"Of course-" Alastair began, but was interrupted by a large man with fading red-gold hair and blurry eyes walking uncertainly in, leaving the doors gaping behind him. He looked at the walls, his gaze finishing on Monk with a lift of curiosity.

There was a moment's total silence.

Alastair let his breath out in a sigh.

Monk caught a glimpse of Oonagh's face, her expression fierce and unreadable for an instant before she stepped forward and took the man by the arm.

"Uncle Hector-" Her voice caught in her throat, then was smooth again. "This is Mr. Monk, who has come up from London in order to help us in the matter of Mother's death."

Hector swallowed hard, as if there were something tight around his neck and he could not free himself from it. The distress in his face was so naked it would have been embarra.s.sing had he not been oblivious of anyone watching him.

"Help?" he said incredulously. He looked at Monk with disgust. "What are you, an undertaker?" He scowled at Alastair. "Since when did we have the undertaker to dinner?"

"Oh G.o.d!" Alastair said desperately.

Kenneth turned away, his face white.

Deirdra looked helplessly to one, then another.

"He's not the undertaker," Quinlan began.

"Griselda took care of all that, Uncle Hector," Oonagh said gently, pa.s.sing him her gla.s.s of wine. "In London. I did tell you, don't you remember?"

He took the gla.s.s and drank it all in one long gulp, then looked at her with slight difficulty in focusing.

"Did you?" He hiccupped loudly and waved his hand in embarra.s.sment. "I don't think I ..."

"Come on, dear, I'll have your dinner sent up. I don't think you are well enough to enjoy it down here."

Hector turned to Monk again.

"Then what the h.e.l.l are you?"

Monk had an uncharacteristic moment of tact.

"I have to do with the law, Mr. Farraline. There are details to be dealt with."

"Oh-" He seemed satisfied.

Oonagh half turned and shot Monk a look of grat.i.tude, then gently steered Hector towards the door and out By the time she came back they were in the dining room and seated at the table. The meal was served, and while they were eating, Monk had the opportunity to observe them individually, conversation requiring no effort on his part.

He turned over in his mind what the errand boy had said. He looked discreetly at Deirdra Farraline. Her face still pleased him. It was thoroughly feminine, soft curves to the cheek and jaw, neat nose, good brow, and yet it was full of determination; there was nothing weak or apathetic about her. He was stupidly disappointed that she was apparently dedicated to spending her time in society and using extravagant amounts of money to impress others.

Of course she was dressed entirely in black now, as mourning required, and it became her, but looking at it with a critical eye, her gown was hardly high fashion. Indeed, he would have said by London standards it was really very ordinary. The gossip was right; she had no taste. It angered him to concede the point.

He turned to look at Eilish, unwilling to be caught staring at her. Her beauty irritated him enough as it was, without his being observed watching her. The last thing he wished was to pander to her vanity.

He need not have worried. She kept her head bent towards her plate, and only twice did she glance upward, and then it was to Baird.

Her gown was also black, naturally, but more becomingly cut, and certainly more up-to-the-minute in detail. In fact, it could not have been bettered by any London beauty, whatever the cost.

He turned to Oonagh. She was surveying the table, watching everyone to a.s.sure herself they had sufficient and were comfortable. He could afford only a moment to look at her, or she would see him. Her gown also was well cut, simple, and more fashionable than Deirdra's. It was not just her fire and her intelligence which made it so. Whatever Deirdra spent her money on, it was not her mourning clothes.

The meal progressed with polite conversation about nothing in particular, and when it was over Kenneth excused himself, to Alastair's annoyance and a sarcastic comment from Quinlan, and the rest of the company retired to the withdrawing room to take up occupations suitable to the Sabbath. Alastair shut himself away in his study to read, although whether it was the Scriptures or not he did not say, and the question from Quinlan went unanswered. Oonagh and Eilish took up embroidery; Deirdra said she had a duty visit to make to a neighbor who was ill, which pa.s.sed without remark. Apparently she was known to the family, and Deirdra called upon her regularly. Quinlan picked up a newspaper-to one or two looks of disapproval, which he ignored-and Baird said he was going to write letters.

