"And you want me to help you find out who it is?"

He hesitated, on the edge of reminding her that it was the price of his silence, then decided it would be wiser not to. She already understood as much.

"Don't you want to know?" he asked instead.

She waited only a moment.

"Yes."

He held out his hand, and she took it in her leather-gloved one and clasped it in silent agreement.

.7.

MONK RETURNED to his lodgings cold, tired and faced with a dilemma. He had promised to tell Oonagh if he learned where Deirdra spent her money-or, more accurately, Alastair's money. Now that he knew the answer, every instinct and desire was to tell no one at all, most especially not Oonagh. to his lodgings cold, tired and faced with a dilemma. He had promised to tell Oonagh if he learned where Deirdra spent her money-or, more accurately, Alastair's money. Now that he knew the answer, every instinct and desire was to tell no one at all, most especially not Oonagh.

Of course her whole enterprise was quite mad, bereft of any connection with reality, but it was an absurd and glorious madness, and harmed no one at all. What if she did spend money on it? The Farralines had plenty of money, and better on a wild and innocuous folly like a flying machine than on gambling, a lover, or to deck herself in silks and jewels in order to look wealthier or more beautiful than her peers. Certainly she should continue.

He found himself striding out with his head high and a lift in his step, and he very nearly went straight past the establishment of Wm. Forster, Innkeeper, in his exhilaration.

In the morning, however, he realized he should have taken the opportunity to strike a better bargain with her. He could have asked her about the company books, and whether there was any basis for Hector's charge. And there was the matter of what he would say to Oonagh. She would never allow him simply to let the subject fade away. And if he were to avoid her, he would have to avoid the Farraline house, which was an impossibility.

Memory of that returned Hester to his thoughts sharply and with a pain that surprised him. At the forefront of his mind he had always considered Hester intelligent, and certainly a useful colleague, but a person about whom his feelings were very mixed. He respected her qualities, at any rate some of them, but he did not really like her. A great many of her mannerisms and att.i.tudes irritated him enormously. Being in her company was like having a small cut on the hands, a paper cut, which was always in danger of being reopened. It was not really an injury, but it was a constant source of discomfort.

And now came the awareness that if he did not succeed in finding proof of who had really killed Mary Farraline, Hester would be gone. He would never see her or speak with her again, never see her square shoulders and proud, rather angular figure come walking towards him, ready to pick a quarrel or enthuse about some cause or other, order him around and express her opinions furiously and with total, blind conviction. If he was facing an impossible case, desperate and defeated, there would be no one who would fight beside him to the end, and beyond, even when reason told them both defeat was already a reality.

He was overwhelmed with a loneliness so deep, staring at the gray cobbles of the Gra.s.smarket and the leaden sky between the heaped and jumbled roofs, the light was worse than the darkness had been, and unreasonably colder. The thought of a world without her was desolating, and the realization that it hurt him so profoundly choked him with anger.

He set out at a brisk walk towards Kings Stables Road, and eventually Ainslie Place. At the front of his mind, his reason for going was to speak to Hector Farraline and press him further to make some sense in the dark and extremely vague accusations he had been making about the company books. If they were indeed being falsified, it might be a motive for murder-if Mary had known, or was about to be told.

His excuse was to report to Oonagh that he was still investigating Deirdra but that so far all he had learned was that she was indeed a poor judge of how to obtain a bargain, and given to extravagance in her attire. If she pressed him for details he would find it difficult to reply, but he was too consumed with emotion for his mind to take heed of such things.

It was a brisk morning after the previous night's frost, but striding up the rise towards Princes Street, it was not at all unpleasant. He was not in any way familiar with Edinburgh, except the immediate vicinity of the Gra.s.smarket now, but he had already developed a liking for the city. The old town was steep and narrow with high buildings, lots of alleys, closes and leg-aching flights of steps, sudden courtyards, and wynds, as they were called; especially eastward towards the Royal Mile, at the far end of which stood Holyrood Palace.

He arrived at Ainslie Place and McTeer let him in with his usual air of gloom and foreboding.

