Her fair brows rose. "Did you? I was not aware of such a place."

He knew she was lying; he had seen it in Quinlan's face.

"It was full of equipment with which to forge bank notes," he replied. "All denominations, and for several banks."

There was still nothing in her face to betray her.

"Good heavens! Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"I wonder how long it has been there. Since my father's time, I imagine, if Uncle Hector says it was his secret room."

Alastair shifted his weight with an almost imperceptible sound.

Monk glanced at him for an instant, and then back at Oonagh.

"Almost certainly," he agreed. "But it is also in present use. Some of the plates are as recent as last year."

"How can you tell?" A flash of amus.e.m.e.nt lit Oonagh's eyes. "Was the ink still wet?"

"Bank notes change, Mrs. McIvor. There are new designs brought in."

"I see. You are saying someone is still using the room to forge money?"

"Yes. You should be pleased." There was a black laughter underlying his voice now. "It will remove some of the burden from your husband. It makes another excellent motive for murder."

"Does it, Mr. Monk? I fail to see how."

"If your mother discovered it-"

This time it was she who laughed.

"Don't be absurd, Mr. Monk! Do you imagine Mother didn't know?"

Hector made a strangled noise, but he did not move.

"You affected not to," Monk pointed out.

"Certainly, but only before I realized that you are aware it is still in use." Her face was cold and implacable now. She no longer concealed her enmity.

Alastair stood rooted to the spot. Quinlan's hand had closed around a bright paper knife on the desk and he was balanced so as to move with violence.

"Not, of course, that this is the only motive for murder," Monk went on, his voice cutting harsh with anger and stinging, bottomless contempt. "There is also the Galbraith case, and G.o.d knows how many others."

"The Galbraith case? What in h.e.l.l are you talking about?" Quinlan demanded.

But Monk was watching Alastair, and had he ever doubted the charge, he could no longer. The blood fled from Alastair's face, leaving him ashen, his eyes terrified, his mouth slack. Instinctively, almost blindly, he looked at Oonagh.

"She knew," Monk said with a depth of emotion that startled him. "Your mother knew, and you murdered her to keep it silent. You were trusted by your fellow men, honored, held above the ordinary citizens, and you sold justice. Your mother could not forgive that, so you killed her and tried to get her nurse hanged for it in your place."

"No!"

It was not Alastair who spoke, he was beyond speech. The voice came from behind him. Monk half turned to see Hector push his way forward, staring at Alastair. "No," he said again. "It wasn't Alastair who made the list of Mary's clothes for Griselda. It was you! You put that brooch in Hester's bag. Alastair wouldn't have known even where to find it. Alastair, G.o.d help him, killed her, but it was you who would have hanged Hester in his place."

"Rubbish," Oonagh said sharply. "Hold your tongue, you old fool!"

A spasm of pain crossed Hector's features so sharp it was beyond all proportion to the insult, which he must have heard a hundred times before, even if only in his mind.

Surprisingly it was Hester who spoke, from just behind Monk's elbow.

"It couldn't have been Alastair who put the pin in my case," she said slowly. "Because Mary wore it with only one dress, and he knew she hadn't packed that dress to take with her. He was the one who damaged it so it had to be cleaned."

"Couldn't it have been mended before she took it?" Monk asked.

"Don't be absurd. It takes days to unpick and clean a silk gown and then st.i.tch it back together again."

As one they turned to Oonagh.

She lowered her eyes. "I didn't know she'd marked the dress. I wanted to protect him," she said very quietly.

Alastair looked at her with a ghastly smile filled with despair.

"But she didn't know," Monk said very softly, almost under his breath. The words fell in the room like stones. "She was afraid, because she saw Archie Frazer in the house, but you could have explained that. You killed her for nothing."

Very slowly, as if in a nightmare, Alastair turned to Oonagh, his face like a dead man's, aged and yet with the helplessness of a lost child. "You said she knew. You told me she knew. I didn't have to kill her! Oonagh-what have you done to me?"

"Nothing, Alastair! Nothing!" she said quickly, putting out both her hands and gripping his arms. "She would have ruined us, believe me." Her voice was desperate, urgent that he should understand.

"But she didn't know!" His voice was rising, shrill with betrayal and despair.

"All right! She didn't know that, or the forgery." The gentleness vanished and her features were suddenly ugly. "But she knew about Uncle Hector and Father, and she'd have told Griselda. That is what she was on the way south to do. Griselda and her stupid obsession with health and her child. She'd have told Connal, and then it would have been all over the place."

