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5
MONK DID NOT ENJOY the journey in any respect at all. The encounter on the platform with Rathbone gave him some sense of satisfaction because it demonstrated how acutely concerned Rathbone was. It would have taken an emotional involvement of extraordinary depth to cause him to abandon his dignity sufficiently to come on such a completely pointless errand. Normally, if nothing else, his awareness of Monk’s perception of it would have been enough to keep him at home.
But the comfort all that gave him very quickly wore off as the train steamed and rattled its way out of the station and through the rain-soaked darkness of the London rooftops and the occasional glimpse in gaslight of emptying streets, wet cobbles gleaming, lamps haloed in mist, here and there a hansom about to do business.
He imagined Rathbone returning to his office to sit behind his desk shuffling papers uselessly and trying to think what to do that would help, and Hester alone in the narrow cell in Newgate, frightened, huddling beneath the thin blankets, hearing the hard sound of boot heels on the stone floor and the clang of keys in the lock, seeing the hatred in the wardresses’ faces. And he had no illusions about that. They thought her guilty of a despicable crime; there would be no pity. The fact that she had not yet been tried would weigh little with them.
Why couldn’t Hester be like other women, and choose a more sensible occupation? What normal woman traveled all over the place, alone, to nurse pe
ople she had never even met? Why did he bother himself with her? She was bound to meet with disaster some time or other. It was only extraordinary good luck she had not encountered it already in the Crimea. And he was stupid to allow his feelings to be engaged at all. He did not like the kind of woman she was, he never had. Almost everything about her irritated him in one way or another.
But then common humanity required that he do everything he could to help. People trusted him, and so far as he knew, he had never betrayed a trust in his life. At least not intentionally. He had failed his mentor, years ago, that much he now remembered. But that was different. It was a failure through lack of ability, not in any way because he had not tried everything he could. It was not kindness; every evidence he had discovered about himself showed he was not a kind man. But he was honorable. And he had never suffered injustice.
No. He winced and smiled bitterly. That was untrue. He had never suffered legal injustice. He had certainly been unjust often enough himself—unjust to his juniors, overcritical, too quick to judge and to blame.
But however much it hurt, there was no point wallowing in the past. Nothing could change it. The future lay in his own power. He would find out who had killed Mary Farraline, and why, and he would prove it. Apart from his own pride, Hester deserved that. She was frequently foolish, almost always overbearing, acid-tongued, opinionated and arbitrary; but she was totally honest. Whatever she said about the journey from Edinburgh would be the truth. She would not even lie to herself to cover a mistake, let alone to anyone else. And this was a rare quality in anyone, man or woman.
And of course she had not killed Mary Farraline. The idea was ludicrous. She might have killed someone in outrage—she would certainly have the courage and the passion—but never for gain. And if she had killed someone she deemed to be monstrous enough to warrant such an act, she would not have done it that way. She would have done it face-to-face. She would have struck her over the head, or stabbed her with a blade, not poisoned her in her sleep. There was nothing devious in Hester. Above all else, she had courage.
Hester would survive this. She had suffered worse in the Crimea, physical hardships of a greater order, terrible cold, probably hunger too, weeks without proper sleep—and danger as well, danger of injury or disease, or both. She had been on the battlefield within sound of the guns, within range of them, for all he knew. Of course she would survive a week or two in Newgate. It was absurd to be frightened for her. She was not an ordinary woman to faint or weep in the face of hardship. She would suffer, of course, she was as susceptible as anyone else, but she would rise above it.
His part was to go to the Farraline house and learn the truth.
But as the evening lengthened into night and those around him drifted into weary sleep, the sanguine mood left him, and all he could see as he grew colder and stiffer and more tired was the difficulty of discovering anything useful from a household in mourning, closed in on itself, where one member was guilty of murder and they had the perfect scapegoat in an outsider already accused and charged.
