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“Mr. Monk! Are you all right?” Then he saw Hester. “Good God! Miss Latterly! I—I’m sorry—I didn’t even think of you being here, ma’am!” He extended his arm to assist her up. “Are you able to stand, ma’am? Would you like … I mean …” He hesitated, uncertain if he was physically capable of lifting her, any more than in his present state Monk would be.
“Yes, I am sure I am all right, thank you.” She attempted to smile. “Or at least I will be, when I have a little air.”
“Of course, of course!” He stood up again, then realized he still had not given her any aid. However, Monk was there before him, climbing to his feet awkwardly and bending down to pull Hester up.
“Please hasten,” Hector urged, retrieving the lamp. “I don’t know who locked you in, but it is not inconceivable they may have missed me and will come looking. I really think it would be much better not to be found here.”
Monk gave a sharp laugh, more like a bark, and without further comment they left the secret room, closing the door behind them. They followed Hector carefully through the printing works, now barely lit by daylight pouring through the windows at the front and even in the farthest reaches giving a strained light.
“What made you come after us?” Hester asked when they were outside and she had begun to get some strength back from breathing the fresh air.
Hector looked embarrassed. “I—I think I was a little tipsy last night. I don’t remember a great deal of what passed at the dinner table. I should have stopped about three glasses before I did. But I woke in the night, I’ve no idea what time. My head was as thick as a Chinaman’s coat, but I knew something was wrong. I could remember that—very wrong.” He blinked apologetically and looked profoundly ashamed. “But I could not for the life of me think what it was.”
“Never mind,” Monk said generously. “You came in time.” He pulled a face. “Not a lot to spare, mind you!” He took the older man by the elbow and they started to walk, three abreast, along the unevenly cobbled street.
“But that doesn’t explain why you are here,” Hester protested.
“Oh …” Hector looked unhappy. “Well, when I woke up this morning I remembered. I knew I said something about the secret room….”
“You said you knew there was one,” Monk put in. “In the printing works. But you didn’t seem very certain. I gathered it was by deduction rather than observation—at least as to what was in there.”
“Deduction?” Hector still sounded confused. “I don’t know. What is in there?”
“Well, why did you come?” Monk said, repeating Hester’s question. “What made you think we would be in there, or that anyone would lock us in?”
Hector’s face cleared. “Ah—that’s obvious. You fastened onto the idea, that was plain in your expression. I knew you’d go and look for it. After all, you can’t let Miss Latterly live the rest of her life under the shadow, can you?” He shook his head. “Though I never thought she’d be there too.” He frowned at Hester, walking a little sideways and having to be steered back into a straight course by Monk’s pushing his arm. “You are a very original young woman.” A flood of sadness filled him, altering his features starkly. “I know why Mary liked you. She liked anyone with the courage to be themselves, to drink life to the lees and drain the cup without fear. She used to say that.” He searched her eyes earnestly. And again Monk had to keep him from veering off into the gutter, even though they were walking comparatively slowly.
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nbsp; “And once I realized you’d go looking for it,” Hector went on, “I knew, of course, that if it was in use for anything, whoever was using it would go after you and most likely shut you in.” He blinked. “To tell you the truth, I was very afraid they would already have killed you. I’m so glad they haven’t.”
“We are obliged to you,” Monk said sincerely.
“Very much,” Hester added, holding Hector’s arm a little more tightly.
“You’re welcome, my dear,” he replied. Then a look of puzzlement crossed his face again. “What is in there, anyway?”
“You don’t know?” Monk said it almost casually, but there was an edge to his voice.
“No I don’t. Is it something of Hamish’s?”
“I think so. Hamish’s in the past. Quinlan’s now.”
“That’s odd. Hamish never knew Quinlan all that well. He was ill by the time Eilish met him. In fact, he was going blind, and definitely had times of mental confusion and paralysis of his limbs. Why would he leave anything to Quinlan, rather than Alastair, or even Kenneth?”
“Because Quinlan is an artist,” Monk answered, guiding Hester across the uneven road and onto the farther pavement.
“Is he?” Hector looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. Never seen anything he’s done. Knew Hamish was, of course. Didn’t like his work much, too much draftsmanship and not enough imagination. Still, matter of taste, I suppose.”
“Don’t want imagination in bank notes,” Monk said dryly.
“Bank notes?” Hector stopped in the middle of the path.
“Forgery,” Monk explained. “That’s what is in there. Plates and presses for printing money.”
Hector let out a long, slow sigh, as if the thought and the fear had been inside him, pent up for years.
“Is it indeed,” was all he said.
