The Sins of the Wolf (37 page)

“I see. But you have not found it among her effects?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McIvor.”

Gilfeather stepped back, indicating graciously that Argyll might proceed.

Argyll thanked him and rose to his feet.

“This second piece of jewelry, Mrs. McIvor; you did not mention it earlier. In fact, this is the first time we have heard it referred to. Why is that?”

“Because we did not previously realize that it was missing,” Oonagh answered reasonably.

“How odd! Such a valuable piece must surely have been kept in a safe place, a locked jewel casket or something of the like.”

“I presume so.”

“You don’t know.”

She looked uncertain. “No. It was my mother’s, not mine.”

“How many times have you seen her wear it?”

“I—” She watched him carefully with that same clear, direct look Monk remembered facing himself. “I don’t recall seeing her wear it.”

“How do you know she had it at all?”

“Because it was commissioned from our family jeweler, paid for and taken.”

“By whom?”

“I see your point, Mr. Argyll,” she granted. “But it is not mine, nor my sister’s, nor does it belong to my sister-in-law. It can only have been my mother’s. I daresay she wore it on some occasion when I was not present and so I have never noticed it.”

“Is it not possible, Mrs. McIvor, that it was a gift for someone else, and not for a member of your family at all?” he suggested. “That would account for why no one has seen it and it is not there now, would it not?”

“If it were the truth, yes,” Oonagh said dismissively. “But it was very expensive indeed to give someone who is not a member of the family. We are generous, I hope, but not extravagant.”

Heads nodded. One woman stifled a giggle, and the man next to her glared at her.

“So you are saying, Mrs. McIvor, that the brooch was commissioned and yet no one has seen it, although it was paid for, is that right? You are not saying that you have any evidence to suggest that Miss Latterly has it, or ever has had?”

“She had the pearl brooch,” Oonagh pointed out. “Even she does not deny that.”

“No, indeed not,” Argyll agreed. “She made every effort to return it to you as soon as she discovered it. But she has not seen the diamond brooch, any more than you have.”

Oonagh flushed, opened her mouth, and then changed her mind and remained silent.

Argyll smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. McIvor. I have nothing further to ask you.”

It was another tiny point gained, but the momentary elation vanished almost as soon as it came. Gilfeather was amused. He could afford to be.

He called the conductor from the train on which Mary Farraline and Hester had traveled. He said exactly what was expected. No one else, as far as he knew, had gone into the carriage. The two women had been alone the entire journey. Yes, Mrs. Farraline had left the compartment at least once, to attend the requirements of nature. Yes, Miss Latterly had called him in a state of some distress to report the death of the elder lady. He had gone along to see, and indeed, he deeply regretted to say so, but she had been dead. He had done his duty as soon as he had arrived in London. It was all very sad.

Argyll knew well enough not to alienate the jury by questioning what was too well established to state, and he would only harass an ordinary little man following his calling. He waved away his opportunity to cross-examine with a flick of his hand and an inclination of his head.

The stationmaster also said only what was entirely predictable, if in places self-important, nervous and melodramatic.

Again Monk’s attention wandered to the faces around the room. He was able to watch Hester for several moments because she was staring at the witness-box. He regarded her curiously. She was not beautiful, but tense, frightened as she was now, there was a quality of refinement in her which was like a kind of beauty. It was stripped of all artifice or pretense, even the mask of usual good manners, and its very honesty caught the emotions. He was surprised how familiar she seemed, as if he had known every line of her entire being, every flicker of expression that would cross her features. He thought he knew what she was feeling, but he was powerless to give her anything.

The sense of helplessness was so intense it was like a
pain in his chest. But even if he could have spoken to her, he knew there was nothing to say which she did not already know. Perhaps it would have helped if he could have lied. He would never know that, because he could not. He would not do it well, and to do it badly would only place a barrier between them which would make it all worse.

Oonagh had remained in the courtroom. He could see her fair hair across her brow beneath the brim of the dark bonnet. She looked calm and brave, as if she had spent hours alone in deep thought and self-mastery before she had left Ainslie Place to come here, and now nothing would break through her composure.

Did she know who had killed her mother? Did she guess, knowing her siblings as well as she did? He studied her features, the smooth brow, the level eyes, the long straight nose, the full mouth, almost perfectly shaped. Each feature was good, and yet the whole had too much power in it for ordinary beauty. Had she taken over the mantle of leadership on Mary’s death? Was she protecting the family honor, or one individual member’s weakness or evil?

Even if he found out who it was, he might never know that.

If?

Coldness enveloped him. He had unwittingly voiced the fear he had denied so scrupulously ever since he had come to Edinburgh. He dismissed it violently.

It was one of the Farralines. It had to be.

He turned from Oonagh to Alastair, sitting beside her, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stationmaster giving his evidence. He looked haunted, as though the burden of the public trial of his family’s tragedy were more than he could bear. As Monk had seen once or twice before, it seemed to be his sister upon whom he leaned for support rather than his wife. Deirdra was there, certainly, and sitting next to him, but his body was inclined to the left, closer to Oonagh, and his right shoulder was half turned, excluding Deirdra.

