"I could," Monk agreed. "I could be the police."

"Rozzers?" But his face paled. "What for? I keep a farm. Isn't nothing illegal in that. You ain't a rozzer, you're just a nosy b.a.s.t.a.r.d who don't know what's good for him!"

"Would it interest you, or surprise you, to know that McIvor never pa.s.sed on all this money that you sent to him on the train?" Monk asked sarcastically.

Arkwright tried to leer, but there was no laughter behind it, only a strange gleam of anxiety.

"Well, that's his problem, isn't it?"

In that moment Monk knew that Baird McIvor could not betray Arkwright, and Arkwright was totally sure of it. But equally, if Baird lost his power of authority for the croft, Arkwright would lose it too. Blackmail. That was the only conceivable answer. Why? Over what? How would this man ever come to know an apparent gentleman like Baird McIvor? Arkwright was at best bordering on criminal, at worst a fully fledged professional.

Monk shrugged with deliberate casualness and made as if to turn away.

"McIvor'll tell me all about it," he said smugly. "He'll gra.s.s you."

"No 'e won't!" Arkwright said victoriously. "'E daren't, or 'e'll shop 'imself."

"Rubbish! Who'd believe you against him? He'll gra.s.s you all right. To account for the money."

"Anyone as can read'll believe me," Arkwright sneered. "It's all writ. An' 'e's still got the marks o' a c.o.c.kchafer on 'is backside."

Prison. So that was the answer. Baird McIvor had served a term in jail somewhere. Possibly Arkwright knew about it because he had been there too. Perhaps they had trodden side by side on the "c.o.c.kchafer," that dreaded machine more properly called a treadmill, where inmates were imprisoned for a quarter of an hour at a time, treading down a wheel of twenty-four steps attached to a long axle and an ingenious arrangement of weather vanes so they always turned at exactly the right speed to cause the most breathlessness, suffocation and exhaustion. The cant name arose because of the agony caused by the leather harness constantly rubbing on the tender flesh.

But had Mary Farraline known all this? Had he killed her to keep that dreadful secret, as he had paid Arkwright with a rent-free croft to keep his? It seemed so obvious it was hard to deny.

Why should it pain Monk? Because he wanted it to be Kenneth? That was absurd.

And yet somehow the shining bay did not seem so warm when he turned to leave, and walked down the gentle slope between the hedges towards the smithy and his horse, to ride long and hard back to Inverness.

He had crossed Cromarty and the Black Isle and was on the ferry across the Beauty, his back aching, pain shooting through his shoulders as he pulled furiously on the oars. He was determined to vent his anger on something, despite the ferryman's smile and his offer to do it all himself. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he remembered the time in his childhood that the first memory had brought back with such pain. He knew what the other emotion was, the one that hovered on the edges, dark and unrecognized. It was guilt. Guilt because they were returning from a lifeboat rescue, and he had been afraid. He had been so bitterly afraid of the yawning gulf of water that had opened up between the lifeboat and the doomed ship that he had frozen in terror, missing the thrown rope and too late seeing it coil and slither back off the deck, into the water. They had thrown it again, of course, but the few precious seconds had been lost, and with it the chance of a man's life.

The sweat broke out on his skin here in the present as he bent his back and dug the oar savagely into the bright water of the Beauly Firth. All he could see in his mind's eye was the gaping chasm of water between the boat sides all those years ago. He could taste the shame as if it were minutes past and feel the tears of humiliation p.r.i.c.kle in his eyes.

Why did he remember that? There must have been dozens of happy memories, times he had shared with his family; there must have been successes, achievements. What was it in him that chose this to bring back so vividly? Was there more to it, something else, uglier, that he still did not recall?

Or was it that his pride could not accept failure of any sort, and he clung to the old wound because it still rankled, souring everything else? Was he really so self-obsessed?

"A wee bit dour today," the ferryman observed. "Did ye no find what you wanted up at the port?"

"Yes...yes, I found it," Monk replied, heaving on the oars. "It was what I expected."

"Then it's no to your taste, to judge from the dreich look on your face."

"No...it's not."

The ferryman nodded and kept his silence.

They reached the far side. Monk climbed out stiffly, paid him, and took his leave. His whole body ached abominably. Served him right for his pride. He should have let the ferryman row.

He arrived back in Edinburgh tired and without any feeling of satisfaction in his discovery. He chose to walk, in spite of the gusty wind blowing in his face and the touch of sleet now and again out of a gray sky. He strode across the Waverley Bridge, right down Market Street, up Bank Street and over the George IV Bridge and right into the Gra.s.smarket. He ended outside Hester's lodgings without having given a thought to why he chose there instead of Ainslie Place. Perhaps in some way he decided she deserved to learn the truth before the Farralines, or to be present when they were told it. He did not even consider the cruelty of it. She had liked Baird, or at least he had formed that impression.

He was already at her door before he realized he simply wanted to share his own disillusion, not with anyone, although there was no one else, but specifically with her. The knowledge froze his hand in the air.

But she had heard his footsteps on the uncarpeted pa.s.sage and opened the door, her face filled with expectancy, and an element of fear. She saw his own disillusion in his eyes before he spoke.