"Good morning to ye, Mr. Monk." He took Monk's hat and coat. "Looks like more rain, I'll be thinking."

Monk was in the mood for an argument.

"More?" he said with wide eyes. "It's quite dry outside. In fact, it's really very agreeable."

McTeer was not put off. "It'll no last," he said with a shake of his head. "Ye'll be to see Mrs. McIvor, no doubt?"

"If I may? I should also like to see Major Farraline, if he is available?"

McTeer sighed. "I couldn't say if he is or no, until I inquire, sir. But I'll be about seein' for ye. If ye'll take a seat in the morning room in the meanwhile."

Monk accepted, and stood in the somber room with its half-drawn blinds and crepe ribbons with surprising apprehension. Now that it actually came to facing Oonagh and lying to her, it was even more difficult than he had expected.

The door opened and he swung around, his mouth dry. She was facing him with calm, measured intelligence. She was not really beautiful, but there was a power of character in her which demanded not only his attention but his admiration as well. Mere form and color bore so quickly, no matter how startling at first. Intelligence, strength of will, the ability to feel great pa.s.sions and the courage to follow them through, these lasted. And above all he was drawn to the mystery of her, that part he did not understand and she would always hold aloof and apart. It flashed through his mind to wonder about Baird McIvor. What sort of man was he that Mary had liked him? He had won Oonagh's hand in marriage, and yet had fallen in love with Eilish so profoundly he could not mask his feelings even in front of his wife. How could he be so shallow-and so cruel? Surely she had seen? Did she love him so much she forgave his weakness? Or did she love Eilish? The depths to her were immeasurable.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk." She interrupted his thoughts and jerked him into the present. "Have you something to report?" Her words were no more than courteous, but her voice had a vibrancy to it. She was asking a friend, not an employee.

If he hesitated he would betray himself. He was acutely conscious of the sharpness of the perception behind those clear, level eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs. McIvor," he replied. "Not a great deal, I am afraid, except that my investigation so far indicates that your sister-in-law is involved in nothing discreditable. I do not believe she gambles or keeps company with people of poor reputation or habits. I am sure she does not keep a lover, nor is there anyone putting pressure upon her for payment, either of old debts or to keep silent about some unfortunate act of the past." He smiled straight at her, not boldly, but quite casually. Liars could give themselves away by appearing overconfident. "In fact, it would seem she is simply an extravagant woman who has little idea of the value of money and no idea at all how to obtain a bargain, or even a reasonable purchase."

Somewhere beyond the door a maid giggled, and was instantly silent again.

She looked at him steadily, her eyes searching his. It was many years since he had faced anyone with such a penetrating gaze, one which he felt was able to perceive a person's character and read not only judgments but emotions as well, even to sense weaknesses and hungers.

Suddenly she smiled and the light filled her face.

"I'm so relieved, Mr. Monk."

Did she believe him, or was this a polite way of dismissing the subject for the time being?

"I am glad," he acknowledged, surprised how relieved he was that the intensity of the moment had pa.s.sed.

"Thank you for telling me so rapidly." She walked farther into the room and automatically adjusted an ornament of dried flowers on the central table. It was a desiccated-looking piece and reminded him of funerals.

As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps his face, she pulled the corners of her mouth into a grimace. "It doesn't look well in here, does it? I think I shall have it removed. I would prefer fresh leaves to this, wouldn't you?"

It was unnerving to have one's thoughts so easily observed. It made him wonder if she had seen the lies he had told as well, and simply chose not to remark on them.

"I don't care for artificial flowers," he agreed, forcing himself to keep the smile on his face.

"You must have worked very hard," she went on quite casually.

For a moment he had no idea what she meant, then with a jolt he realized she was referring to his report on Deirdra again. Had he overstated his findings? How could he substantiate such answers if she were to ask him how he knew?

"You are quite sure of what you say?" she pressed. There was a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes-or was it perception?

There was nothing to do but be brazen. He made the same laughter reflect in his own face. It was not difficult.

