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When he encountered Oonagh later, he met her eyes and told her he was investigating the matter but as yet had found no conclusive evidence. The lie troubled him not in the slightest.
In the morning post there was a letter from Callandra. Monk tore it open and read:
My dear William,
I am afraid the news from here is all of the very worst. I have visited Hester as often as I am permitted. She has great courage, but I can see that the strain is telling on her profoundly. I had foolishly imagined that her time in the Scutari hospital would have inured her to at least some of the hardships that Newgate would offer. Of course it is wildly different. The physical portion is relatively negligible. It is the mental suffering, the endless tedium of day after day with nothing to do but let her imagination conjure the worst. Fear is more debilitating than almost anything else.
In Scutari she was endlessly needed, respected, even loved. Here she is idle and the object of hatred and contempt from warders who have no doubt of her guilt.
I hear from Oliver that you have made no significant progress in learning who else may have killed Mary Farraline. I wish I could offer some assistance. I have asked Hester over and over for every memory or impression she might have, but nothing has come to mind which she has not already told you.
I am afraid the worst news of all is something we should have foreseen, but I regret we did not. Not that we could have helped it, even had we known from the outset. Since the crime was committed while the train was in Scotland, whoever is guilty, they have demanded that Hester be tried in Edinburgh. We have no grounds whatever upon which to contest it. She will be returned to stand trial in Edinburgh High Court, and Oliver will not be able to do anything more than offer his personal assistance. Since he is qualified only to practice English Law, he cannot appear for her.
Of course I shall make provision for the best Scottish lawyer I can find, but I confess I feel deeply distressed that Oliver cannot do it. He has the unparalleled advantage that he believes entirely in her innocence.
Still, we must not lose courage. The battle is not yet over, and as long as it is not, we have not lost—nor shall we.
My dear William, spare nothing to learn the truth, neither time nor money are of the least importance. Write to me for anything at all you might need.
Yours faithfully,
Callandra Daviot
He stood in the bitter autumn sunlight with the white paper a blur in front of him; his body was shaking. Rathbone could not defend her. He had never even thought of that—but now that Callandra wrote it, it seemed so obvious. He had not realized until now just how much he had been counting on Rathbone’s skill, how the lawyer’s past victories had weighed unconsciously on his mind, making him hope the impossible. Now, with one blow, that was ended.
It was minutes before his mind cleared. A dray stopped in the street outside. The cellarman shouted and the driver swore. The sound of the horses stamping on the cobbles and the rattle of wheels came up clearly through the window ajar.
Someone in the Farraline house had tampered with Mary’s medicine, with the knowledge it would kill her. Someone had put her pearl brooch in Hester’s bag. Greed? Fear? Revenge? Some motive not yet guessed at?
Where did Eilish go down the Kings Stables Road? Who was the rough, uncouth man who waited for Deirdra, and whom she met with such intense and secret conversation before running back into the house? A lover? Surely not, not in such clothes. A blackmailer? More probable. Over what? Her extravagance. Did she gamble, pay off old debts, keep a lover, a relative, an illegitimate child? Or was the extravagance simply to pay off a blackmailer? One thing, it was not to buy fashionable dresses. She had unquestionably lied about that.
It was an ugly resolution, but he decided he must follow her, or the man, and find the truth of it, whatever it was. And he must follow Eilish too. If it was a love affair with her sister’s husband, or with anyone else, that also must be known, and beyond doubt.
The first night was totally fruitless. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish appeared. But the second night at a little after midnight the man in the torn coat came again, and after lingering furtively beyond the arc of light from the streetlamp, and again looking at his watch, Deirdra appeared, creeping like a shadow out of the side gate. After a brief, intense exchange, but no overt gesture of affection, they turned away from the house and, side by side, walked rapidly across the grass and down Glenfinlas Street south, exactly the same way Eilish had gone.
This time Monk kept well behind them, which was not difficult because they moved extremely rapidly. For a small woman, Deirdra had a remarkable stride, and did not seem to tire, almost as if something lay ahead of her which filled her with energy and enthusiasm. Monk also stopped and turned around several times to make sure he was not being followed. He still remembered with pain his previous foray along here after Eilish.
He could see no one, apart from two youths going in the opposite direction, a black dog scavenging in the gutter, and a drunk propped against the wall and beginning to slide down.
There was a light wind with a smell of grime and damp on it, and overhead thin clouds darkened the three-quarter moon. Between the pools of the streetlamps the spaces melted into impenetrable shadow. The great mound of the castle towering above them and to the left showed a jagged, now-familiar line against the paler sky.
Deirdra and the man turned left into the Grassmarket. The pavement was narrower here and the five-story buildings made the street seem like the bottom of a deep ravine. There was little sound but that of footsteps, muffled by damp and echo, and the occasional shout, bang of a door or gate, and now and again horses’ hooves as some late traveler passed.
The Grassmarket was only a few hundred yards long, then it turned into Cowgate until it crossed South Bridge, running parallel to Canongate, and turned into Holyrood Road. To the right lay the Pleasance and Dumbiedykes, to the left the High Street, the Royal Mile, and eventually Holyrood Palace. In between was an endless maze of alleys and yards, passages between buildings, steps up and steps down, a thousand nooks and doorways.
Monk increased his pace. Where on earth was Deirdra going? Her pace had not slackened at all, nor had she glanced behind her.
Ahead of him Deirdra and the man crossed the road and abruptly disappeared.
Monk swore and ran forward, tripping over a cobble and all but losing his balance. A dog sleeping in a doorway stirred, growled, and then lowered its head again.
Candlemaker Row. He swung around the corner and was just in time to see Deirdra and the man as they passed the beginning of the graveyard to the right, stop, hesitate barely a moment, then go into one of the vast, shadowy buildings to the left.
Monk ran after them, reaching the spot only minutes after they had gone. At first he could see no entrance. The street walls and high wooden gates were a seamless barrier against intrusion.
But they had been here, and now they were not. Something had yielded to their touch. Step by step he moved along, pushing gently, until under his weight one wooden gate swung open just enough to allow him to squeeze inside and to find himself in a cobbled yard facing a building something like a barn. Yellow gaslight streamed from the cracks around an ill-fitting door which would have let through a horse and dray, were it open.
He moved forward gingerly, feeling every step before putting his weight down. He did not want to brush against something and set off an alarm. He had no idea where he was, or what manner of place to expect, or even who else might be inside.
