomas's hospital, and see Rhys.”

"Do you think that is wise?" the doctor cautioned. "You are in a state of extreme shock, my dear. Allow me to go for you. I can at least see that he is given the very best professional help and care. I will see that he is brought home as soon as it is medically advisable.

In the meantime I shall care for him myself, I promise you.”

She hesitated, torn between love and good sense.

"Let me at least see him!" she pleaded. "Take me. I promise I shall not be a burden. I am in command of myself!”

He hesitated only a moment. "Of course. Take a little brandy, just to revive yourself, then I shall accompany you." He glanced at Evan. "I am sure you are finished here, Sergeant. Anything else you need to know can wait until a more opportune time.”

It was dismissal, and Evan accepted it with a kind of relief. There was little more he could learn here now. Perhaps later he would speak to the valet and other servants. The coachman might know where his master was in the habit of going. In the meantime there were people he knew in St. Giles, informers, men and women upon whom pressure could be placed, judicious questions asked, and a great deal might be learned.

"Of course," he conceded, rising to his feet. "I shall try to bother you as little as possible, ma'am." He took his leave as the doctor was taking the decanter of brandy from the butler and pouring a little into a glass.

Outside in the street, where it was beginning to snow, he turned up his coat collar and walked briskly. He wondered what Monk would have done. Would he have thought of some brilliant and probing questions whose answers would have revealed a new line of truth to follow and unravel? Would he have felt any less crippled by pity and horror than Evan did? Had there been something obvious which his emotion had prevented him from seeing?

Surely the obvious thing was that father and son had gone whoring in St. Giles, and been careless, perhaps paid less than the asking price, perhaps been too high-handed or arrogant showing off their money and their gold watches, and some ruffian, afire with drink, had attacked them and then, like a dog at the smell of blood, run amok?

Either way, what could the widow know of it? He was right not to harry her now.

He put his head down against the east wind and increased his pace.

Rhys Duff was kept in hospital for a further two days, and on the Monday, the fifth day after the attack, he was brought home, in great pain, and still without having spoken a word. Dr. Corriden Wade was to call every day, or as he progressed, every second day, but of course it would be necessary to have him professionally nursed. At the recommendation of the young policeman on the case, and having made appropriate enquiries as to her abilities, Wade agreed to the employment of one of the women who had gone out to the Crimea with Florence Nightingale, a Miss Hester Latterly. She was, of necessity, used to caring for young men who had suffered near mortal injuries in combat. She was considered an excellent choice.

To Hester herself it was an agreeable change after having nursed an elderly and extremely trying lady whose problems were largely matters of temper and boredom, only slightly exacerbated by two broken toes.

She could probably have managed just as well with a competent lady's maid, but she felt more dramatic with a nurse, and impressed her friends endlessly by likening her plight to that of the war heroes Hester had nursed before her.

Hester kept a civil tongue with difficulty, and only because she required the employment in order to survive. Her father's financial ruin had meant she had no inheritance. Her elder brother Charles would always have provided for her, as men were expected to provide and care for their unmarried female relations, but such dependence would be suffocating to a woman like Hester, who had tasted an extraordinary freedom in the Crimea, and a responsibility at once both exhilarating and terrifying. She was certainly not going to spend the rest of her days in quiet domesticity being obedient and grateful to a rather unimaginative if kindly brother.

It was infinitely preferable to bite one's tongue and refrain from telling Miss Golightly she was a fool… for the space of a few weeks.

She thought as she settled herself in the hansom that was to take her to this new position that there were other very considerable advantages to her independent situation. She could make friends where and with whom she chose. Charles would not have had any objection to Lady Callandra Daviot; well, not any severe objection.