"It was Baird...." It was almost a question, not quite. She held the door for him to go in.

He accepted without the impropriety of it crossing his mind. The thought never occurred to him.

"Yes. He was in prison. Arkwright, the man on the croft, knew it; in fact, I imagine the b.a.s.t.a.r.d served with him." He sat down on the bed, leaving the one chair for her. "I expect McIvor let him use the croft to keep him silent, and when Mary found out, he killed her for the same reason. He could hardly have the Farralines, and all Edinburgh, know he was an old lag."

She looked at him gravely, almost expressionlessly, for several seconds. He wanted to see some reaction in her, a reflection of his own hurt, and he was about to speak, but he did not know what to say. For once he did not want to quarrel with her. He wanted closeness, an end to unhappy surprises.

"Poor Baird," she said with a little shiver.

He was about to ridicule her sentiment, then he remembered with a jolt that she had tasted prison herself, bitterly and very recently. His remark died unspoken.

"Eilish is going to be destroyed," she said quietly, but still there seemed a lack of real horror in her.

"Yes," he agreed vehemently. "Yes she is."

Hester frowned. "Are you really sure it was Baird? Just because he was in prison doesn't necessarily mean he killed Mary. Don't you think it is possible, if this Arkwright creature was blackmailing him, that he might have told Mary, and she helped him by letting him use the croft that way?"

"Come on, Hester," he said wearily. "You're clutching at straws. Why should she? He'd misled them all, lied to them about his past. Why should she do what was virtually paying blackmail for him? She may have been a good woman, but that calls for a saint."

"No it doesn't," she contradicted him. "I "I knew Mary, you didn't." knew Mary, you didn't."

"You met her on one train journey!"

"I knew her! She liked Baird. She told me that herself."

"She didn't know he was an old lag."

"We don't know what he did." She leaned forward, demanding he listen. "He may have told her, and she still liked him. We knew about a time when he was very upset and went off by himself. Maybe this was when Arkwright turned up. Then he told Mary about it, and she helped him, and he was all right. It's quite possible."

"Then who killed Mary?"

Her face closed over. "I don't know. Kenneth?"

"And Baird playing with the chemicals?" he added.

A look of scorn filled her face. "Don't be so naive. No one else saw that but Quinlan, and he's green with jealousy. He'd lie about Baird as quick as look at you."

"And hang him for a crime he didn't commit?"

"Of course. Why not?"

He looked at her and saw certainty in her eyes. He wondered if she ever doubted herself, as he did. But then she knew her past, knew not only what she thought and felt now, but what she had always thought, and done. There was no secret room in her life, no dark pa.s.sages and locked doors in the mind.

"It's monstrous," he said quietly.

She searched his face. "It is to you and me." Her voice was soft. "But to him, Baird has stolen what should be his. Not his wife-but his wife's love, her respect, her admiration. He can't accuse him of that, he can't punish him for it. Perhaps he feels that is monstrous too."

"That ..." he began, and then stopped.

She was smiling, not with anything like laughter, but a wry, hurting perception.

"We had better go and tell them what you found out."

Reluctantly he rose to his feet. There was no alternative.

They stood in the withdrawing room in Ainslie Place. Everyone was present. Even Alastair had contrived not to be in court or his offices. And presumably the printing was running itself, at least for the day.

"We a.s.sumed you would return this morning," Oonagh said, regarding Monk carefully. She looked tired-the fair skin under her eyes was paper thin-but as always her composure was complete.

Alastair looked from Monk to Oonagh and back again. Eilish was in an agony of suspense. She stood beside Quinlan as if frozen. Baird was in the farther side of the room, eyes downcast, face ashen.

Kenneth stood by the mantelshelf with a slight smirk on his face, but it was hard to tell if it was not predominantly relief. Once he smiled at Quinlan, and Eilish shot him such a look of loathing he blushed and turned away.

Deirdra sat in an armchair looking unhappy, and beside her, Hector Farraline was also sunk in gloom. For once he seemed totally sober.

Alastair cleared his throat. "I think you had better tell us what you discovered, Mr. Monk. It is pointless standing here doubting and fearing, and thinking ill of each other. Did you find this croft of Mother's? I confess I knew nothing of it, not even of its existence."

"No reason why you should," Hector said darkly. "Nothing to do with you."

Alastair frowned, then decided to ignore him.

They were all looking at Monk, even Baird, his dark eyes so full of pain, and the knowledge of pain, that Monk could have no doubt he knew exactly what Arkwright would have said, and that it was the truth. He hated doing this. But it was not the first time he had liked someone who was guilty of a crime he deplored.

"I found the man who is living in the croft," he said aloud, looking at no one in particular. Hester was standing beside him silently. He was glad of her presence. In some way she shared his sense of loss. "He claimed that he sent money to Mr. McIvor."

Quinlan gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

Eilish started, as if to speak, but said nothing. Her face looked as if she had been struck.

"But I did not believe him," Monk continued.

"Why not?" Alastair was amazed. "That won't do."

