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He turned from Oonagh to Alastair, sitting beside her, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stationmaster giving his evidence. He looked haunted, as though the burden of the public trial of his family’s tragedy were more than he could bear. As Monk had seen once or twice before, it seemed to be his sister upon whom he leaned for support rather than his wife. Deirdra was there, certainly, and sitting next to him, but his body was inclined to the left, closer to Oonagh, and his right shoulder was half turned, excluding Deirdra.
Deirdra stared straight ahead of her, not ignoring Alastair so much as simply more interested in the proceedings. There was barely any concern or anxiety in her face with its calm brow, tip-tilted nose, and sturdy chin. If she suspected any impending tragedy, she was a consummate actress.
Kenneth was not in the room, nor had Monk expected him to be. He would be called to testify, and therefore was not permitted in yet, in case he overheard something that in some way altered what he would say. It was the law. Eilish was here, like a silent flame. Baird, on the far side of Oonagh, was also turned a little away, not obviously, simply a withdrawing of himself. He did not look at Eilish, but even from the far side of the room, Monk felt the iron control he was exerting on himself not to.
Quinlan Fyffe was absent, presumably because he too would be called.
The stationmaster finished his evidence and Argyll declined to question him. He was excused and replaced by the doctor who had been sent for and had certified that Mary Farraline was indeed dead. Gilfeather was very kind to him, seeking not to embarrass him for having diagnosed the death as due to ordinary heart failure and in no way worthy of further investigation. Even so, the man was uncomfortable and answered in monosyllables.
Argyll rose and smiled at him, then sat down without saying anything at all.
It was late in the afternoon. Court was adjourned for the day.
Monk left immediately, hurrying to find Rathbone and learn his judgment of how the day had gone. He saw him on the steps and caught up with him just as he and James Argyll climbed into a hansom cab.
Monk stopped at the curb and swore vehemently. His better sense knew perfectly well that Rathbone could tell him nothing he did not know for himself, and ye
t he was infuriated not to have been able to speak to him. He stood still for several minutes, too angry to think what to do next.
“Were you looking for Oliver, or just for the cab, Mr. Monk?”
He turned around sharply to find Henry Rathbone standing a few feet away. There was something in the anxiety in his gentle face, and vulnerability in it, which robbed him of his rage and left only his fear, and the need to share it.
“Rathbone,” he replied. “Although I don’t suppose he could have told me anything I haven’t seen for myself. Were you in the court? I didn’t see you.”
“I was behind you,” Henry Rathbone replied with a faint smile. “Standing. I was too late for a seat.” They started to walk and Monk fell in step beside him. “I hadn’t realized there would be so much public interest. It is the least attractive side of people, I think. I prefer people individually; in a crowd I find they so often take on each other’s least admirable qualities. A pack instinct, I suppose. The scent of fear, of something wounded—” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re right,” Monk said grimly. “And Gilfeather is good.” He did not add the rest of the thought. It was unnecessary.
They walked in a strangely companionable silence for several yards. Monk was surprised. The man was Rathbone’s father, and yet he felt a liking for him as if he had known him for years and the relationship had always been comfortable. Instead of resenting Hester’s liking for him, he was pleased. There was something in Henry Rathbone’s face, his rather awkward gait, his long legs, not quite straight, which brought back faint, indistinct memories of being a young man, admiring his mentor intensely, almost without question. He had been very naive then. It seemed like another man whose innocence he looked at as he would a stranger’s, only the feeling was within him, unaccountably sharp for just those few moments.
There was a legless beggar sitting on the footpath, an old soldier from some war gone from the public mind. He was selling small pieces of white heather bound into nosegays for luck.
Suddenly Henry Rathbone’s eyes filled with agonized tears of pity. Wordlessly he smiled at the man and offered him sixpence for two bunches. He took them and walked in silence for several more paces before passing one to Monk.
“Don’t lose hope,” he said abruptly as they stepped off the curb and across the street. “Argyll is clever too. One of the family is responsible. Think what that person must be feeling! Think of the guilt, no matter what passion drove him or her to do it, whether it was fear or greed, or hatred for some wrong, real or imagined. There is still a terror, in all but the totally mad, for having taken such an irretrievable step.”
Monk said nothing, but kept in step with him, thoughts turning over in his mind. What Henry Rathbone said was true. Someone was laboring under a driving passion which must include both fear and guilt.
“And perhaps a kind of elation,” Henry went on. “The culprit seems to have won, to be on the brink of victory.”
Monk grunted. “What kind of victory? Achievement of something or escape from some danger? Is it elation or relief?”
Henry shook his head, his face troubled. The darkness of it touched him, both for Mary Farraline and for whichever of her children, or children by marriage, had killed her.
“Pressure,” he said, continuing to shake his head. “The process of the law may reach them, you know. That is what Oliver would do. Question. Probe. Play on their doubts of each other. I hope Argyll will do the same.”
Neither of them said anything about Hester, but Monk knew Henry Rathbone was thinking of her too. There was no need to talk of winning or losing. It was always just below the surface of their words anyway, too painful to touch.
They walked on together in silence up the Lawnmarket.
9
HESTER FELT uniquely alien as she stood in the cage in the cells waiting to be drawn up through the extraordinary trapdoor affair which would bring her into the courtroom without the necessity of passing through the crowd. The day was bitterly cold and here below the courtroom there was no heat at all. She shivered uncontrollably, and told herself with a flash of mockery that it had nothing to do with fear.
But when the time came and she was winched up into the packed court, even the warmth of the two coal fires and the expectant crowd of people crammed together to fill every space did not reach inside her and stop the shaking or ease the locked muscles.
She did not search their faces to see Monk, or Callandra, or Henry Rathbone. It was too painful. It reminded her of all she valued and might so very soon have to leave. And that was looking more and more likely with every witness who spoke. She had seen Argyll’s tiny victories—and was not deceived. They were not enough to light hope in anyone but a fool. They kept the battle alive, futile as it was so far. They prevented surrender—but not defeat.
