The Sins of the Wolf (19 page)

Monk was obliged to smile to himself. “I’ve been looking for lodgings.”

“Oh, aye? Well ye’ll find a good, clean room at William Forster’s, down there at number twenty, and there’s McEwan the baker’s, next door. Innkeeper and stabler, Willie is. Ye’ll see it written up on the wall. Can’t miss that, if ye’ve eyes in yer head.”

“Thank you. I’m obliged.”

“Ye’re welcome.” He made as if to move on.

“Why Templelands?” Monk asked quickly. “What temple was there here?”

The man’s face registered amusement and mild contempt. “No temple at all. The land used to belong to the Knights Templar, long ago. You know, Crusades, and the like?”

“Oh.” Monk was surprised. He had not thought of Edinburgh as being of such age, or of the Templars so far north. Dim memories of history came back to him, names like Mary Queen of Scots, and the Auld Alliance with France, and the Stuart kings, battles on the moors above Culloden, Bannockburn, massacres in the snowbound steeps of Glencoe, secret murders like the death of Duncan, or of Rizzio, or perhaps Darnley right here in Edinburgh. It was in a mist of stories and impressions he could only dimly recall, but it was part of his northern heritage, and it made these streets with their towering houses more familiar. “Thank you,” he added, but the man was already moving away, his duty discharged.

Monk crossed over the street and walked on until he saw
WM. FORSTER, STABLER & INNKEEPER
written right across the front of a large building, between the second and third stories, and the name of McEwan’s Bakery at one end. It was a four-story building; the first two were of cut stone blocks, and the windows were large, indicating generous rooms. Several of the high chimney pots at the spine of the roof were smoking, a hopeful sign. Since he had no horse, he did not bother going through the archway into the yard, but knocked hastily on the front door.

It was opened almost immediately by a large woman, busy drying her hands on her apron. “Aye?”

“I’m looking for lodgings,” Monk replied. “Possibly for a week or two. Have you a room?”

She glanced at him rapidly, summing him up, as was her trade.

“Aye, I have.” Evidently she approved of him. If he had more clothes in his case of the same quality as those he was wearing, they alone would pay his rent for a month or more. “Come in and I’ll show ye.” She backed away to allow him in, and he followed gratefully.

Inside was narrow and dimly lit, but it smelled clean and the air was warm and dry. Someone was singing in the bowels of the kitchen, loudly, and every so often a little sharp, but it was a cheerful sound, and he felt it welcoming. She led him up three flights of stairs, puffing and blowing noisily and stopping on each landing to regain her breath.

“There,” she said between gasps when they reached the top floor and she threw open the door to the room he was to occupy. It was clean and airy and looked out over the Grassmarket and the roofs opposite.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “This will do very well.”

“Ye up from England?” she asked conversationally.

She made it sound like a foreign land, but then strictly speaking it was.

“Yes.” It was an opportunity he should not waste. There
was certainly no time to spare. “Yes, I’m a legal consultant.” That was something of a euphemism, but advisable, and better than suggesting he was from the police. “Preparing for a trial concerning the death of Mrs. Farraline, up at Ainslie Place.”

“She dead?” the woman said with surprise. “How’d that happen? Still, she was getting on, so little wonder. Contesting the will, are they?”

There was interest in her face, and her assumption certainly caught Monk’s attention.

“Well, it really isn’t something I should discuss, Mrs. Forster….” He took a chance, and it was not contradicted. “But I daresay you won’t need me to tell you everything anyway?”

Her smile broadened knowingly. “Money ain’t always a blessing, Mr….?”

“Monk, William Monk,” he supplied. “Lot of money, is there?”

“Well, ye’d know that, wouldn’t ye?” Her eyes were bright brown and full of amusement.

“Not yet,” he prevaricated. “But I have my guesses—naturally.”

“Bound to be.” She nodded. “All that big printing works, been there ever since the twenties, getting bigger all the time, and that fine house up the new town. Oh yes, there’s a lot of money there, Mr. Monk. Well worth fighting over, I should think. And the old lady still owned a fair piece of it, or so I heard, in spite of Colonel Farraline being dead these eight or ten years.”

Monk thought rapidly and took a gamble.

