The Sins of the Wolf (17 page)

When Monk left the office, Oliver Rathbone hesitated only a few moments before making his decision that he would, after all, go and see Charles Latterly. Hester had begged him not to tell her family when it had been only a charge of theft, which they had both hoped would be dealt with, and dismissed, within a matter of days at the very most. But now it was murder, and the evening newspapers would carry the story. He must reach him before that, in common humanity.

He already knew the address, and it was a matter of five minutes to find a hansom cab and instruct the driver. He tried to think of some decent way to break the news. Even though his intelligence told him there was none, it was an easier problem to consider than what he would do next to prepare for Hester’s defense. He could not possibly allow anyone else to conduct it, and yet the burden of such a responsibility was already heavy on him, and not twelve hours had passed yet since Daly’s arrival in his office with the news.

It was ten minutes past five in the afternoon. Charles Latterly had just arrived home from his day’s business. Rathbone had never met him before. He alighted from the cab, instructed the driver to wait however long was necessary until he should be ready to leave, and went up to the front door.

“Yes sir?” the butler said with polite inquiry, his skilled eye summing up Rathbone’s status as a gentleman.

“Good evening,” Rathbone replied briskly. “My name is
Oliver Rathbone and I am Miss Hester Latterly’s barrister-at-law. I require to see Mr. Latterly on a matter of business which, I regret to say, cannot wait.”

“Indeed, sir? Perhaps if you would be good enough to come into the morning room, sir, I will acquaint Mr. Latterly with your arrival and the urgency of your business.”

“Thank you.” Rathbone stepped in, but instead of going to the morning room when the butler opened the door for him, he remained in the hall. It was a pleasant room, comfortable, but even at a casual and somewhat hasty glance, he could see the signs of wear and subtly reduced circumstances. He was reminded with a stab of pity of the ruin and suicide of Mr. Latterly senior, and the death from distress shortly afterwards of his wife. Now he had brought news of a new tragedy, even worse than the last.

Charles Latterly came out of the door to the right of the back of the hall. He was a tall, fair man in his late thirties or early forties, his hair thinning a little, his face long and, at this time, pinched with apprehension.

“Good evening, Mr. Rathbone. What can I do for you, sir? I do not recall that we are acquainted, but my butler informs me you are my sister’s attorney-at-law. I was not even aware she had occasion for such a person.”

“I am sorry to disturb you without warning, Mr. Latterly, but I bring most distressing news. I have no doubt whatever that Miss Latterly is totally without blame of any kind, but there has been a death—an unnatural death—of one of her patients, an elderly lady traveling by train from Edinburgh to London. I am sorry, Mr. Latterly, but Hester has been charged with murdering her.”

Charles Latterly stared at him as if he did not understand the meaning of the words.

“She was neglectful?” he said, blinking his eyes. “That is not like Hester. I do not approve of her profession, if you can call it such, but I believe she is more than competent in its practice. I do not believe, sir, that she has conducted herself improperly.”

“She is not charged with negligence, Mr. Latterly,” Rathbone said slowly, hating having to do this. Why could the man not have understood without his having to repeat it? Why did he have to look so injured and bewildered? “She is charged with having deliberately murdered her, in order to steal a brooch.”

“Hester? That’s preposterous!”

“Yes, of course it is,” Rathbone agreed. “And I have already employed an agent of inquiry to go to Edinburgh, tonight, in order to investigate the matter so that we can learn the truth. But I’m afraid we may not be able to prove her innocence before the whole matter comes to trial, and most likely it will be in the newspapers by tomorrow morning, if not this evening. That is why I have come to inform you so you do not discover it that way.”

“The newspapers! Oh dear heaven!” Every vestige of color fled from Charles’s already pallid face. “Everyone will know. My wife. Imogen must not hear of this. She could be …”

Rathbone felt unreasonably angry. Charles’s every thought had been for his wife’s feelings. He had not even asked how Hester was—or even where she was.

“I am afraid that is something from which you cannot protect her,” he said a little tartly. “And she may well wish to visit Hester and take her whatever comfort she can.”

“Visit?” Charles looked confused. “Where is Hester? What has happened to her? What have they done with her?”

“She is in prison, where she will be until she comes to trial, Mr. Latterly.”

Charles looked as if he had been struck. His mouth hung slack, his eyes stared as disbelief turned to horror.

“Prison!” he said, aghast. “You mean …”

“Of course.” Rathbone’s tone was colder than he would have made it were his own emotions less engaged. “She is charged with murder, Mr. Latterly. There is no possibility of them allowing her free in those circumstances.”

“Oh …” Charles turned away, his thoughts inward, his face at last showing pity. “Poor Hester. She always had courage, so much ambition to do the most extraordinary things. I used to think she must be afraid of nothing.” He gave a jerky little laugh. “I used to wish she would be afraid, that it would give her a little sense of caution.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wouldn’t have had it happen this way.” He looked back at Rathbone, his features still touched with sorrow, but quite composed now. “Of course I will pay you whatever I can towards her defense, Mr. Rathbone. But I am afraid I have very little, and I cannot rob my wife of the support and care I owe her, you understand?” He colored unhappily. “I have some knowledge of your reputation. Perhaps in the situation in which we find ourselves, it would be better if you were to pass over the case to some less …” He searched for a euphemism for what he meant, and failed to find one.