Oonagh touched his sleeve, and as if understanding some unspoken communication, he fell silent again.

Monk answered the question anyway.

"Because he could offer no explanation as to how he contrived the payments. I asked him if he rode to Inverness, a day's ride on a good horse, across two ferries, and put a purse on a train to Edinburgh...."

"That's absurd," Deirdra said contemptuously.

"Of course," Monk agreed.

"So what are you saying, Mr. Monk?" Oonagh asked very steadily. "If he did not pay Baird, then why is he still there? Why has he not been thrown out?"

Monk took a deep breath. "Because he is blackmailing Mr. McIvor over a past a.s.sociation, and is living there freely as the price of his silence."

"What a.s.sociation?" Quinlan demanded. "Did Mother-in-law find out about it? Is that why Baird killed her?"

"Hold your tongue!" Deirdra snapped at him, moving closer to Eilish and glaring at Baird, as if praying for him to deny it, but one look at his face was enough to know that would not happen. "What a.s.sociation, Mr. Monk? I presume you have proof of all you are saying?"

"Don't be fatuous, Deirdra," Oonagh said bitterly. "The proof is in his face. What is Mr. Monk talking about, Baird? I think you had better tell us all, rather than have some stranger do it for you."

Baird looked up and his eyes met Monk's for a long, breathless moment, then he acquiesced. He had no alternative. He began in a low, tight voice, harsh with past hurt and present pain.

"When I was twenty-two I killed a man. He abused an old man I respected. Made mock of him, humiliated him. We fought. I did not intend to, at least I don't think I did...but I killed him. He struck his head against the curb. I served three years in prison for it. That was when I met Arkwright. When I was set free I left Yorkshire and came north to Scotland. I made my way quite successfully, and put the past behind me. I had all but forgotten it, until one day Arkwright turned up and threatened to tell everyone unless I paid him. I couldn't-I had barely enough means for myself, and I would have had to explain to Oonagh...." He said her name as if she were a stranger, some figure that represented authority. "Of course I couldn't. I hesitated for days, close to despair."

"I remember...." Eilish whispered, staring at him with anguish, as though even now she yearned to be able to comfort him and heal the past.

Quinlan made a noise of impatience and turned away.

"Mary knew," Baird continued, his voice rasping with hurt. "She knew something was troubling me more than I could bear, and in the end I told her...."

He did not even notice Eilish stiffen and a sudden surprise and pain in her face. He did not seem to realize it was different, no longer an agony for the past, or for him, but a hurt for herself.

Quinlan smiled. "Told her you'd served time in prison," he said with blatant disbelief.

"Yes."

"You expect us to believe that?" Alastair looked grim, doubt written plain in his expression. "Really, Baird, that's asking too much. Could you prove it?"

"No-except that she gave me permission to lease the croft to Arkwright, for his silence." Baird looked up and met Alastair's eyes for the first time.

It was an absurd story. Why would a woman like Mary Farraline accept a man with such a past-and even help him? And yet Monk found himself at least half believing it.

Quinlan gave a sharp bark of laughter.

"Come on, Baird, that isn't even clever," Kenneth said with a smile, letting his foot slide off the fender and sitting down in the nearest chair. "I could think of a better excuse than that."

"No doubt you have-frequently," Oonagh said dryly, regarding her younger brother with contempt. It was the first time Monk had seen an expression of contention or open criticism on her face, and it surprised him. The peacemaker was rattled at last. He looked at her puckered mouth, the anxiety marked deep between her brows, but still could only guess what emotions burned inside her. He could make no hazard as to whether she had known or even suspected her husband had such a shadowed past.

Or was that what she had sought to do all the time? Was that the blindingly obvious thing he had always missed, that Oonagh loved her husband, in spite of his obsession with her younger sister, and that she sought to protect him from both his reckless past and his tortured present.

Quite suddenly he saw her in a different light, and his admiration for her leaped beyond the mere courage and composure she had shown to something of cla.s.sical magnitude; she was a woman who bore herself with silence and generosity almost immeasurable.

Instinctively he turned to Eilish, to see if she had the remotest conception of what she had done, however unwittingly. But all he could see was disillusion and the scalding pain of rejection. In his desperation Baird had turned not to her, but to her mother. She was excluded. He had not even trusted her with it afterwards. He would not have. She had learned it publicly, from a stranger.

And little as he admired it, in that instant he knew exactly what she felt, all the loneliness, the confusion, the feelings of unworthiness, the longing to strike back and hurt just as much. Because he knew now what else had happened in the lifeboat so long ago. He had tried so hard, and yet someone else had been the hero. Someone else had retrieved his mistake and saved the man on the doomed ship. In his mind's eye he could see the boy, a year or two older, standing balanced on the slippery deck, hurling the rope at risk of being pitched overboard, drenched to the skin, lashing it fast, heaving the man out of that awful chasm.

No one had said anything to him, no one had blamed him, and yet his ears rang with the other boy's praises, not just his skill, but his courage. That was what hurt, his quickness of thought, his self-denial and his courage, the qualities Monk had wanted above all.

It was the same with Eilish. Above all she had wanted to be loved and trusted.