“Mrs. Farraline was murdered, you know? That is the case I am concerned with.”

Her face was aghast.

“Ye don’t say so! Murdered? Well I never! The poor old soul. Now who in the good God’s name would have done a thing like that?”

“Well, there is suspicion it was the nurse who accompanied
her on the train down to London….” He hated saying it, even in so slight a way and without naming Hester. It was almost like an admission that the idea was possible.

“Oh. What a wicked thing to do! Whatever for?”

“A brooch,” he said between his teeth. “Which she gave back, and before anyone missed it. Found it in her own baggage, by accident, or so she said.”

“Oh yes?” Mrs. Forster’s eyebrows rose with delicate skepticism. “And what would a woman like that be doing with the sort of brooch Mrs. Farraline would wear? We all know what nurses are like. Drunken, dirty and no better than they should be, most of them. What a terrible thing. The poor soul.”

Monk felt his face burning and his jaw tightened as if he would grind the words between his teeth.

“She was one of the young ladies who went out to nurse our soldiers in the Crimea—served with Miss Nightingale.” His voice was rasping and without any of the control he had sworn he would keep.

Mrs. Forster looked nonplussed. She stared at Monk, reading his face to see if he had really meant what he had said. It took her only a glance to assure herself that he did.

“Well I never,” she said again. She took a deep breath, her eyes wide and troubled. “Perhaps it was not her after all. Had ye thought o’ that?”

“Yes,” he said with a grim smile. “I had.”

She said nothing, but stared at him, waiting.

“In which case it was somebody else,” he said, completing the thought for her. “And it would be most interesting to find out who.”

“Aye, that it would,” she agreed, and shrugged her ample shoulders. “And I’ll not be envying you the task o’ that. They’re a powerful family, the Farralines. He’s the Fiscal, you know?”

“What about the others?” It was easy and natural to ask, and her opinion might yield something.

“Oh, well I don’t know anything beyond what’s said,
mind. But McIvor runs the printing business now, he’s Miss Oonagh’s husband, but he’s no a Scot, he’s from down south in England somewhere. No but he’s a good enough sort of man, they say. Nothing really against him.”

“Except that he’s English?”

“Aye. And I suppose he canna help that. And then there’s Mr. Fyffe. He comes frae Stirling, I’ve heard. Or maybe it’s Dundee, but somewhere a wee bit north o’ here. Clever man, word has it, gae clever.”

“But not liked overmuch.” Monk said what she did not.

“Oh well …” She was loath to put it into words, but the agreement was there in her face.

“He’d be Miss Eilish’s husband,” he prompted.

“Aye, he would. Now there’s a great beauty, so they say. Not that I’ve ever seen her myself, y’understand? But they say she’s the loveliest thing ever to set foot in Edinburgh.”

“What else?”

“What?”

“What else do they say about her?”

“Why nothing. Isn’t that enough?”

He smiled, in spite of himself. He imagined what Hester would have said to a description like that.

“What is she like, her ambitions, her ideas?”

“Oh, for certain I never heard that.”

“And Mrs. Farraline herself?”

“A fine lady, so they say. Always was, for years back. Colonel Farraline was a gentleman, generous with his money, and she followed on the same. Always givin’ to the city. Poor Major Farraline, that’s the younger brother, now he’s a different kettle of fish. Drinks like a sot, he does. Hardly ever sober. Shame that, when a gentleman with all his opportunities goes to the bottle.”

“Yes it is a shame. Do you know why? Was there some tragedy?”

She pursed her lips.

“Not that I ever heard. But what would I know? Just a weak man, I suppose. World’s full o’ them. Looks for the
answer to all o’ life’s problems in the bottom of a bottle. You’d think after a score or so they’d realize it wasn’t there—but not them.”

“What about the last son, Kenneth?” Monk asked, since she seemed to have exhausted the subject of Hector.

She shrugged again. “Just a young gentleman with more time and money than sense. He’ll grow out of it by and by, I expect. Pity his mother isn’t here any longer to see he does, but I daresay the Fiscal will. Wouldn’t want him doing something stupid and spoiling the family name. Or making a foolish marriage. He wouldn’t be the first young dandy to do that.”

“Does he not work at the family business?” Monk asked.

