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His smile was sarcastic. She knew her hair was still untidy, and exactly what was passing through his mind. Her voice sharpened again.
“I put my hand into my case, and instead of pins I found a brooch … with diamonds and gray pearls in it. It is not mine, and I am quite sure it was Mrs. Farraline’s, because she described it to me in the course of conversation about what she might do in London.”
His face darkened and he moved away from the mantelpiece and sat down in the chair opposite her, waiting patiently for her to be seated also.
“So she was not wearing it on the train?” he asked.
“No. That is the point. She said she had left it at home in Edinburgh because the gown it went with had been stained!”
“It only went with one gown?” he said in surprise, but the disbelief in his voice did not carry to his eyes. Already his mind was ahead, understanding the fears.
“Gray pearls,” she explained unnecessarily. “They would look wrong with most colors, rather dull.” She went on talking to avoid the moment when she would have to acknowledge what it really meant. “Even black wouldn’t be—”
“All right,” he said. “She said she had left it behind? I don’t suppose she packed her own clothes. She had a maid for that sort of thing. And her cases would be in the guard’s van during the journey. Did you meet this maid? Did you quarrel with her? Was she jealous of you because she wished to come to London herself, and you were taking her place?”
“No. She didn’t want to go at all. And we did not quarrel. She was perfectly agreeable.”
“Then who put the brooch in your bag? You wouldn’t be coming to me if you’d done it yourself.”
“Don’t be fatuous!” she said. “Of course I didn’t do it. If I were a thief, I would hardly come and tell you about it!” Her voice was getting louder and higher with anger as fear caught hold of her and she began to see more clearly the peril of the situation.
He looked at her unhappily. “Where is the brooch now?”
“At Callandra’s house.”
“Since the unfortunate woman is dead, it is not a matter of simply returning it to her. And we do not know if it was lost in a genuine accident or if it is part of an attempted crime. It could become very ugly.” He bit his lip doubtfully. “People in bereavement are often irrational and only too ready to retreat from grief into anger. It is easier to be angry, to feel relief at having something with which to blame someone else. The matter of returning it should be dealt with professionally, by someone retained solely to look after your interests in the case. We had better go and speak to Rathbone.” And without waiting to see whether she agreed with this advice, he took his coat from the rack and his hat off the stand and advanced towards the door. “Well, don’t sit there,” he said tartly. “The more rapidly it is done, the better. Besides, I might lose a client if I dither around wasting time.”
“You don’t need to come with me,” she said defensively, rising to her feet. “I can find Oliver myself and tell him what happened. Thank you for your advice.” She went past him and out of the door into the entranceway. It was raining outside, and as she opened the street door the cold air chilled her, matching the fear and sense of isolation within.
He ignored her words and followed her out, closing the door behind him and beginning to walk towards the main thoroughfare, where they could find a hansom to take them from Tottenham Court Road west across the city towards the Inns of Court and Vere Street, where Oliver Rathbone had his office. She was obliged to go with him, or else start an argument which would have been totally foolish.
The traffic was heavy, carriages, cabs, wagons, carts of every description passing by, splashing the water out of the gutters, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses dripping, sodden hides dark. Drivers sat hunched with collars up and hats down in a futile attempt to keep the cold rain from running down their necks, hands clenched on the reins.
The crossing sweeper, a boy of about eight or nine years, was still busily pushing manure out of the way to make a clean path for any pedestrian who wished to reach the other side. He seemed to be one of those cheerful souls willing to make the best out of any situation. His skimpy trousers stuck to his legs, his coat was too long for him and gaped around the neck, but his enormous cap seemed to keep most of the rain off his head, except for his chin and nose. He wore the cap tilted at such an angle that the lower half of his face was visible, and his gap-toothed smile was the first thing one saw of him.
Monk had no need to cross the road, but he threw him a halfpenny anyway, and Hester felt a sudden surge of hope. The boy caught it and automatically put it between his teeth to assure himself it was real, then tipped his finger to the peak of his cap, almost invisible under its folds, and called out his thanks.
Monk hailed a hansom and as it stopped, he pulled open the door for her and then followed her in, calling out Rathbone’s address to the driver.
“Shouldn’t I go and get the brooch first?” Hester asked. “Then I can give it to him to return to the Farralines.”
“I think you should report it first,” he replied, settling himself in his seat as the cab lurched forward. “For your own safety.”
The chill returned. She said nothing. They rode in silence through the wet streets. All she could think of was Mary Farraline, and how much she had liked her, her stories of Europe in her youth, of Hamish as a soldier, dashing and brave, and the other men with whom she had danced the nights away before those tumultuous days. They had seemed so alive in her memory. It was hard to accept that she too was suddenly and so completely gone.
Monk did not interrupt her thoughts. Whatever he was concerned with, it apparently held him totally. Once she glanced sideways at him and saw the deep concentration in his face, eyes steadily ahead, brows drawn fractionally downward, mouth tense.
She looked away again, feeling closed out.
At Vere Street the cab stopped and Monk alighted, held the door for her long enough for her to move over and grasp it herself, then paid the driver and went across the pavement to the entrance of the offices and tugged sharply at the bellpull.
The door was opened by a white-haired clerk in winged collar and frock coat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” he said stiffly. Then he caught sight of Hester behind him. “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. Please come in out of the rain. Fearful weather.” He shook his head, standing back for them to follow him into the foyer, and then the outer office. “I am afraid Mr. Rathbone is not expecting you.” He looked at them doubtfully, his pale gray eyes very steady, like a disillusioned schoolmaster. “He has a gentleman with him presently.”
“We’ll wait,” Monk said grimly. “This is a matter of urgency.”
“Of course.” The clerk nodded his head and indicated a seat where they could make themselves comfortable. Monk declined and stood impatiently, staring through the glass partitions to the office where juniors in black coats copied writs and deeds in copperplate, and other more senior clerks searched in huge law books for references and precedents.
