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Sunday luncheon at Ainslie Place was a less formal affair than dinner had been. Monk arrived just as the family was returning from the high kirk, all dressed in black. The women were in huge skirts like upturned bells, fur-trimmed capes hugged about them and black-ribboned bonnets narrowing vision and protecting the face from the splattering rain. The men wore tall hats and black overcoats, Alastair’s with an astrakhan collar. They walked in pairs, side by side, unspeaking until they were in the hall, Monk immediately behind them. The funereal McTeer took their coats and welcomed them. He also took Alastair’s hat and stick, leaving Baird, Quinlan and Kenneth to place their own in the stand or the rack appropriately.
“Good day, Mr. Monk,” he said grimly, taking Monk’s hat and coat. Monk had never carried a stick since the Grey case. “A verra cold day, sir, and bound to get worse. It’ll be a hard winter, I’m thinking.”
“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. “Good afternoon,” he said, inclining his head to each member of the family. Alastair looked pinched with cold, but Deirdra’s warm coloring made her vividly alive, and if she were grieving, it did not mar her vitality. Oonagh was pale, but as previously, her resolve of character more than compensated for any turmoil or misgivings within.
Eilish had obviously made the effort to get up in time to accompany the family to kirk, and nothing could dim her beauty.
The errant Kenneth was also present, an agreeable but ordinary young man with sufficient resemblance to mark him as one of the family. He seemed to be in something of a hurry, and as soon as he was relieved of his outdoor clothing, he nodded to Monk, then disappeared towards the withdrawing room.
“Do come in, Mr. Monk,” Oonagh said with a curious, direct smile. “Warm yourself by the fire and perhaps take a little wine. Or maybe you would prefer whiskey?”
Monk disliked declining her invitation, but he could not afford to have his wits dulled.
“Thank you,” he said. “The fire sounds excellent, and wine too, if everyone else is also partaking? It is a little early for me to enjoy whiskey.” He followed where she led into the same large withdrawing room as on the first occasion. The fire was roaring in the grate with a hiss and crackle that promised heat even before he glanced at its yellow blaze. He also found himself smiling without intending to.
As each person came into the room, unconsciously he or she moved closer to the fire, the women sitting in the large chairs, the men standing. One of the footmen served goblets of mulled wine from a silver tray.
Alastair looked across the top of his at Monk.
“Are you having any success with your inquiries, Mr. Monk?” he asked with a frown. “Although I don’t know what it is you think you can discover. Surely the police will do all that is necessary?”
“Pitfalls, Mr. Farraline,” Monk replied easily. “We don’t want the case dismissed because we have been overconfident and careless.”
“No—no indeed. That would be disastrous. Well, please make any inquiries you wish of the servants.” He glanced at Oonagh.
“I have already instructed them,” she said gently, turning from Alastair to Monk. “They are to answer you fully and frankly.” She bit her lip as if considering an apology of some sort, but then deciding against it. “You will have to excuse a little nervousness on their part.” She regarded him gravely, searching his face for understanding, her eyes widening a fraction when she perceived it. “They are all anxious to excuse themselves from carelessness. Naturally each of them feels that in some way they should have been able to prevent what happened.”
“That’s absurd,” Baird said abruptly. “If anyone is to blame, we are. We hired Miss Latterly. We spoke to her and we thought she was an excellent person. It wasn’t up to the servants to argue with us.” He looked acutely unhappy.
“We have already had this conversation,” Alastair said with irritation. “No one could have known.”
“Oh yes.” Quinlan shot a look at Monk. “You asked us what we thought had happened. I don’t recall that anyone ever answered you, did they?”
“Not yet,” Monk conceded, his eyes wide. “Perhaps you would begin, Mr. Fyffe?”
“I? Well, let me see.” Quinlan sipped his wine, his eyes thoughtful, but if there was distress in him, it was well masked. “The wretched woman would not have killed poor Mother-in-law unless she had already seen the brooch, so that must have happened fairly early on….”
Deirdra winced and Eilish set down her glass, untasted.
“I don’t know what you hope to gain with this,” Kenneth said angrily. “It is an appalling conversation!”
“Appalling or not, we have to know what happened,” Quinlan said viciously. “There’s no point pretending it will go away decently just because we don’t like it.”
“For God’s sake, we do know what happened!” Kenneth’s voice rose also. “The damned nurse murdered Mother! Wh
at else do we have to know—isn’t that enough? Do you want every jot and tittle of the details? I certainly don’t.”
“The law will want it,” Alastair said icily. “They won’t hang the woman without absolute proof. Nor should they. We must be sure, beyond any doubt at all.”
“Who doubts it?” Kenneth demanded. “I don’t.”
“Do you know something that the rest of us do not?” Monk asked, his voice polite, his eyes glittering.
Kenneth stared at him, frustration, self-justification and resentment flaring in his face.
“Well, do you?” Alastair demanded.
“Of course he doesn’t, my dear,” Oonagh said soothingly. “He just hates thinking of the details.”