“Oh aye, so I’ve heard. Don’t know what he does, but no doubt it would be easy enough to find out.” A strange expression lightened her eyes, curiosity, disbelief and a kind of beginning of excitement. “Do you think one of them killed their own mother?” Then caution took hold again. “Never! They’re very well respected people, Mr. Monk. Highly thought of. Takes a big part in city affairs, does Mr. Alastair. A lot to do with government, as well as being the Fiscal.”

“Yes, I don’t suppose it’s likely,” Monk said judiciously. “But it could have been a maid. It’s possible, and I’ve got to look at everything.”

“’Course you have,” she agreed, straightening her apron and making to move. “Well, I’d best be leaving you to get on about it then.” She went to the door and turned back. “And ye’ll be here for a week or two, right enough?”

“I will,” he agreed with a shadow of a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”

As soon as he had unpacked the few clothes he had brought with him, he wrote a short note to Rathbone, giving his new address at 20, Grassmarket, Edinburgh, and after a brief luncheon at the inn, went to post his letter and then made his way back up towards the new town and
Ainslie Place. The local public house would be a good spot at which to make inquiries about the family. In all possibility the footman or grooms would drink there. He would have to be extremely discreet, but he was used to that, it was his trade.

However, it was too early in the day now, and by dinnertime he would be at the Farraline house. He would fill in the afternoon by learning exactly which of the local tradesmen dealt with number seventeen, then tomorrow and the next day he could track down delivery boys, who in turn might know maids and bootboys, and discover more about the daily lives of the Farralines.

And of course there would be the routine tasks of questioning Mary Farraline’s physician who had prescribed the medicine, finding the exact dosage normally given; and then the apothecary who had made up the prescription, and pressing him in the possibility of an error, which naturally he would deny.

And then he would have to search for all the other apothecaries in Edinburgh to prove Hester had not purchased digitalis from them, and there was always the remote hope they could identify one of the Farraline family as having done so.

Monk arrived back at Ainslie Place, faultlessly elegant, at seven o’clock, as he had been directed. He was admitted by McTeer, as lugubrious as before, but this time unquestioningly polite, and shown into the withdrawing room, where the family was awaiting the announcement of dinner.

The room was large and very formal, but he had no time to spare for looking at it. His entire attention was immediately absorbed by the people who, as one, were staring at him as he was shown in. A lesser man would have found it unnerving. Monk was too worried and inwardly angry to have any such misgivings. He faced them with head high and eyes unwavering.

Oonagh was the first to come forward. She was dressed in black, of course, as they all were. One mourned at least
a full year for a relative as close as a mother. But her gown was beautifully cut, quite moderate in fashion, the hoops of her skirt not extreme, and the lamplight shone on the rich, pale gleam of her hair, making one think she might well have chosen the color, or lack of it, for effect as well as duty.

“Good evening, Mr. Monk,” she said graciously. She did not smile, yet there was a warmth in her eyes and her voice which made him feel more welcome than he could have expected in the circumstances.

“Good evening, Mrs. McIvor,” he replied. “It is most gracious of you to be so courteous to me. You have turned a chore into an experience I shall not forget.”

She received the compliment as it was intended, a little more than a mere politeness; and then she turned to indicate the man who stood almost to the mantelshelf, in the warmest and most comfortable place in the room. He was slightly above average height, slenderly built but beginning to put on weight around the waist. His hair was as fair as hers, but thickly waved, and already sparse at the front. His features were aquiline and distinguished, perhaps not ordinarily handsome, but certainly imposing.

“This is my elder brother, Alastair Farraline, the Procurator Fiscal,” she said, introducing them. Then, turning to Alastair, she added, “As I told you earlier, Mr. Monk has come up from London to make quite certain that the trial produces no unpleasant surprises through our having taken too much for granted.”

Alastair surveyed Monk with cool, very blue eyes. His expression did not change except for the slightest tightening of the curves of his lips.

“How do you do, Mr. Monk,” he replied. “Welcome to Edinburgh. I cannot see the necessity of your journey, myself. It seems overcautious to me. But I am glad that the prosecution in London regards the matter as of sufficient importance to dispatch someone up here to make certain of
things. I have no idea what they are afraid of. There can be no defense.”