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Oonagh looked at him with amusement and something like patience.
“Possibly, Mr. Monk. It does seem the most likely explanation. You yourself have pointed out that the other ways and means that we assumed were, after all, not possible. What else is left?”
Monk felt as if the fire had died. The light and the warmth faded all around him. It had been stupid to hope for anything so easy, and yet in spite of all intelligence, he had hoped. He realized it now with anger and self-criticism.
“Of course—” Alastair began, but was interrupted by a large man with fading red-gold hair and blurry eyes walking uncertainly in, leaving the doors gaping behind him. He looked at the walls, his gaze finishing on Monk with a lift of curiosity.
There was a moment’s total silence.
Alastair let his breath out in a sigh.
Monk caught a glimpse of Oonagh’s face, her expression fierce and unreadable for an instant before she stepped forward and took the man by the arm.
“Uncle Hector—” Her voice caught in her throat, then was smooth again. “This is Mr. Monk, who has come up from London in order to help us in the matter of Mother’s death.”
Hector swallowed hard, as if there were something tight around his neck and he could not free himself from it. The distress in his face was so naked it would have been embarrassing had he not been oblivious of anyone watching him.
“Help?” he said incredulously. He looked at Monk with disgust. “What are you, an undertaker?” He scowled at Alastair. “Since when did we have the undertaker to dinner?”
“Oh God!” Alastair said desperately.
Kenneth turned away, his face white.
Deirdra looked helplessly to one, then another.
“He’s not the undertaker,” Quinlan began.
“Griselda took care of all that, Uncle Hector,” Oonagh said gently, passing him her glass of wine. “In London. I did tell you, don’t you remember?”
He took the glass and drank it all in one long gulp, then looked at her with slight difficulty in focusing.
“Did you?” He hiccupped loudly and waved his hand in embarrassment. “I don’t think I …”
“Come on, dear, I’ll have your dinner sent up. I don’t think you are well enough to enjoy it down here.”
Hector turned to Monk again.
“Then what the hell are you?”
Monk had an uncharacteristic moment of tact.
“I have to do with the law, Mr. Farraline. There are details to be dealt with.”
“Oh—” He seemed satisfied.
Oonagh half turned and shot Monk a look of gratitude, then gently steered Hector towards the door and out
By the time she came back they were in the dining room and seated at the table. The meal was served, and while they were eating, Monk had the opportunity to observe them individually, conversation requiring no effort on his part.
He turned over in his mind what the errand boy had said. He looked discreetly at Deirdra Farraline. Her face still pleased him. It was thoroughly feminine, soft curves to the cheek and jaw, neat nose, good brow, and yet it was full of determination; there was nothing weak or apathetic about her. He was stupidly disappointed that she was apparently dedicated to spending her time in society and using extravagant amounts of money to impress others.
Of course she was dressed entirely in black now, as mourning required, and it became her, but looking at it with a critical eye, her gown was hardly high fashion. Indeed, he would have said by London standards it was really very ordinary. The gossip was right; she had no taste. It angered him to concede the point.
He turned to look at Eilish, unwilling to be caught staring at her. Her beauty irritated him enough as it was, without his being observed watching her. The last thing he wished was to pander to her vanity.
He need not have worried. She kept her head bent towards her plate, and only twice did she glance upward, and then it was to Baird.
Her gown was also black, naturally, but more becomingly cut, and certainly more up-to-the-minute in detail. In fact, it could not have been bettered by any London beauty, whatever the cost.