Rathbone assisted him, partly because he did not enjoy seeing the man struggle—although he felt little liking for him—but mainly because he was impatient.

“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Latterly, but your financial help will not be necessary. My regard for Hester is sufficient recompense. The greatest boon you can offer her will be to go to her aid personally, comfort her, assure her of your loyalty, and above all, keep your spirits high so that she may draw strength from you. Never, in any circumstances, allow her to think you fear the worst.”

“Of course,” Charles said slowly. “Yes of course. Tell me where she is, and I shall go to her—that is, if they will allow me in?”

“Explain to them that you are her only family, and they will certainly allow you in,” Rathbone answered. “She is in Newgate.”

Charles winced. “I see. What am I permitted to take her? What might she need?”

“Perhaps your wife could find her some change of
clothes and of personal linen? She will have no facilities for laundering.”

“My wife? No—no, I should not permit Imogen to go. And to such a place as Newgate. I shall keep as much of this from her as I am able to. It would distress her terribly. I shall find Hester some clothes myself.”

Rathbone was about to protest, but looking at Charles’s face, suddenly closed over, his mouth pursed, his eyes stubborn, he knew there were subtleties in the relationship he could not guess at, depths of Charles’s own character, and argument would be useless. An unwilling visit would do Hester no good, and Hester was all he really cared about.

“Very well, if that decision is final,” he said coolly. “You must do what you believe to be right.” He straightened his shoulders. “Again, Mr. Latterly, I am profoundly sorry to bring you such grave news, but please be assured I shall do everything that is possible to insure that Hester is cleared completely and that in the meantime she is treated as well as may be.”

“Yes—yes of course. Thank you, Mr. Rathbone. It is most courteous of you to have come in person. And …”

Rathbone waited, half turned towards the door, his eyebrows raised.

Charles looked uncomfortable.

“Thank you for undertaking Hester’s defense without fee. I—we—we are deeply grateful to you.”

Rathbone bowed very slightly. “My privilege, sir. Good day to you.”

“Good day, sir.”

By a quarter to nine Rathbone was at the railway station. It was quite pointless. There was nothing else he could tell Monk, yet he could not help himself from being there to speak to him a last time, even to make absolutely sure he was on the train.

The platform was noisy, crowded with people and baggage carts, porters shouting, carriage doors swinging wide
one moment, slamming shut the next. Travelers stood shivering, some saying their last good-byes, others glancing one way and then another looking for a familiar missing face. Rathbone made his way through them, coat collar turned up against the wind. Where was Monk? Damn the man! Why did he have to be dependent on someone he liked so little?

He ought to be able to recognize him on the platform. His stance was individual enough, and he was that fraction taller than average. Where on earth was he? For the fifth time he glanced at the station clock. Ten to nine. Perhaps he was not here yet? It was still early. The best thing would be to go through the train itself.

He traced his steps to the end closest to the buffers, pushing his way through the thickening crowd, and boarded the train, looking into every compartment to see if Monk were there. Every so often he glanced out of the window as well, and it was on one of those occasions, about halfway along the length of the train, and already seven minutes past nine, that he saw Monk’s face for an instant as he passed by, outside, hurrying along the platform.

Rathbone swore in a mixture of anger and relief, and pushing past a large gentleman in black, flung open the carriage door and almost fell out.

“Monk!” he shouted loudly. “Monk!”

Monk turned. He was dressed as elegantly as if he were on the way to dine out. His coat was beautifully cut, slender and hanging without a wrinkle, his boots were polished to a satin gleam. He looked surprised to see Rathbone, but not discomforted.

“Have you found something?” he said in surprise. “Already? You can’t have heard back from Edinburgh, so what is it?”

“I haven’t found anything,” Rathbone said, wishing passionately that he had. “I merely came to see if there was anything else upon which we should confer while there is still the opportunity.”

A shadow of disappointment crossed Monk’s eyes, so
slight that had Rathbone been less perceptive he would have missed it altogether. He almost forgave the perfect coat.

“I know of nothing,” Monk replied coldly. “I shall report to you by mail, whatever I learn of use. Impressions I shall keep until I return. It would be useful if you would do the same for me, assuming you do find anything. I shall inform you of my address as soon as I have lodgings. Now I am going to take my seat, before the train leaves without me. That would serve neither of us.” And without any further form of farewell, he turned and walked towards the nearest carriage door and climbed in, slamming it behind him, leaving Rathbone standing on the platform swearing under his breath, feeling offended, inadequate, and as if there were something else he should have said.

5

M
ONK DID NOT ENJOY
the journey in any respect at all. The encounter on the platform with Rathbone gave him some sense of satisfaction because it demonstrated how acutely concerned Rathbone was. It would have taken an emotional involvement of extraordinary depth to cause him to abandon his dignity sufficiently to come on such a completely pointless errand. Normally, if nothing else, his awareness of Monk’s perception of it would have been enough to keep him at home.

But the comfort all that gave him very quickly wore off as the train steamed and rattled its way out of the station and through the rain-soaked darkness of the London rooftops and the occasional glimpse in gaslight of emptying streets, wet cobbles gleaming, lamps haloed in mist, here and there a hansom about to do business.