Monk took the opportunity to find the domestic staff and question them about the day Hester had been in the house.

It was a difficult task. Their memories were clouded and distorted by their knowledge of Mary's death and their conviction that Hester was to blame. Impressions were useless, only facts had any hope of representing truth, and even they were suspect. Hindsight blurred previous certainties and lent conviction to others which had been only thoughts at the time.

No one argued as to when she had arrived or left, or that she had taken breakfast in the kitchen, then Oonagh had taken her to meet Mary Farraline. The women had had both elevenses and luncheon together. Presumably what Hester had done between was uncertain. One maid recalled seeing her in the library; someone else thought she might have gone upstairs, but she would not swear to it. Undoubtedly she had taken a rest upstairs in the afternoon, and yes of course she could have been in Mary's dressing room and done all manner of things.

Yes, the lady's maid had shown her Mary's clothes, her cases and most particularly the medicine chest. That was her job, wasn't it? She was employed to give Mrs. Farraline her medicine. How could she do it if she were not shown where it was?

No one blamed her for that.

Didn't they indeed? Just look at the expressions on their faces, if that was what you thought. Listen to what they whispered to one another when they thought she wasn't listening.

By five o'clock, as it was getting dusk, Monk gave up. It was extremely dispiriting. There was very little that he could prove, or disprove, and in view of what Oonagh had said about the jewel case being with Mary on the train, it was hardly of any importance anyway.

He was bitterly discouraged. All he had learned in three days was nebulous, nothing was certain except that Hester had had the opportunity, the means were to hand and she had the knowledge to use them more than almost anyone else, and the motive was apparent-the pearl brooch-hardly a motive for any member of the family.

He returned to the withdrawing room angry and fighting despair.

"Did you learn anything?" Eilish asked as he came in.

He had already decided what he would say, and he composed himself with an effort.

"Only what I expected," he replied, forcing a smile that was a matter of lips bared over his teeth.

"I see."

"Well, what did you think?" Quinlan looked up from his newspaper. "You don't imagine one of us did it, do you?"

"Why not?" Baird snapped. "If I were defending Miss Latterly, that is exactly what I would think."

"Indeed?" Quinlan swung around to face him. "And why would you have murdered Mother-in-law, Baird? Did you quarrel with her? Did she know something about you that the rest of us don't? Or was it for Oonagh's inheritance? Or was Mary going to make you keep your eyes off my wife?"

Baird shot out of his chair and lunged towards Quinlan, but Oonagh was there before him, standing between them, her face white.

He stopped abruptly, almost knocking into her.

Quinlan sat perfectly still, the sneer frozen on his face, his eyes wide.

"Stop it!" Oonagh said between her teeth. "This is indecent and quite ridiculous." She took a deep, shaking breath. "Baird, please...we are all upset with what has happened. Quin is behaving very badly, but you are only making it worse." She smiled at him, staring into his angry face, and very slowly he relaxed and took a step backwards.

"I'm sorry...." he apologized, not to Quin but to his wife.

Oonagh's smile became a little more certain. "I know you were defending me, as well as yourself, but there is no need. Quin has always been jealous. It happens to men with such beautiful wives. Although, heaven knows, there is no need." She swung around to Quinlan, smiling at him also. "Eilish is yours, my dear, and has been for years. But she is part of the whole family, and everyone with eyes will admire her beauty. You shouldn't resent that. It is a compliment to you also. Eilish, dear ..."

Eilish looked at her sister, her face scarlet.

"Please a.s.sure Quin of your undivided loyalty. I'm sure you do so often...but once again? For peace?"

Very slowly Eilish obeyed, turning to her husband, then back towards Baird, and forcing herself to look into her husband's face and curve her lips into a smile.

"Of course," she said softly. "I wish you wouldn't say such things, Quin. I have never done anything to give you cause, I swear."

Quinlan looked at Eilish, then at Oonagh. For a second no one moved, then slowly he relaxed and smiled as well.

"Naturally," he agreed. "Of course you haven't. You are quite right, Oonagh. A man with a wife as beautiful as mine must expect the world to look at her and envy him. Isn't that right, Baird?"