"Told him what? What are you talking about?" He was utterly lost. He seemed to have forgotten everyone in the room except Oonagh. "Father's been dead for years. What did it have to do with her child? It doesn't make any sense...."

Oonagh's face was as white as his, but with fury and contempt. There was still no fear in it, and no weakness.

"Father died of syphilis, you fool! He was riddled with it! What did you think his blindness was, and his paralysis? We kept him in the house and said it was a stroke...what else were we to do?"

"B-but...syphilis takes years to get to ..." He stopped. There was a funny little choking sound in his throat, as if he could not breathe. He was horrified beyond movement, except for his dry lips. It almost seemed as if she were holding him up. "That means...that means we are all...Griselda...her child, all our children...Oh sweet Jesus!"

"No it doesn't," she said between clenched jaws. "Mother knew it from the beginning. That is what she was going to tell Griselda. What she had just told me.... Hamish was not our father...not any of us."

He looked at her as if she had spoken to him in an incomprehensible language.

She swallowed. Now the words seemed to choke her as much as him. Her face was white with pain.

"Hector is our father...every one of us...right from you to Griselda. You are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Alastair. We are all b.a.s.t.a.r.ds...our mother was an adulteress, and that drunken sot is our father! Do you want the world to know that? Can you live with it...Procurator Fiscal!"

But Alastair was beyond speech. He was stricken as if dead.

The only sound in the whole place was Quinlan's laugh, a wild, hysterical, bitter sound.

"I loved her," Hector said, staring at Oonagh. "I loved her all my life. She loved Hamish to begin with, but after we met, it was me...it was always me. She knew what Hamish was...and she never let him touch her."

Oonagh looked back at him with utter, indescribable loathing.

Tears were running down Hector's face. "I always loved her," he said again. "And you killed her, more surely than if you'd done it yourself." His voice was rising, getting stronger. "You sold my beautiful Eilish to that creature...to get his services for forgery." He did not even look at Quinlan. "You sold her like a horse or a dog. You used flattery and deceit on all of us...using our weaknesses against us...even me. I wanted to stay here, to be part of you. You are all the family I have, and you knew that, and I let you use it." He gulped. "Dear G.o.d, but what you've done to Alastair ..."

It was Quinlan who reacted at last. He picked up the heavy paper knife and lunged-not at Hector, but at Monk.

Monk reacted only just in time. The blade grazed his arm and he went backwards, knocking Hester off balance and lurching against the iron railing of the spiral stairs. He only just avoided going over them as they caught him in the small of his back and his foot slipped and went from under him, leaving him sprawled at Hester's feet.

Alastair still stood mesmerized.

Oonagh waited only an instant, then realized he was going to be useless. For a terrible moment she stared at Hector, then she ran at him, bending to catch him in the solar plexus and knock him over the railing to fall the twenty feet to the floor below.

He understood from her eyes, but he moved too slowly. She caught him in the chest, to the left, not quite under the heart. He fell sideways against the railing and backed into Hester, sending her flying. She caught Quinlan just as he reached Monk to strike again. There was a shriek, a flailing of limbs, a moment's blind panic, and then a sickening thud from the floor below.

Then total silence closed in, except for Alastair's weeping.

Hester peered over the edge.

Quinlan lay on the floor below them, his blond hair like a silver halo. There was no blood, but his right arm, in which he had held the knife, was bent underneath him, and no one needed to be told he would not move again.

At last Alastair seemed to regain some semblance of control. He looked around for another weapon, his eyes glistening with almost manic hatred.

Oonagh could see there was no more room for words, no excuses anymore. She plunged past the choking Hector and still-sprawling Monk, ignoring Hester, and clattered down the iron stairs, making towards the back of the vast building until she disappeared between the bales of paper.

Alastair stared wildly around him, then after only a split second's hesitation, followed after her.

Monk scrambled to his feet and bent over Hector.

"Are you all right? Did she injure you?"

"No ..." Hector coughed and gasped to regain his breath. "No ..." He looked at Monk with wild eyes. "She didn't. How did I beget that? And Mary...Mary was ..."

But Monk had no time for such speculation. He checked to see that Hester was unhurt, that it was no more than a few bruises and a possible abrasion. Then he set off down the stairs after Oonagh and Alastair.

Hester followed after him, tucking her skirts up in an undignified but very effective manner, and Hector lumbered close behind at a surprisingly good speed.

