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“It makes my task a great deal easier that you so readily comprehend the necessity of being sure of every detail,” he said as she examined the letter. “I confess, I had not thought I should be so fortunate in finding such …” He hesitated, allowing her to think it delicacy, in truth searching for exactly the right word that would not sound like flattery. He judged her to be a woman who would feel only contempt for anything so obvious, although he doubted she would be so open as to show it, except by the chill of a glance, the sudden fading of interest from her eyes. “… a grasp of reality,” he finished.
This time her smile was broader, a definite warmth in all her face, and something like a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as she regarded him.
“I am grieved, of course, Mr. Monk, but it has not so destroyed my wits as to rob me of my understanding that the world must proceed, and its business be done according to the law, and with the proper procedure. Please tell me in what way, precisely, we may be of assistance. I imagine you will wish to question people, the upstairs servants in particular?”
“That would be necessary,” he agreed. “But servants can be very easily frightened by such a tragedy, and then their accounts sometimes vary. It would be most helpful to speak with the members of the family as well, perhaps leave the servants until later, when their first apprehension has had time to disappear. I do not wish to give the impression that I suspect them of anything.”
This time her smile was one of humor, albeit bitter.
“Don’t you, Mr. Monk? No matter how convinced you are of Miss Latterly’s guilt, surely it must have crossed your mind that my mother’s lady’s maid, at least, could conceivably have stolen the brooch?”
“Of course it has crossed my mind, Mrs. McIvor.” He smiled back, without looking away from her eyes. “All sorts of other answers are possible, with a stretch of the imagination, however unlikely. And the defense—and no doubt there will be one—since it cannot prove Miss Latterly innocent, will have to endeavor to prove someone else guilty. Or at the worst for them, prove that someone else could have been guilty, by virtue of motive, means or opportunity. It is precisely that which I have come to forestall.”
“Then we had better make plans to begin,” she said with decision. “No doubt if you have just arrived in Edinburgh, you will wish to find yourself accommodation, and possibly rest after your journ
ey, if you have been on the train all night. Then perhaps you would dine with us this evening, when you may meet the rest of my family?” It was an invitation formally given, and for a most businesslike reason, and yet there was interest in her which was of a sharper nature, however slight.
“That would be excellent, thank you, Mrs. McIvor,” he accepted. He must not become carried away with optimism; he had barely begun and had learned nothing whatever, but at least the first barrier was crossed with surprising ease. “Thank you.”
“Then we shall see you at seven,” she said with an inclination of her head. “McTeer will show you out, and if he can give you any directions which may be helpful, please feel free to ask. Good day, Mr. Monk.”
“Good day, Mrs. McIvor.”
* * *
Monk had asked McTeer to advise him about lodgings, and the butler’s grim response had stung him with its condescension. He had suggested several inns and public houses of one sort or another, all in the old part of the city. When Monk had asked if there was nothing closer to Ainslie Place, he had been informed, with raised eyebrows, that Ainslie Place was not the area where such establishments were to be found.
So at ten o’clock Monk was in a street with high tenements on either side, and known as the Grassmarket, his case in his hand, his temper still seething. He had a sharp sense of being in a foreign city. The sounds and smells were different from those in London. The air was colder and had not the grit and odor of chimneys in it, although the buildings were stained enough and the eaves dripping grimy water. The cobbles of the street were like those of London, but the narrow footpaths at the sides were barely above the level of the thoroughfare, the gutters shallow. But then the street itself was at such a pitch its surface drained down the hill anyway.
He walked slowly, staring around him, interested in spite of himself. The buildings were largely of stone, which gave them a dignity and permanence, and nearly all were four, five or six stories high, ending in a jumbled mass of steeply inclined roofs, dormers and fine crowstepped gables, like numerous flights of stairs amid the slates. On one gable he saw an iron cross, and then craning upwards to see the better, he noticed another, and another. It was certainly not a church, nor did it seem to have been a religious establishment of any sort.
Someone bumped into him sharply and he realized with a jolt that he had not stood still while gazing upwards, and was thus causing something of a hazard.
“Sorry,” he apologized peremptorily.
“Aye, well watch where ye’re goin’ an’ stop gaupin’, afore ye knock some poor soul into the gutter,” came the reply, in a voice so strongly accented it barely sounded like English, and yet so distinct was the diction it was understandable without effort. “Are ye lost?” The man hesitated, detecting a stranger and forgiving error because of it. Strangers were half-witted anyway, and one should not expect normal behavior from them. “Ye’re in Templelands, in the Grassmarket.”
“Templelands?” Monk said quickly.
“Aye. Where are you making for, do you know?” He was now disposed to be helpful, as good men are towards those they sense cannot care for themselves.
Monk was obliged to smile to himself. “I’ve been looking for lodgings.”
“Oh, aye? Well ye’ll find a good, clean room at William Forster’s, down there at number twenty, and there’s McEwan the baker’s, next door. Innkeeper and stabler, Willie is. Ye’ll see it written up on the wall. Can’t miss that, if ye’ve eyes in yer head.”
“Thank you. I’m obliged.”
“Ye’re welcome.” He made as if to move on.
“Why Templelands?” Monk asked quickly. “What temple was there here?”
The man’s face registered amusement and mild contempt. “No temple at all. The land used to belong to the Knights Templar, long ago. You know, Crusades, and the like?”
“Oh.” Monk was surprised. He had not thought of Edinburgh as being of such age, or of the Templars so far north. Dim memories of history came back to him, names like Mary Queen of Scots, and the Auld Alliance with France, and the Stuart kings, battles on the moors above Culloden, Bannockburn, massacres in the snowbound steeps of Glencoe, secret murders like the death of Duncan, or of Rizzio, or perhaps Darnley right here in Edinburgh. It was in a mist of stories and impressions he could only dimly recall, but it was part of his northern heritage, and it made these streets with their towering houses more familiar. “Thank you,” he added, but the man was already moving away, his duty discharged.
Monk crossed over the street and walked on until he saw WM. FORSTER, STABLER & INNKEEPER written right across the front of a large building, between the second and third stories, and the name of McEwan’s Bakery at one end. It was a four-story building; the first two were of cut stone blocks, and the windows were large, indicating generous rooms. Several of the high chimney pots at the spine of the roof were smoking, a hopeful sign. Since he had no horse, he did not bother going through the archway into the yard, but knocked hastily on the front door.
It was opened almost immediately by a large woman, busy drying her hands on her apron. “Aye?”
