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was too large, but above all, it was the empty shell of a dream that had died. This place was elegant and almost sparse in its furnishings, and quite large enough to cater for all that really pleased him. There was no ostentation, only quality. And Dover made it seem like home. His loyalty was proven, his opinion given only when asked for.
‘That would be perfect,’ Oliver replied, walking ahead into the sitting room with its familiar extremely comfortable chairs. It was pleasantly warm without a fire, and there were late roses in the vase on the side table.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dover said quietly. ‘Would you like the newspaper, sir? I have kept The Times from while you were away, and there is rather a large stack of them.’ He frowned, as if that fact displeased him. ‘It might not be the pleasantest way for you to learn the news, sir, if I may say so.’
His tone warned Rathbone that he had missed something important. He felt a chill, even in the warm room. He turned to look at the man.
‘What is it that I will so dislike reading? Perhaps you had better tell me.’
‘I will fetch the sandwich, Sir Oliver, and the claret.’
‘No, Dover, you will tell me now!’ Rathbone felt the sharpness of anxiety rich inside him.
‘It is a long story, sir, and somewhat complicated. But I assure you the end is satisfactory, at least so far. What the final result will be, of course I cannot say.’
‘I’ll go upstairs and wash,’ Rathbone replied. ‘Trains always make me feel grubby. Then you will tell me whatever it is. Is . . .’ He found his mouth dry. ‘Is Sir Ingram York dead?’
‘No, sir, not so far as I am aware.’
Rathbone felt a faint stirring of disappointment. Ingram York was the judge who had inveigled Rathbone into the case that had caused his ruin. No, that was not true. York had dug the pit for him, but Rathbone himself had stepped into it, in the arrogant belief that he could bring about justice in spite of the law, and without paying the price for it.
Ingram York was also the now mentally broken husband of Beata, whom Rathbone had learned to love in spite of all his best judgement. Best judgement! What an inappropriate term to use for his recent decisions, personal and professional.
And yet it was Beata he had wanted to turn to and share the aching, melancholy beauty of the Trossachs, of Loch Lomond with its rocky shore and glimpses of light on the water.
He returned downstairs, cleaner and no longer in his travelling clothes, but in an old smoking jacket instead. Dover had the sandwiches on the table and a glass of deep ruby-red claret warmed to room temperature, breathing its fragrance into the air.
‘So what is the news?’ Rathbone asked as he sat in the armchair and picked up the first sandwich.
Dover remained standing, as was his custom. He considered it the way of a good manservant to conduct himself. It was part of his identity.
‘First of all, sir, I would like you to know that Mrs Monk is quite well and safe at home . . .’
Rathbone found himself suddenly almost unable to breathe.
‘What do you mean, Dover? Why would she not be? What has happened? What about Monk himself?’
‘Quite well, sir, but he was never in danger. It was Mrs Monk who was kidnapped, along with three small children, apparently from the river-bank.’
Rathbone stared at him. ‘Three children? Who? And for God’s sake, Dover, why? Tell me the story properly, man!’ He knew he was being unreasonable but he could not help himself. He was now sitting up rigidly and his sandwich and claret were forgotten.
‘Mrs Monk was working at the Royal Naval Hospital at a special annexe there, mostly at nights, to stand in for a friend from her army days, who was sick herself,’ Dover said steadily. ‘Somehow she discovered that the doctor and chemist brothers who run that part of the place were conducting experiments on sick people, and injured ones, and using the blood of children they had picked up on the river-bank.’
Rathbone shut his eyes as if doing that would somehow close out the pictures in his imagination.
‘When they realised that she knew what they were doing,’ Dover continued, ‘they took her and the children, along with their current patient, and went off into the countryside with them. Had them locked up in some farmhouse, both to keep them quiet and to use them for this thing they were doing. Of course, Mr Monk found out where they were, and he went and rescued them. Took the chemist brother prisoner, and the daughter of the patient they were trying to cure. They’ll be coming up for trial soon. It’s going to be all over the newspapers, so I thought you should know before you read it, sir.’
‘Yes,’ Rathbone said slowly, his mind still reeling. ‘Yes, of course. You are quite right. Thank you, Dover.’
‘Sir.’ Dover inclined his head and turned towards the door.
‘Dover?’ Rathbone said quickly.
He turned back. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘What happened to the children?’
‘Wasn’t reported, sir, except that they’re being taken care of somewhere safe. Best that way, if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir.’