Deirdra stared straight ahead of her, not ignoring Alastair so much as simply more interested in the proceedings. There was barely any concern or anxiety in her face with its calm brow, tip-tilted nose, and sturdy chin. If she suspected any impending tragedy, she was a consummate actress.

Kenneth was not in the room, nor had Monk expected him to be. He would be called to testify, and therefore was not permitted in yet, in case he overheard something that in some way altered what he would say. It was the law. Eilish was here, like a silent flame. Baird, on the far side of Oonagh, was also turned a little away, not obviously, simply a withdrawing of himself. He did not look at Eilish, but even from the far side of the room, Monk felt the iron control he was exerting on himself not to.

Quinlan Fyffe was absent, presumably because he too would be called.

The stationmaster finished his evidence and Argyll declined to question him. He was excused and replaced by the doctor who had been sent for and had certified that Mary Farraline was indeed dead. Gilfeather was very kind to him, seeking not to embarrass him for having diagnosed the death as due to ordinary heart failure and in no way worthy of further investigation. Even so, the man was uncomfortable and answered in monosyllables.

Argyll rose and smiled at him, then sat down without saying anything at all.

It was late in the afternoon. Court was adjourned for the day.

Monk left immediately, hurrying to find Rathbone and learn his judgment of how the day had gone. He saw him on the steps and caught up with him just as he and James Argyll climbed into a hansom cab.

Monk stopped at the curb and swore vehemently. His better sense knew perfectly well that Rathbone could tell him nothing he did not know for himself, and yet he was infuriated not to have been able to speak to him. He stood
still for several minutes, too angry to think what to do next.

“Were you looking for Oliver, or just for the cab, Mr. Monk?”

He turned around sharply to find Henry Rathbone standing a few feet away. There was something in the anxiety in his gentle face, and vulnerability in it, which robbed him of his rage and left only his fear, and the need to share it.

“Rathbone,” he replied. “Although I don’t suppose he could have told me anything I haven’t seen for myself. Were you in the court? I didn’t see you.”

“I was behind you,” Henry Rathbone replied with a faint smile. “Standing. I was too late for a seat.” They started to walk and Monk fell in step beside him. “I hadn’t realized there would be so much public interest. It is the least attractive side of people, I think. I prefer people individually; in a crowd I find they so often take on each other’s least admirable qualities. A pack instinct, I suppose. The scent of fear, of something wounded—” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re right,” Monk said grimly. “And Gilfeather is good.” He did not add the rest of the thought. It was unnecessary.

They walked in a strangely companionable silence for several yards. Monk was surprised. The man was Rathbone’s father, and yet he felt a liking for him as if he had known him for years and the relationship had always been comfortable. Instead of resenting Hester’s liking for him, he was pleased. There was something in Henry Rathbone’s face, his rather awkward gait, his long legs, not quite straight, which brought back faint, indistinct memories of being a young man, admiring his mentor intensely, almost without question. He had been very naive then. It seemed like another man whose innocence he looked at as he would a stranger’s, only the feeling was within him, unaccountably sharp for just those few moments.

There was a legless beggar sitting on the footpath, an old soldier from some war gone from the public mind. He was selling small pieces of white heather bound into nosegays for luck.

Suddenly Henry Rathbone’s eyes filled with agonized tears of pity. Wordlessly he smiled at the man and offered him sixpence for two bunches. He took them and walked in silence for several more paces before passing one to Monk.

“Don’t lose hope,” he said abruptly as they stepped off the curb and across the street. “Argyll is clever too. One of the family is responsible. Think what that person must be feeling! Think of the guilt, no matter what passion drove him or her to do it, whether it was fear or greed, or hatred for some wrong, real or imagined. There is still a terror, in all but the totally mad, for having taken such an irretrievable step.”

Monk said nothing, but kept in step with him, thoughts turning over in his mind. What Henry Rathbone said was true. Someone was laboring under a driving passion which must include both fear and guilt.

“And perhaps a kind of elation,” Henry went on. “The culprit seems to have won, to be on the brink of victory.”

Monk grunted. “What kind of victory? Achievement of something or escape from some danger? Is it elation or relief?”

Henry shook his head, his face troubled. The darkness of it touched him, both for Mary Farraline and for whichever of her children, or children by marriage, had killed her.

“Pressure,” he said, continuing to shake his head. “The process of the law may reach them, you know. That is what Oliver would do. Question. Probe. Play on their doubts of each other. I hope Argyll will do the same.”

Neither of them said anything about Hester, but Monk knew Henry Rathbone was thinking of her too. There was
no need to talk of winning or losing. It was always just below the surface of their words anyway, too painful to touch.

They walked on together in silence up the Lawnmarket.

9

H
ESTER FELT
uniquely alien as she stood in the cage in the cells waiting to be drawn up through the extraordinary trapdoor affair which would bring her into the courtroom without the necessity of passing through the crowd. The day was bitterly cold and here below the courtroom there was no heat at all. She shivered uncontrollably, and told herself with a flash of mockery that it had nothing to do with fear.