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“How odd! Such a valuable piece must surely have been kept in a safe place, a locked jewel casket or something of the like.”
“I presume so.”
“You don’t know.”
She looked uncertain. “No. It was my mother’s, not mine.”
“How many times have you seen her wear it?”
“I—” She watched him carefully with that same clear, direct look Monk remembered facing himself. “I don’t recall seeing her wear it.”
“How do you know she had it at all?”
“Because it was commissioned from our family jeweler, paid for and taken.”
“By whom?”
“I see your point, Mr. Argyll,” she granted. “But it is not mine, nor my sister’s, nor does it belong to my sister-in-law. It can only have been my mother’s. I daresay she wore it on some occasion when I was not present and so I have never noticed it.”
“Is it not possible, Mrs. McIvor, that it was a gift for someone else, and not for a member of your family at all?” he suggested. “That would account for why no one has seen it and it is not there now, would it not?”
“If it were the truth, yes,” Oonagh said dismissively. “But it was very expensive indeed to give someone who is not a member of the family. We are generous, I hope, but not extravagant.”
Heads nodded. One woman stifled a giggle, and the man next to her glared at her.
“So you are saying, Mrs. McIvor, that the brooch was commissioned and yet no one has seen it, although it was paid for, is that right? You are not saying that you have any evidence to suggest that Miss Latterly has it, or ever has had?”
“She had the pearl brooch,” Oonagh pointed out. “Even she does not deny that.”
“No, indeed not,” Argyll agreed. “She made every effort to return it to you as soon as she discovered it. But she has not seen the diamond brooch, any more than you have.”
Oonagh flushed, opened her mouth, and then changed her mind and remained silent.
Argyll smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. McIvor. I have nothing further to ask you.”
It was another tiny point gained, but the momentary elation vanished almost as soon as it came. Gilfeather was amused. He could afford to be.
He called the conductor from the train on which Mary Farraline and Hester had traveled. He said exactly what was expected. No one else, as far as he knew, had gone into the carriage. The two women had been alone the entire journey. Yes, Mrs. Farraline had left the compartment at least once, to attend the requirements of nature. Yes, Miss Latterly had called him in a state of some distress to report the death of the elder lady. He had gone along to see, and indeed, he deeply regretted to say so, but she had been dead. He had done his duty as soon as he had arrived in London. It was all very sad.
Argyll knew well enough not to alienate the jury by questioning what was too well established to state, and he would only harass an ordinary little man following his calling. He waved away his opportunity to cross-examine with a flick of his hand and an inclination of his head.
The stationmaster also said only what was entirely predictable, if in places self-important, nervous and melodramatic.
Again Monk’s attention wandered to the faces around the room. He was able to watch Hester for several moments because she was staring at the witness-box. He regarded her curiously. She was not beautiful, but tense, frightened as she was now, there was a quality of refinement in her which was like a kind of beauty. It was stripped of all artifice or pretense, even the mask of usual good manners, and its very honesty caught the emotions. He was surprised how familiar she seemed, as if he had known every line of her entire being, every flicker of expression that would cross her features. He thought he knew what she was feeling, but he was powerless to give her anything.
The sense of helplessness was so intense it was like a pain in his chest. But even if he could have spoken to her, he knew there was nothing to say which she did not already know. Perhaps it would have helped if he could have lied. He would never know that, because he could not. He would not do it well, and to do it badly would only place a barrier between them which would make it all worse.
Oonagh had remained in the courtroom. He could see her fair hair across her brow beneath the brim of the dark bonnet. She looked calm and brave, as if she had spent hours alone in deep thought and self-mastery before she had left Ainslie Place to come here, and now nothing would break through her composure.
Did she know who had killed her mother? Did she guess, knowing her siblings as well as she did? He studied her features, the smooth brow, the level eyes, the long straight nose, the full mouth, almost perfectly shaped. Each feature was good, and yet the whole had too much power in it for ordinary beauty. Had she taken over the mantle of leadership on Mary’s death? Was she protecting the family honor, or one individual member’s weakness or evil?
Even if he found out who it was, he might never know that.
If?
Coldness enveloped him. He had unwittingly voiced the fear he had denied so scrupulously ever since he had come to Edinburgh. He dismissed it violently.
It was one of the Farralines. It had to be.
