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ed and hanged. “I will, Hester,” he said with passion. “I’ll find the truth, whatever it costs, and whoever I have to break to get it.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away suddenly. For a moment she was so frightened she could hardly control herself.
He gritted his teeth.
Why was she so stupidly independent? Why could she not weep like other women? Then he could have held her, offered some kind of comfort—which would have been meaningless. And he would have hated it. He could not bear the way she was, and yet for her to change would have been even worse.
And he hated the fact that he could not dismiss it and walk away. It was not simply another case. It was Hester—and the thought of failure was unendurable.
“Tell me about them,” he commanded gruffly. “Who are the Farralines? What did you think of them? What were your impressions?”
She turned and looked at him with surprise. Then slowly she mastered her emotions and replied.
“The eldest son is Alastair. He is the Procurator Fiscal—”
He cut across her. “I don’t want facts. I can find them for myself, woman. I want your feelings about the man. Was he happy or miserable? Was he worried? Did he love his mother or hate her? Was he afraid of her? Was she a possessive woman, overprotective, critical, domineering? Tell me something!”
She smiled wanly.
“She seemed generous and very normal to me….”
“She’s been murdered, Hester. People don’t commit murder without a reason even if it is a bad one. Somebody either hated her or was afraid of her. Why? Tell me more about her. And don’t tell me what a charming person she was. People sometimes murder young women because they are too charming, but not old ones.”
Hester’s smile grew a little wider.
“Don’t you think I’ve lain here trying to think why anyone would kill her? Alastair did seem a little anxious, but that could have been over anything. As I said, he is the Procurator Fiscal….”
“What is a Procurator Fiscal?” This was not a time to stand on his pride and blunder on in ignorance.
“Something like the Crown Prosecutor, I think.”
“Hmm.” Possibilities arose in his mind.
“And the youngest brother, Kenneth, was bound on an appointment the family knew little of. They assumed he was courting someone and they had not met her.”
“I see. What else?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Quinlan, that is Eilish’s husband—”
“Who is Eilish? Did you say Eilish? What kind of a name is that?”
“I don’t know. Scottish, I presume. She is the middle daughter. Oonagh is the eldest. Griselda is the youngest.”
“What about Quinlan?”
“He and Baird McIvor, Oonagh’s husband, seemed to dislike each other. But I don’t see how any of that could lead to murder. There are always undercurrents of likes and dislikes in any family, most particularly if they all live under one roof.”
“God forbid!” Monk said with feeling. The thought of living so closely with other people appalled him. He was jealous of his privacy and he did not wish to account for himself to anyone at all, least of all someone who knew him intimately.
She misunderstood him.
“No one would murder for the freedom to leave.”
“Wasn’t the house hers?” he asked instantly. “What about the money? No, don’t bother to answer. You wouldn’t know anyway. Rathbone will find that out. Tell me exactly what you did from the time you arrived at the house until you left. When were you alone? Where was the dressing room or wherever the medicine case was left?”
“I’ve already told Oliver all that,” she protested.
“I want it from you,” he said coldly. “I can’t work on secondhand evidence. And I’ll ask you my own questions, not his.”