"Yes, I am quite certain that I have no evidence that she is anything more than extravagant and unaware of the amount she needs to pay rather than can be persuaded to pay," he answered. "And there is much evidence that she is, in all ways that matter, a thoroughly respectable woman."

She was standing with her back to the window and the light made a halo of her hair.

"Hmm." She sighed a little. "All in so short a time, and yet it has taken you many days to search for evidence that will convict Miss Latterly...."

He should have foreseen that, and he had not. He thought quickly.

"Miss Latterly has taken a great deal of trouble to hide any such evidence, Mrs. McIvor. Mrs. Farraline had nothing to hide. Murder hardly compares with a little extravagance in one's dressmaker, milliner, glover, hosier, bootmaker, haberdasher, furrier, jeweler or perfumier."

"Great heavens!" She laughed, turning to face him. "What an array of people! Yes, perhaps I begin to understand. Anyway, I am obliged to you, and also for having the courtesy to tell me so rapidly. How is your own investigation proceeding?"

"So far I can find nothing with which the defense could trap us," he said truthfully. "I should like very much to learn where she obtained the extra digitalis, but either it was not from an apothecary locally or, if it was, they prefer to remain silent about it."

"I suppose that would not be altogether surprising. The sale would make them, however innocently, party to the murder," she said, watching his face. "People do not like to compromise their reputations, especially if they are in business. It would not improve his trade."

"No." He pursed his lips. "Although I would like to have found him. The defense will point out that she had very little time in which she could have left the house. She was in a city she did not know-she cannot have gone far."

Oonagh drew breath as if to say something, then let it out in a sigh.

"Have you given up, Mr. Monk?" There was only the faintest shadow of challenge in her voice, and disappointment.

He too nearly spoke before thinking. It was on the edge of his tongue to deny it fiercely, then he realized how the emotion would betray him. Carefully he masked his feelings.

"Not yet," he said casually. "But I am close to it. I may soon have done all I can to a.s.sure the outcome."

"I hope you will call on us again before you leave Edinburgh?" There was nothing in her face. She needed no artifice and she knew it. Such a thing would be beneath her.

"Thank you, I should like to. You have been most courteous."

He excused himself, and in the empty hall, after she had returned to the nether part of the house, he ran lightly to the stairs and up them to search for Hector Farraline. If he waited for McTeer he would have to explain why he wished to see Hector, and would very likely be politely refused.

He knew the geography of the house from his earlier visits, when he had questioned the servants and been shown Mary's bedroom, the boudoir and the dressing room where the cases and the medicine cabinet had been.

He found Hector's room without difficulty and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately with eagerness which was explained when Hector's face fell, and Monk realized he had been expecting someone else, probably McTeer with a little refreshment. Monk had observed that the family did not restrict Hector his liquid sustenance, or seem to make any stringent efforts to keep him sober.

"Oh, the detective, again," Hector said disapprovingly. "Not that ye've found out a d.a.m.n thing all the time ye've been here! Some poor fool's paying ye money for naught."

Monk went in and closed the door behind him. In other circ.u.mstances he might have lost his temper at such language, but he was too intent upon what he might learn from Hector.

"I came looking to find evidence that the defense would put up to clear Miss Latterly," he answered with a candid glance at the older man. He still looked ill, red-eyed and pale-faced, his movement shambling.

"Why did she kill Mary?" Hector said wretchedly, crumpling into the large leather chair near the window. He did not bother to invite Monk to sit down. The room was very masculine; there were scores of books in an oak case against one wall, too far away for Monk to read the t.i.tles. A very fine watercolor painting of a Napoleonic hussar hung above the mantelpiece, and another of a soldier of the Royal Scots Greys was on the wall opposite. A little below it was a portrait of an officer in full Highland dress. He was a young man, handsome, with fine features, thick fair hair and wide level eyes. It was several minutes before Monk recognized it as Hector himself, probably thirty years ago. What on earth had happened to the man in that time to change him from what he had been to the pathetic wreck he was now? Surely it must have been more than simply an elder brother with more character, more intelligence and more courage? Were envy and defeat such virulent diseases?

