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“Yes.”
“And you want me to help you find out who it is?”
He hesitated, on the edge of reminding her that it was the price of his silence, then decided it would be wiser not to. She already understood as much.
“Don’t you want to know?” he asked instead.
She waited only a moment.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand, and she took it in her leather-gloved one and clasped it in silent agreement.
7
MONK RETURNED to his lodgings cold, tired and faced with a dilemma. He had promised to tell Oonagh if he learned where Deirdra spent her money—or, more accurately, Alastair’s money. Now that he knew the answer, every instinct and desire was to tell no one at all, most especially not Oonagh.
Of course her whole enterprise was quite mad, bereft of any connection with reality, but it was an absurd and glorious madness, and harmed no one at all. What if she did spend money on it? The Farralines had plenty of money, and better on a wild and innocuous folly like a flying machine than on gambling, a lover, or to deck herself in silks and jewels in order to look wealthier or more beautiful than her peers. Certainly she should continue.
He found himself striding out with his head high and a lift in his step, and he very nearly went straight past the establishment of Wm. Forster, Innkeeper, in his exhilaration.
In the morning, however, he realized he should have taken the opportunity to strike a better bargain with her. He could have asked her about the company books, and whether there was any basis for Hector’s charge. And there was the matter of what he would say to Oonagh. She would never allow him simply to let the subject fade away. And if he were to avoid her, he would have to avoid the Farraline house, which was an impossibility.
Memory of that returned Hester to his thoughts sharply and with a pain that surprised him. At the forefront of his mind he had always considered Hester intelligent, and certainly a useful colleague, but a person about whom his feelings were very mixed. He respected her qualities, at any rate some of them, but he did not really like her. A great many of her mannerisms and attitudes irritated him enormously. Being in her company was like having a small cut on the hands, a paper cut, which was always in danger of being reopened. It was not really an injury, but it was a constant source of discomfort.
And now came the awareness that if he did not succeed in finding proof of who had really killed Mary Farraline, Hester would be gone. He would never see her or speak with her again, never see her square shoulders and proud, rather angular figure come walking towards him, ready to pick a quarrel or enthuse about some cause or other, order him around and express her opinions furiously and with total, blind conviction. If he was facing an impossible case, desperate and defeated, there would be no one who would fight beside him to the end, and beyond, even when reason told t
hem both defeat was already a reality.
He was overwhelmed with a loneliness so deep, staring at the gray cobbles of the Grassmarket and the leaden sky between the heaped and jumbled roofs, the light was worse than the darkness had been, and unreasonably colder. The thought of a world without her was desolating, and the realization that it hurt him so profoundly choked him with anger.
He set out at a brisk walk towards Kings Stables Road, and eventually Ainslie Place. At the front of his mind, his reason for going was to speak to Hector Farraline and press him further to make some sense in the dark and extremely vague accusations he had been making about the company books. If they were indeed being falsified, it might be a motive for murder—if Mary had known, or was about to be told.
His excuse was to report to Oonagh that he was still investigating Deirdra but that so far all he had learned was that she was indeed a poor judge of how to obtain a bargain, and given to extravagance in her attire. If she pressed him for details he would find it difficult to reply, but he was too consumed with emotion for his mind to take heed of such things.
It was a brisk morning after the previous night’s frost, but striding up the rise towards Princes Street, it was not at all unpleasant. He was not in any way familiar with Edinburgh, except the immediate vicinity of the Grassmarket now, but he had already developed a liking for the city. The old town was steep and narrow with high buildings, lots of alleys, closes and leg-aching flights of steps, sudden courtyards, and wynds, as they were called; especially eastward towards the Royal Mile, at the far end of which stood Holyrood Palace.
He arrived at Ainslie Place and McTeer let him in with his usual air of gloom and foreboding.
“Good morning to ye, Mr. Monk.” He took Monk’s hat and coat. “Looks like more rain, I’ll be thinking.”
Monk was in the mood for an argument.
“More?” he said with wide eyes. “It’s quite dry outside. In fact, it’s really very agreeable.”
McTeer was not put off. “It’ll no last,” he said with a shake of his head. “Ye’ll be to see Mrs. McIvor, no doubt?”
“If I may? I should also like to see Major Farraline, if he is available?”
McTeer sighed. “I couldn’t say if he is or no, until I inquire, sir. But I’ll be about seein’ for ye. If ye’ll take a seat in the morning room in the meanwhile.”
Monk accepted, and stood in the somber room with its half-drawn blinds and crepe ribbons with surprising apprehension. Now that it actually came to facing Oonagh and lying to her, it was even more difficult than he had expected.
The door opened and he swung around, his mouth dry. She was facing him with calm, measured intelligence. She was not really beautiful, but there was a power of character in her which demanded not only his attention but his admiration as well. Mere form and color bore so quickly, no matter how startling at first. Intelligence, strength of will, the ability to feel great passions and the courage to follow them through, these lasted. And above all he was drawn to the mystery of her, that part he did not understand and she would always hold aloof and apart. It flashed through his mind to wonder about Baird McIvor. What sort of man was he that Mary had liked him? He had won Oonagh’s hand in marriage, and yet had fallen in love with Eilish so profoundly he could not mask his feelings even in front of his wife. How could he be so shallow—and so cruel? Surely she had seen? Did she love him so much she forgave his weakness? Or did she love Eilish? The depths to her were immeasurable.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk.” She interrupted his thoughts and jerked him into the present. “Have you something to report?” Her words were no more than courteous, but her voice had a vibrancy to it. She was asking a friend, not an employee.
If he hesitated he would betray himself. He was acutely conscious of the sharpness of the perception behind those clear, level eyes.
