"That's ridiculous." Her voice rose sharply. "She was no more senile than you are. If that is the best you can do, you are wasting my time! And Oliver's, if he is employing you!"

He was delighted to see her spirit returning, even if it was only in the defense of Mary Farraline; and he was thoroughly piqued by the suggestion that he was here solely at Rathbone's request, and because he was paid. He did not know why it stung so sharply, but it was a painful thought, and he reacted instantly.

"Don't be childish, Hester. There isn't time, and it's most unbecoming in a woman of your age."

Now she was really angry. He knew it was the reference to her age, which was idiotic, but then at times she was idiotic. Most women were.

Hester looked at him with intense dislike.

"If you are going to Edinburgh to see the Farralines, they are hardly likely to tell you anything other than that they employed me to accompany Mrs. Farraline to London, to give her her medicine night and morning, and see that she was comfortable. And I failed them most dismally. I don't know what else you would expect them to say?"

"Self-pity doesn't become you any better than it does most people," he said sharply. "And we haven't time."

She glared at him with loathing.

He smiled back, a twisting of the lips, but still relieved that she was angry enough to fight-not that he wished her to perceive that. "Of course they will say that," he agreed. "I will ask them a great many questions." He was formulating his plan as he spoke. "Because I shall tell them that I have come on behalf of the prosecution and wish to make sure of everything in order to have an unanswerable case. I shall pursue every detail of your stay there."

"I was only there a day," she said.

He ignored her. "Then in the course of so doing, I shall learn everything else I can about them. One of them murdered her. In some way, however slight, they will betray themselves." He said it with more certainty than he felt, but he must not allow her to know that. The least he could do was protect her from the bitterest of the truth, the odds against success. He wished desperately he could do more. It was appalling to be helpless when it mattered so intensely.

The anger drained out of her as suddenly as if someone had turned out a light. Fear overtook everything else.

"Will you?" Her voice shook.

Without thinking he reached forward and took her hand, holding it tightly.

"Yes I will. I doubt it will be easy, or quick, but I will do it." He stopped. They knew each other too well. He saw in her eyes what she was thinking, remembering-that other case they had solved together, finding the truth at last, too late-when the wrong man had been tried and hanged. "I will, Hester," he said with pa.s.sion. "I'll find the truth, whatever it costs, and whoever I have to break to get it."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away suddenly. For a moment she was so frightened she could hardly control herself.

He gritted his teeth.

Why was she so stupidly independent? Why could she not weep like other women? Then he could have held her, offered some kind of comfort-which would have been meaningless. And he would have hated it. He could not bear the way she was, and yet for her to change would have been even worse.

And he hated the fact that he could not dismiss it and walk away. It was not simply another case. It was Hester-and the thought of failure was unendurable.

"Tell me about them," he commanded gruffly. "Who are the Farralines? What did you think of them? What were your impressions?"

She turned and looked at him with surprise. Then slowly she mastered her emotions and replied.

"The eldest son is Alastair. He is the Procurator Fiscal-"

He cut across her. "I don't want facts. I can find them for myself, woman. I want your feelings about the man. Was he happy or miserable? Was he worried? Did he love his mother or hate her? Was he afraid of her? Was she a possessive woman, overprotective, critical, domineering? Tell me something!"

She smiled wanly.

"She seemed generous and very normal to me...."

"She's been murdered, Hester. People don't commit murder without a reason even if it is a bad one. Somebody either hated her or was afraid of her. Why? Tell me more about her. And don't tell me what a charming person she was. People sometimes murder young women because they are too charming, but not old ones."

Hester's smile grew a little wider.

"Don't you think I've lain here trying to think why anyone would kill her? Alastair did seem a little anxious, but that could have been over anything. As I said, he is the Procurator Fiscal...."

"What is a Procurator Fiscal?" This was not a time to stand on his pride and blunder on in ignorance.

"Something like the Crown Prosecutor, I think."

"Hmm." Possibilities arose in his mind.

"And the youngest brother, Kenneth, was bound on an appointment the family knew little of. They a.s.sumed he was courting someone and they had not met her."

"I see. What else?"

"I don't know. I really don't. Quinlan, that is Eilish's husband-"

"Who is Eilish? Did you say Eilish? What kind of a name is that?"

"I don't know. Scottish, I presume. She is the middle daughter. Oonagh is the eldest. Griselda is the youngest."

"What about Quinlan?"

"He and Baird McIvor, Oonagh's husband, seemed to dislike each other. But I don't see how any of that could lead to murder. There are always undercurrents of likes and dislikes in any family, most particularly if they all live under one roof."

"G.o.d forbid!" Monk said with feeling. The thought of living so closely with other people appalled him. He was jealous of his privacy and he did not wish to account for himself to anyone at all, least of all someone who knew him intimately.

She misunderstood him.

"No one would murder for the freedom to leave."

"Wasn't the house hers?" he asked instantly. "What about the money? No, don't bother to answer. You wouldn't know anyway. Rathbone will find that out. Tell me exactly what you did from the time you arrived at the house until you left. When were you alone? Where was the dressing room or wherever the medicine case was left?"

"I've already told Oliver all that," she protested.

"I want it from you," he said coldly. "I can't work on secondhand evidence. And I'll ask you my own questions, not his."

She complied without further argument, sitting on the edge of the cot, and carefully in exact detail, telling him all she could remember. From the ease of her words, and the fact that she did not hesitate, he knew she had rehea.r.s.ed it many times. It made him acutely aware of how she must have lain in the cell in the dark, frightened, far too intelligent not to be fully aware of the magnitude of the danger, even of the possibility they might never learn the truth, or that if they did it would be too late to save her. She had seen it happen. Monk himself had failed before.

By G.o.d he would not fail this time, no matter who it cost.

"Thank you," he said at length, rising to his feet. "Now I must go. I must catch the train north."

She stood up. Her face was very white.

He wanted to say something which would ease her fear, something to give her hope-but it would be a lie, and he had never lied to her.

She drew in her breath to speak, and then changed her mind.

He could not leave without saying something-but what? What was there that would not be an insult to her courage and her intelligence?

She gave a little sniff. "You must go."

On impulse he took her hand and raised it to his lips, and then let it go and strode the three steps to the door. "I'm ready!" he shouted, and the next moment the key clanged in the lock and the door swung open. He left without looking backwards.

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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 circ.u.mstances."

"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 pa.s.s over the case to some less ..." He searched for a euphemism for what he meant, and failed to find one.

Rathbone a.s.sisted 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, a.s.sure her of your loyalty, and above all, keep your spirits high so that she may draw strength from you. Never, in any circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sured 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? d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sed 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?"