By morning his back ached, his leg muscles were jumping with the long lack of either comfort or exercise, and he was so cold his feet had lost all sensation. His mood and his temper were equally poor.
Edinburgh was bitterly cold, but at least it was not raining. An icy wind howled down Princes Street, but Monk had no interest in either its history or its architectural beauties, so he was perfectly happy to hail the first cab he saw and give the driver the Farralines’ address in Ainslie Place.
From the footpath the house was certainly imposing enough. If the Farralines owned it freehold and without mortgage, then they were, financially at least, in very good fortune indeed. It was also, in Monk’s opinion, in excellent taste. Indeed, the classical simplicity of the whole square appealed to him.
But that was all incidental. He turned his attention to the matter in hand. He mounted the step and pulled the doorbell.
The door opened and a man who should have been an undertaker, from his expression, regarded him without a shred of interest.
“Yes sir?”
“Good morning,” Monk said briskly. “My name is William Monk. I have come from London on a matter of importance. I should like to speak either to Mr. Farraline or to Mrs. McIvor.” He produced a card.
“Indeed, sir.” The man’s face registered no change at all. He offered a silver tray. Monk dropped the card onto it. Apparently he was not an undertaker but the butler after all. “Thank you, sir. If you’ll be good enough to wait in the hall, I’ll see if Mrs. McIvor is at home.”
It was exactly the same polite fiction as in London. Of course he would know whether his mistress was at home, it was simply a matter of whether she would receive Monk—or not.
He waited in the crepe-hung hall, shifting from foot to foot in impatience. He had already worked out what message he would send next if she should refuse. He hoped the fact that he had come from London might be sufficient, anything further was not for the servants to be informed.
He had not long to be in doubt. It was not the butler who returned, but a woman in her mid-thirties, slender and straight-backed. For an instant her bearing reminded him of Hester; she had the same pride and determination in the set of her shoulders and the carriage of her head. However, her face was quite different, and the sweep of fair, almost honey-colored hair was unlike any he had ever seen before. She was not quite beautiful; there was too much individuality in her features, a strength in the jaw and a coolness in the eyes which offended convention. This must be Oonagh McIvor.
“Mr. Monk.” It was an acknowledgment, not a question. As soon as he heard her voice with its clarity and timbre he knew she would have mastered any but the most desperate of situations. “McTeer informs me you have come from London on some business with which you wish my assistance. Did he understand you correctly?”
“Yes, Mrs. McIvor.” From Hester’s description he had no doubt it was she, and no need to ask. Nor did he have the slightest qualm in lying. “I am involved in the prosecution of Miss Latterly in the matter of your late mother’s death, and it is my assignment to ascertain the facts, such as are known or can be discovered, so that there will be no errors, oversights or unpleasant surprises when the matter comes to trial. The verdict will be final. We must make sure it is the right one.”
“Indeed?” Her fair eyebrows rose minimally. “How very thorough. I had no idea the English prosecution—I believe it is not a Procurator Fiscal such as we have—was so diligent.”
“It is an important case.” He met her look squarely and without evasion or the slight tentativeness of good manners. Instinctively he felt she would despise deference and respect strength, as long as he at no time presumed, or allowed her to sense bluster in him, and never made a threat, implicit or explicit, that he could not keep. They had met only moments before, and yet already there was an awareness of each other’s nature and a measuring of both intellect and resolve, one he thought not without interest on her part.
“I am pleased you are sensible of it.” She allowed the slightest smile to curve her lips. “Naturally the family will give you all the assistance of which we are capable. My elder brother is the Procurator Fiscal, here in Edinburgh. We are familiar with the fact that even in cases where guilt seems beyond question the prosecution can fail to obtain a conviction, if those conducting it do not take every care in the preparation of evidence. I assume you do have a letter to this effect?” The inquiry was made courteously, but brooked no evasion.
“Naturally.” He produced a very creditable forgery he had taken the care to prepare on police paper he still had. That it was from the wrong station he trusted she would not know.
