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Monk raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You pay rent to Mr. McIvor?”
“Yeah. That’s right.” There was belligerence in Arkwright, and still a thread of uncertainty.
“How?” Monk pressed, still standing well back.
“What you mean, how? Money, o’ course. What you trunk, potatoes?”
“What do you do, ride over to Inverness and put a purse on the night train to Edinburgh? Weekly? Monthly? It must take you a couple of days.”
Arkwright was caught out, and the realization of it blazed in his eyes. For a second he seemed about to swing a fist at Monk, then he looked at Monk’s balance, and the leanness of his body, and decided against it.
“None of your business,” he grow
led. “I answer to Mr. McIvor, not you. Anyway, you got no proof who you are, or that Mary Whatsisname is dead.” A momentary gleam of triumph lit his eyes. “You could be anybody.”
“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 bastard who don’t know what’s good for him!”
“Would it interest you, or surprise you, to know that McIvor never passed 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 grass 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 grass 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 cockchafer 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 “cockchafer,” 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 prickle 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.”
