AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And one of us knows whether they are right or wrong,” Hector went on doggedly.
Kenneth’s face was pink. “I do, Uncle Hector. It is my job to keep them. And they are right … to the farthing.”
“Of course they are,” Oonagh said frankly, looking first at Kenneth, then at Hector. “We all know you are distressed over Mother’s death, but you are beginning to speak irresponsibly, Uncle Hector. That does not do any of us justice. It would be a good idea if you were to stop discussing that subject before you say something we shall all regret.” Her eyes were very steady on his. “Mother would not have wished us to quarrel with each other, or make hurtful remarks like that.”
Hector looked numbed, as if for a moment he had forgotten Mary’s death, and then suddenly the whole weight of grief struck him again. The color fled from his face and he seemed about to collapse.
Eilish leaned towards him to give him physical support, which seemed necessary to keep him upright in his chair, and immediately Baird rose and came around to him, half lifting him up.
“Come on, Uncle Hector. Let me take you to your room. I think you had better he down for a while.”
A look of fury crossed over Quinlan’s face as Eilish and Baird between them helped Hector to his feet and led him, shambling erratically, out of the room. They could hear their footsteps lurching across the hall, and Eilish’s voice in encouragement, and then Baird’s deeper tones.
“I’m so sorry,” Oonagh apologized, looking at Monk. “I am afraid poor Uncle Hector is not as well as we would wish. This has all struck him very hard.” She smiled gently, tacitly seeking Monk’s understanding. “I am afraid he sometimes gets confused.”
“ ‘Not as well,’ ” Quinlan said viciously. “He’s blind drunk, the old ass!”
Alastair shot him a look of warning, but refrained from saying anything.
Deirdra rang the bell for the servants to clear away the dishes and bring the next course.
They were finished with dinner and back in the withdrawing room before Oonagh found her opportunity to speak privately with Monk. They were all in the room, but so discreetly that it seemed unnoticed by anyone else, she led him farther and farther from the others until they were standing in front of the large window, now closed against the rapidly chilling night, and out of earshot of anyone. He was suddenly aware of the perfume of her.
“How is your errand progressing, Mr. Monk?” she said softly.
“I have learned little that might not have been expected,” he replied guardedly.
“About us?”
There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not a woman to whom he would lie, or wished to over this.
“Naturally.”
“Have you discovered where Deirdra spends so much money, Mr. Monk?”
“Not yet.”
She pulled a small, rueful face, full of apology, and something else beyond it, deep within her which he could not read.
“She manages to go through enormous amounts, quite unexplained by the running of this house, which has been largely in my mother’s hands until her death, and of course mine.” She frowned. “Deirdra says she spends it on clothes, but she is exceptionally extravagant, even for a woman of fashion and some social position to maintain.” She took a deep breath and looked at Monk very squarely. “It is causing my brother Alastair some concern. If … if you should find out, in the course of your investigations, we would be most grateful to learn.” The ghost of a smile curved her lips. “We would express that gratitude in whatever manner was appropriate. I do not wish to insult you.”
“Thank you,” he said frankly. He was obliged to admit, his pride could be quite easily offended. “If I should learn the answer to that, which I may do, I will inform you directly I am certain.”
She smiled, in a moment’s candid understanding, and a moment later fell back into ordinary, meaningless chatter.
He took his leave shortly before a quarter to eleven, and was in the hall waiting for McTeer to emerge through the green baize door when Hector Farraline came lurching down the stairs and slid the last half dozen steps to land clinging to the newel post, his face wearing an expression of intense concentration.
“Are you going to find out who killed Mary?” he said in a whisper, surprisingly quiet for one so inebriated.
“Yes,” Monk replied simply. He did not think rational argument or explanation would serve any purpose, only prolong an encounter which was going to be at least trying.
“She was the best woman I ever knew.” Hector blinked and his eyes filled with a terrible sadness. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was never beautiful, like Eilish, but she had the same sort of quality about her, a light inside, a sort of fire.” He gazed across the hall past Monk, and for a moment his glance caught the huge portrait of his brother, which until now Monk had noticed only vaguely. The old man’s hp curled and his face filled with a vortex of emotions, love, hate, envy, loathing, regret, longing for things past, even pity.
“He was a bastard, you know—at times,” he said in little more than a whisper, but his voice shook with intensity. “The handsome Hamish, my elder brother, the colonel. I was only a major, you know? But I was a better soldier than he ever was! Cut a fine figure. Knew how to speak to the ladies. They adored him.”
He slid down to sit on the lowest step. “But Mary was always the best. She used to walk with her back so straight, and her head so high. She had wit, Mary. Make you laugh till you wept … at the damnedest things.” He looked regrettably close to weeping now, and impatient as he was, Monk felt a twinge of pity for him. He was an old man, living on the bounty of a younger generation who had nothing but contempt for him, and a sense of duty. The fact that he probably deserved nothing more would be no comfort at all.
“He was wrong,” Hector said suddenly, swiveling around to look straight at the portrait again. “Very wrong. He shouldn’t have done that to her, of all people.”
