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“Our best chance still seems the bookkeeper. Kenneth Farraline has a mistress….”
“Not unusual,” Rathbone said dryly. “And hardly a crime. What of it?”
Monk kept his temper with momentary difficulty. “She’s expensive, and he is the company bookkeeper. Old Hector Farraline says the books were tampered with….”
Rathbone stopped and swung around.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Because it happened some time ago, and Mary already knew about it.”
Rathbone swore.
“Very helpful,” Monk said acidly.
Rathbone glared at him.
Monk continued walking. “The weakest point in this case seems to be the questions of timing. Hester could not have purchased the digitalis here in Edinburgh—at least it is almost impossible. And she could not have seen the pearl brooch until she was already in the train on the way back. She could only have done it if she had brought the digitalis with her from London, which is absurd.”
“Of course it’s absurd,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But I’ve seen people hanged on evidence as poor—when public hatred is deep enough. Haven’t you sense, man?”
Monk swung around to face him. “Then you’ll have to change the public mood, won’t you.” It was not a question but a demand. “That’s what you’re paid for. Make them see Hester as a heroine, a woman who gave up her own family and happiness to minister to the sick and injured. Make them see her in Scutari, passing all night along the rows of wounded with a lamp in her hand, mopping brows, comforting the dying, praying—anything you like. Let them see her braving shot and shell to reach the wounded without thought for herself … then returning home to fight the medical establishment for better conditions here … and losing her post for her impertinence, so she has to nurse privately, moving from post to post.”
“Is that how you see Hester?” Rathbone asked, standing still in the middle of the footpath opposite him, his eyes wide, his lips almost in a smile.
“No, of course not!” Monk said. “She’s an opinionated, self-willed woman doing precisely what she wants to do. But that is not the point.” There was a faint color in his face as he said it, and it occurred to Rathbone that there was more truth in what Monk had said than he was prepared to admit. And Rathbone also realized with a shiver of surprise that he would not have found it difficult to put forward that picture of Hester himself.
“I can’t,” he said bitterly. “You seem to have forgotten that this is Scotland.”
Monk swore viciously, and with several words Rathbone had not heard before.
“Oh very helpful,” Rathbone said, mimicking his earlier tone exactly. “But I shall do all I can to see that Argyll uses that to the best advantage. I have achieved one thing.” He tried to sound casual, and not too smug.
“Oh good—do tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If there is something, I should like to know it!”
“Then hold your tongue long enough and I will!” They were walking again and Rathbone quickened his pace. “Florence Nightingale herself will come and testify as a character witness.”
“That’s marvelous!” Monk shouted with such exuberance two passersby pulled faces and shook their heads, supposing him intoxicated. “That’s brilliant of you … it’s …”
“Thank you. We have established that physically any member of the household could have killed Mary Farraline. What about motive?”
The elation vanished from Monk’s face. “I thought I had two….”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“They disappeared on examination.”
“Are you sure?”
“Perfectly. Alastair’s wife is extravagant, and goes out at night to meet a scruffy-looking individual dressed in working clothes and carrying a pocket watch.”
Rathbone stopped in disbelief. “And that’s not a motive?”
Monk snorted. “She’s building a flying machine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She is building a large machine, big enough to carry a passenger, which she hopes will fly,” Monk elaborated. “In an old warehouse in the slum quarter. All right, she’s eccentric….”