Baird said nothing. His face was unreadable.

Oonagh turned to Monk.

"Is there anything further we could do to a.s.sist you, Mr. Monk?" she asked, leaving Baird and coming towards him. "Perhaps you may think of something in a day or two...that is, if you will still be in Edinburgh?"

"Thank you," he accepted quickly. "I shall certainly remain a little longer. There are other things to look into, proof I might find that would place it beyond question."

She did not ask him what he had in mind, but walked gracefully towards the door. Accepting the gesture of parting, he followed her, bidding good-night to the others and thanking them for their hospitality.

Outside in the hall Oonagh stopped and faced him, her expression grave. Her voice when she spoke was low.

"Mr. Monk, do you intend to continue investigating this family?"

He was uncertain how to answer. He searched for fear or anger in her face, for resentment, but what he saw was that same curious interest and sense of challenge, not unlike the emotion she stirred in him.

"Because if you do," she continued, "I have something to ask of you."

He seized the chance.

"Of course," he said quickly. "What is it?"

She looked down, masking her thoughts. "If-if in your...discoveries, you learn where my sister-in-law manages to spend so much money, I would...we would all be much obliged if you would advise us...at least advise me." She looked up at him suddenly, and yet there was neither candor nor anxiety in her eyes. "I may be able to speak to her privately and forestall a great deal of unpleasantness. Could you do that? Would it be unethical?"

"Certainly I can do it, Mrs. McIvor," he said without hesitation. It was a gauntlet thrown down, whether she cared for the answer in the slightest, and it was precisely the excuse he needed. He liked Deirdra, but he would sacrifice her in an instant if it would help him find the truth.

She smiled, humor and challenge under the cool tones of her voice and behind the composure of her features. "Thank you. Perhaps in two or three days you will return and dine with us again?"

"I shall look forward to it," he accepted, and as McTeer appeared and handed him his hat and coat, he took his leave.

It was quite by chance as he was hesitating on the footpath, deciding whether to walk the entire distance to the Gra.s.smarket or go east and down to Princes Street to look for a hansom, that he glanced back towards the Farraline house and saw a small, neat figure in wide skirts emerge from near the side entrance and run down to the carriageway. He knew it must be Deirdra; no maid would have such a sweeping crinoline, and it was too small to be either Eilish or Oonagh.

The next moment he saw the other figure, coming across the road. As he pa.s.sed underneath the gas lamp the light fell on him and Monk saw his rough clothes and dirty face. He was intent on the silhouette of Deirdra, going towards her eagerly.

Then he saw Monk. He froze, turned on the spot, hesitated a moment, then loped off up the way he had come. Monk waited nearly fifteen minutes, but he did not come back again, and at last Deirdra returned alone into the house.

.6.

ON THE TRAIN northwards Monk had comforted himself with the thought that Hester had endured the Crimea, so a time in Newgate would not be beyond her experience, or even markedly worse than that with which she was already familiar. Indeed, he had thought in many ways it would even be better. northwards Monk had comforted himself with the thought that Hester had endured the Crimea, so a time in Newgate would not be beyond her experience, or even markedly worse than that with which she was already familiar. Indeed, he had thought in many ways it would even be better.

He was mistaken. She found it immeasurably worse. Certainly there were elements that brought back memory so sharply her breath caught in her throat and her eyes p.r.i.c.kled. She was intensely cold. Her body shook with it, her extremities lost sensation, and at night she was unable to sleep except for short spells because the cold woke her.

And she was hungry. Food was regular, though it was minimal, and not pleasant. That was like the Crimea, but rather better: she had no fear of being allowed to starve. The chance of disease was present, but it was so slight she gave it no thought. The fear of injury did occur to her once or twice, not from sh.e.l.l or bullets, of course, simply of being beaten or knocked down by wardresses who were quite open in their loathing for her.

If she became ill, she treasured no illusions that anyone would care for her, and that thought was far more frightening than she had foreseen. To be ill alone, or with malicious eyes looking on and enjoying your distress, your weakness and indignity, was a horror that brought out the cold sweat on her skin, and her heart beat faster in near panic.