Out in the street Oonagh and Alastair were at least fifty yards ahead and increasing the distance between them. Monk was sprinting with an excellent tum of speed.

They reached the thoroughfare, and Alastair, waving his arms and shouting, leaped directly in the path of an oncoming carriage. The horse shied and the driver, foolishly standing to ward off what he imagined was an attack, overbalanced and crashed to the ground, still grasping the reins. Alastair leaped into the box, turning only for a second to haul Oonagh up with him, and then shouted wildly to urge the horses into flight again.

Monk swore with breathless venom and skidded to a halt at the crossroads, looking to the left and right for any kind of a vehicle.

Hester caught up with him, and then Hector.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n them!" Monk choked with rage. "G.o.d d.a.m.n her above all!"

"Where can they go?" Hector coughed, gasping to regain his breath. "The police will catch them...."

"We've got to get back and find the police." Monk's voice was rising in an anguish of rage. "And by the time we've explained Quinlan's death, and persuaded them we didn't do it...and shown them the room with the forgery equipment, Oonagh and Alastair will have got to the docks, and could even have set sail across towards Holland."

"Can't we get them back?" Hester demanded, even as she said it realizing how hard that would be; with the whole of Europe beyond, and perhaps friends to help them, they might succeed in disappearing.

"Brewery!" Hector said suddenly, jerking his arm to point across the road.

Monk fixed him with a glare that should have withered him to dry bones.

"Horses!" Hector began to shamble across the street.

"We can't chase that in a dray!" Monk bellowed after him, but he began to follow him all the same.

But Hector emerged only a few moments later with not a brewer's dray but a very handsome single-horse gig, and pulled up only long enough for Monk to heave Hester up and then follow after her at a clumsy swing, almost landing on top of her.

"Whose gig have you stolen?" he yelled, not that he cared in the slightest.

"Brewmaster, I expect," Hector yelled back, and then bent his attention to controlling the startled horse and urging it at an unnerving speed along the road after the vanished! carriage.

Monk crouched forward, clinging to the side, white-faced. Hester sat back, trying to wedge herself into the seat, while the gig lurched and bucketed all over the road, going faster and faster. Hector was oblivious of everything except his son and daughter ahead.

Hester knew why Monk was so ashen. She imagined the chaos of memories which must be knotting his body and bringing the sweat to his skin, even if his mind only half recalled a haze of sensation, that other carriage careering through the night to end in a heap of splintered wood and spinning wheels, the driver killed and himself lying injured and senseless beneath it, all his life to that moment blotted out and lost forever.

But there was nothing she could do except cling on for dear life. She could not let him know she understood.

Another crossroads loomed ahead and the carriage was already out of sight. It could have gone any of three ways. Presumably straight ahead?

But the gig horse was at a gallop now, and Hector reined it in, almost throwing the beast to the ground, and then urged it to the right, the gig riding on two wheels. Monk was hurled against Hester and the two of them all but fell out. Only Monk's weight, bringing Hester to the floor, saved them.

Monk swore luridly and furiously as the gig righted itself and plunged along Great Junction Street, and then almost immediately turned again towards the sea, sending them pell-mell to the other side.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing, you d.a.m.ned lunatic?" Monk made a lunge to grab at Hector, and missed.

Hector was oblivious of him. The carriage was ahead of them again. They could see Alastair's fair hair flying and Oonagh close to him, almost as if he were holding her with his other arm.

The street veered again, and they were beside the narrow, deep river leading to the sea. There were barges moored in it, and fishing smacks. A man leaped out of the way, shouting abuse. A child let out a wail and fled.

A fishwife screamed a string of curses and threw her empty basket at the carriage. One horse reared up and overbalanced onto the other, and in almost dreamlike motion they skewed crazily over to the harbor wall and the sheer drop to the water. The carriage swung around and the shafts snapped. The carriage balanced for a split second, then toppled over into the river, taking Oonagh and Alastair with it. The horses were left shivering on the edge, eyes rolling, squealing with terror, held by the chains and harness.

Hector reined in, throwing his considerable weight backwards to check his own horse, and slamming on the brake with his other hand.

Monk leaped onto the ground and ran to the edge.

Hester scrambled behind him, ripping her skirt where it caught, and almost spraining her ankle on the rough cobbles.

The carriage was already sinking, exquisitely slowly, sucked and held fast in centuries-deep mud beneath the surge of incoming tide. Oonagh and Alastair were both in the water, clear of all tackle and harness, struggling to stay afloat.