"Why would a woman like that risk everything for a few pearls?" Hector demanded, his voice suddenly sharp with irritation. "It makes no sense, man. She'll be hanged...there'll be no mercy for her, ye know?"

"Yes," Monk said very quietly, his throat dry. "I do know. You said something the other day about the company books being falsified...."

"Oh, aye. So they are." Hector said it without the slightest hesitation, and almost without expression.

"By whom?"

Hector blinked. "By whom?" he repeated, as if the question were a curious thing to ask. "I've no idea. Maybe Kenneth. He's the bookkeeper-but he'd be a fool to do it. It'd be so obvious. But then he is a fool."

"Is he?"

Hector looked at him, realizing he was asking a question, not merely responding to a casual remark.

"Not over anything specific," he said slowly. "Just a general opinion."

Monk was certain he was lying, and equally certain he had no intention of telling anyone precisely what Kenneth had done to earn his contempt.

"How do you know?" he asked, sitting down on the smaller, more upright chair opposite him.

"What?" Hector looked composed. "I live in the same house with him, for heaven's sake. Have done for years. What's the matter with you, man?"

Monk was surprised with himself that he was so little irritated.

"I realize how you know he's a fool," he said calmly. "I don't know how you know the books have been meddled with."

"Oh, I see."

"Well, how do you know?"

Hector looked far away. "Something Mary said. Can't remember what, exactly. Annoyed about it though. Very."

Monk leaned forward sharply. "Did she say it was Kenneth? Think, man!"

"No she didn't," Hector replied, puckering his brow. "She was just annoyed."

"But she didn't send for the police?"

"No." He opened his eyes wide and looked at Monk with satisfaction. "That's why I thought it was Kenneth." He shrugged. "But Quinlan is a clever swine. Wouldn't put anything past him either. Upstart. All brains and ambition, greedy for power. Does everything sideways. Never knew why Oonagh was so nice with him. I wouldn't have let him marry Eilish. I'd have sent him on his way, for all that he was charming enough to begin with."

"Even if she loved him?" Monk asked quietly.

Hector said nothing, for several seconds staring out of the window.

"Aye, well, maybe if I thought that ..."

"Didn't you?"

"Me?" Hector's fair eyebrows rose, wrinkling his brow. "What do I know about it? She doesn't tell me things like that." A look of grief came into his face, so intense and so sudden Monk was embarra.s.sed to have seen it. It was a rare feeling for him, and surprisingly painful. For a moment he was confused, not knowing what to say or do.

But Hector was oblivious of him. The emotion was too consuming and too immediate for him to care what others thought of him.

"But I'd be surprised if he embezzled," he said suddenly. "He's a fly beggar, that one, far too clever to steal."

"What about Mr. McIvor?"

"Baird?" Hector looked up again, his expression changed to one of amus.e.m.e.nt and pity. "Maybe. Never understood that one. Deep. Mary was fond of him, for all his moods. Used to say there was more good in him than we knew. Which'd no be hard, as far as I'm concerned."

"Has he been married to Oonagh long?"

Hector smiled and it altered his face startlingly. The years of self-abuse dropped away and Monk saw the shadow of the man in the Highland dress thirty years ago. The resemblance to the portrait of Hamish Farraline in the hall was stronger, and yet also in some ways less. The pride and the bearing were more alike, the dignity and self-a.s.surance. But there was a humor in Hector that was absent in his older brother, and oddly, considering the man he was now, a sense of peace.

"Ye'll be thinking they're an odd pair," Hector said, regarding Monk knowingly. "So they are. But I'm told Baird was very dashing when he first came here, very romantic. All dark, brooding looks and hidden pa.s.sion. Should have been a Highlander, not an Englishman. Oonagh turned down a perfectly good Scots lawyer to take Baird on. Good family, too, the lawyer, very good."

"Mother-in-law?" Monk asked.

Hector's face was incredulous, as if he had seen a sudden flash of light.