That was the greatest difference. In the Crimea she had been respected by her colleagues, adored by the soldiers to whom she had dedicated so much. Such love and purpose can be food to the hungry, warmth in the hardest winter, and anesthetic to pain. It can even blind out fear and spur on exhaustion.

Hatred and loneliness cripple everything.

And then there was time. In the Crimea she had worked almost every moment she was awake. Here there was nothing to do but sit on the cot and wait, hour after hour, from morning till night, day after day. She could do nothing herself. Everything rested with Rathbone or Monk. She was endlessly idle.

She had resolved not even to think of the future, not to project her mind forward to the trial, to picture the courtroom as she had seen it so many times before from the gallery when watching Rathbone. This time she would be in the dock, looking down on it all. Would they try her in the Old Bailey? Would it be the same courtroom she had been in before, feeling such compa.s.sion and dread for others? She rolled her fear around in her mind, although she had sworn she would not, testing it, trying to guess how different the reality would be from the imagining. It was like touching a wound over and over again, to see if it really hurt as much as you had thought, if it was any better yet, or any worse.

How often had she criticized injured soldiers for doing just that? It was both stupid and destructive. And here she was doing exactly the same. It was as if one had had to look at one's own doom all the time, deluding oneself that it might change, that it might not have been as it had seemed.

And there was the other idea at the back of her mind, that if she absorbed all the pain now, in some way when it really happened she would be prepared.

Her misery was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and the door swinging open. There was no privacy here; it was both totally isolated and yet open at any time to intrusion.

The wardress she hated most stood glaring at her, her pale hair drawn back in a knot on her head so tightly it dragged the skin around her eyes. Her face was almost expressionless. Only a tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth betrayed both her contempt and the satisfaction she had in showing it.

"Stand up, Latterly," she ordered. "There's someone 'ere ter see yer." She invested the announcement with both surprise and anger. "Yer lucky. Better make the best of it. Can't be long now till yer goin' ter trial, then there won't be people comin' and goin' all hours."

"I shan't be here to care," Hester said tartly.

The wardress's thin eyebrows rose.

"Think yer goin' 'ome, do yer? That'll be the day! They'll 'ang yer, my fine lady, by yer skinny white neck, until ye're dead. No point n.o.body comin' te see ye then!"

Hester looked at her slowly, carefully, meeting her eyes.

"I've seen too many people hanged, and found innocent afterwards, to argue with you," she said clearly. "The difference is that that doesn't bother you. You want to see someone hanged, and the truth doesn't interest you."

A dull red color washed up the woman's face and the heavy muscles in her neck tightened. She took half a step forward.

"You watch yer mouth, Latterly, or I'll 'ave yer! You just remember who 'olds the keys 'ere-an' it ain't you. I got power-and yer'll be glad enough to 'ave me on yer side-when the end comes. I seen a lot o' people think 'emselves brave-till the night before the rope."

"After a month in your charge, the rope may not seem so bad," Hester said bitterly, but inside her stomach was knotted and her breath came unevenly. "Who is my visitor?"

She had hoped it would be Rathbone. He was her lifeline to sanity, and hope. Callandra had been twice, but somehow Hester found herself very emotional when she saw her. Perhaps it was Callandra's very obvious affection and the depth of her concern. Hester had felt uncontrollably lonely after she had gone. It had taken all the willpower she possessed not to give in to a fit of weeping. It was primarily the thought of the wardress's returning, and her contempt and satisfaction, that prevented her.

Now beyond the wardress's powerful shoulder she could see not Rathbone but her brother Charles. He looked pale and profoundly unhappy.

Suddenly memory overwhelmed her. She was almost drowned in the recollection of his face when she had arrived home from the Crimea after her parents' deaths and Charles had met her at the house to tell her the full extent of the tragedy, not only the death by suicide of their father, but the broken heart so shortly afterwards which had taken their mother also, and the financial ruin left behind. He had just the same, familiar look of embarra.s.sment and anxiety now. He looked curiously emotionally naked, and seeing him, Hester felt like a child again.