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“Callandra is in Scotland,” Oliver replied stubbornly. “Traveling around from place to place. I had a letter from her posted from Ballachulish. I believe that is somewhere on the west coast, a little short of Fort William in Inverness-shire.”
“I know where Fort William is,” Henry said patiently. “Then you will have to enquire from Monk. It should not be beyond his ability to find her. He is an excellent detective … assuming he does not already know.”
Oliver loathed the idea of going to Monk to ask him where Hester was. He would feel so vulnerable. It would entirely expose his disadvantage that he did not know himself, and yet he assumed Monk would. His only satisfaction would be if Monk did not know either. But then he would be no further forward. Now that Henry had suggested it, he realized how much he wanted to consult Hester. In fact, this case could provide the perfect reason to go to her again without their personal emotions intruding so much that the whole meeting would be impossibly awkward. On reflection, it had been a mistake not to see her more often in the inte
rvening time. It would then have been so much easier.
Now he was reduced to going to Monk, of all people, for help.
Henry was watching him reflectively.
“I suppose it would be quite a good idea,” Oliver conceded. “I may even end up employing him myself!” He meant it as a joke. He could not use a detective against his own client, but he was tempted to do it simply to have the weapon of knowledge in his hand.
“What will happen to him if you lose?” Henry asked after another few moments of thoughtful silence by the fire.
“Financial penalty and social ruin,” Rathbone answered. “And considering his profession, probably professional catastrophe as well.”
“Does he realize that?” Henry frowned.
“I’ve told him.”
“Then you must find out the truth, Oliver.” Henry leaned forward, his face very grave, worry creasing his brow. “What you have told me so far does not make any sense. No man would throw away a brilliant career, about which he obviously cares passionately, for such a reason.”
“I know,” Oliver agreed. He sat a little lower in his chair. It was soft and extremely comfortable. The whole room had a familiar feeling that was far more than mere warmth; it was a deep sense of safety, of belonging, of values which did not change. “I’ll ask Monk. Tomorrow.”
Monk was startled to see Rathbone on his step at half past eight the following morning. He opened the door dressed in shirtsleeves, his dark hair smoothed back off his brow and still damp. He surveyed Rathbone’s immaculate striped trousers and plain coat, his high hat and furled umbrella.
“I can’t guess,” he said with a shrug. “I cannot think of anything whatever which would bring you, dressed like that, to my door at this hour on a Saturday morning.”
“I don’t expect you to guess,” Rathbone replied waspishly. “If you allow me in, I shall tell you.”
Monk smiled. He had a high-cheekboned face with steady gray eyes, a broad-bridged aquiline nose and a wide, thin mouth. It was the countenance of a man who was clever, as ruthless with himself as with others, possessed of courage and humor, who hid his weaknesses behind a mask of wit—and sometimes of affected coldness.
Rathbone knew all this, and part of him admired Monk, part of him even liked him. He trusted him unquestioningly.
Monk stood back and invited him in. The room where he received his prospective clients was already warm with the fire bright in the hearth, the curtains drawn wide and a clock ticking agreeably on the mantel. That was new since the last time Rathbone had been there. He wondered if it had been Hester’s idea, then dismissed the thought forcibly. The rest of the room was filled with her suggestions. Why not this, and what did it matter if it were?
Monk waved to him to sit down. “Is this professional?” he asked, standing by the fire and looking down at Rathbone.
Rathbone leaned back and crossed his legs, to show how at ease he was.
“Of course it is. I don’t make social calls at this hour.”
“You must have an appalling case.” Monk was still amused, but now he was also interested.
Rathbone wanted to make sure Monk understood it was professional, and not that he wanted to find Hester for personal motives. For him to believe that would be intolerable. In his own way he would never allow Rathbone to forget it.
“I have,” he said candidly. “I am out of my depth, because of the nature of it, and I know I am being lied to. I need a sound judgment on it, one from a very different point of view.” He saw Monk’s interest increase.
“If I can be of help,” Monk offered. “What is the case? Tell me about it. What is your client accused of? Murder?”
“Breach of promise.”
“What?” Monk could hardly believe it. “Breach of promise? To marry?” He laughed in spite of himself. “And you don’t understand it?” It was not quite contempt in his voice, but almost.
“That’s right,” Rathbone agreed. He was a past master at keeping his temper. Better men, more skilled at these tactics than Monk, had tried to provoke him and failed. “My client stands to forfeit not only money but his professional reputation if he loses. And he has a brilliant career. Some might even say he has genius.”
The humor vanished from Monk’s face. He stared at Rathbone with gravity, and the curiosity returned.
