The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 11
"What does it mean?" Hester asked intently, staring at Rathbone. They were in the sitting room of the lodgings Callandra had taken while in Edinburgh for the trial. Hester was to stay with her at least for this night, and the reconsideration could be made in the morning. Rathbone was sitting in a hard-backed chair, too charged with emotion to relax in one of the spacious softer ones. Monk stood by the mantelshelf, half leaning on it, his face dark, his brows drawn down in concentration. Callandra herself seemed more at ease. She and Henry Rathbone sat opposite on the sofa silently.

"It means that you are neither innocent nor guilty," Rathbone replied, pulling a face. "It is not a verdict we have in England. Argyll explained it to me."

"They think I am guilty, but they are not really quite sure enough to hang me," Hester said with a catch in her voice. "Can they try me again?"

"It means they think you're guilty, but they can't damned well prove it," Monk put in bitterly. He turned to Rathbone, his lip curled. "Can they try her again?"

"No. In that respect it is the same as a verdict of not guilty."

"But people will always wonder," Hester said grimly, her face very pale. She was perfectly aware of what it meant. She had seen the expressions of the people in the gallery, even those who were truly uncertain of her guilt. Who would hire as a nurse a woman who might be a murderess?

The fact that she also might not was hardly a recommendation.

No one answered immediately. She looked at Monk, not that she expected comfort from him, but possibly because she did not. His face would reflect the worst she would find, the plain and bitter truth.

He stared back at her with such a blazing anger that for a moment she was frightened. Even during the trial of Per-cival in the Moidore case, she had never seen such a barely controllable rage in him.

"I wish I could say otherwise," Rathbone said very softly. "But it is a very unsatisfactory conclusion."

Callandra and Monk both spoke at once, but her voice was lost in his, which was harsh, furious, and immeasurably more penetrating. Whatever she said was never heard.

"It is not a conclusion. For the love of God, what is the matter with you?" He glared at them all, but principally at Rathbone and Hester. "We don't know who killed Mary Farraline! We must find out!"

"Monk..." Rathbone began, but again Monk overrode him with a snarl of contempt.

"It is one of the family."

"Baird Mclvor?" Callandra asked.

"I have doubts," Henry Rathbone began. "It seems..."

"Unsatisfactory?" Monk asked with sarcasm, mimicking Oliver's earlier comment. "Very. No doubt they'll find him 'not proven' also, if it ever gets to trial. At least I hope so. I think it was that sniveling little beggar Kenneth. He embezzled from the company books, and his mother caught him."

"If he has covered his tracks, and from his confidence I have no doubt he has," Oliver argued, "then we'll never prove it."

"Well, you won't if you run off back to London and leave Mclvor to face trial... and maybe hang for it," Monk snapped back at him. "Is that what you intend?"

Rathbone looked temporarily nonplussed. He stared at Monk with acute dislike.

"Do we gather from your remark that you intend to remain, Mr. Monk?" Henry Rathbone asked, his mild face pinched with concern. "Is that because you believe you can accomplish something you have not done so far?"

A faint flush of anger and self-consciousness colored Monk's lean cheeks.

"We have a great deal more to pursue than we did even a day ago. I'm going to remain here until I have seen the end of it." He looked at Hester with a strange, mixed expression in his face. "You don't need to be so frightened. Whether they can prove it or not, they'll charge someone else." His voice still sounded angry.

She felt absurdly, unreasonably hurt. It was unfair. He seemed to be blaming her because the matter was unresolved, and she was frightened, and only with the greatest difficulty prevented herself from bursting into tears. Now that the worst fear was over, the sense of anticlimax, the confusion and relief, and the continued anxiety were almost more than she could bear. She wanted to be alone, where she could allow herself to stop the pretense and not care in the slightest what anyone else thought. And at the same time she wanted company, she wanted someone to put his arms around her and hold her closely, tightly, and not to let her go. She wanted to feel the warmth of someone, the breathing heartbeat, the tenderness. She certainly did not want to quarrel, least of all with Monk.

And yet because she was so vulnerable, she was furious with him. The only defense was attack.

"I don't know what you are so upset about," she said. "No one accused you of anything, except perhaps incompetence! But they don't hang you for that!" She turned to Callandra. "I am going to remain as well. For my own sake, as well as anyone else's, I am going to find out who killed Mary Farraline. I really-"

"Don't be absurd!" Monk cut across her. "There's nothing you can accomplish here, and you may well be a hindrance."

'To whom?" she demanded. Anger was so much easier than the fear and need she really felt. "You? I would have thought, on your showing so far, you would be grateful for any help you could obtain. You don't know whether it was Baird Mclvor or Kenneth. You just said as much. At least I knew Mary, you didn't."

Monk's eyebrows rose. "And what help is that? If she said something useful, don't tell me you have waited until now to reveal it."

"Don't be stupid! Of course-"

"This conversation is not furthering our cause," Henry Rathbone interrupted them. "I think, if you will forgive me saying so, it is well time we exercised a little more logical thought and rather less emotion. It is only natural that after such a fearful experience we may all be excused a little self-indulgence, but it really will serve us ill in learning who is responsible for Mrs. Farraline's death. Perhaps we should retire to our beds and resume our discussion in the morning?"

"An excellent idea." Callandra rose to her feet. "We are all too tired to think usefully."

"There is no decision to make," Monk said irritably. "I shall go back to the Farraline house and continue my investigations."

"How will you explain yourself?" Rathbone asked with pursed lips. "They may not find personal curiosity an acceptable excuse."

Monk regarded him with loathing. "They are acutely vulnerable at the moment," he replied slowly and with sarcastic patience. "It is now apparent to everyone that one of the family is guilty. They will each be pointing the finger at the other. It should not be beyond my ability to convince at least one of them that they require my services."

Oliver's eyebrows rose very high. "At least one? Do you plan to work for several of them? That should provoke an interesting situation, to say the least of it!"

"All right... one of them," Monk conceded waspishly. "I'm sure Eilish is not guilty, and she will be very keen to prove that Mclvor is not either, since she is in love with him. I think it is not impossible she will prefer him to her brother, if she is driven to choose."

"Which presumably you will do?"

"How perceptive of you!"

"Not particularly. You were rather obvious."

Monk opened his mouth to retort.

"William!" Callandra commanded. "I will be obliged if you will take your leave. Whether you return to your room in the Grassmarket or not is up to you, but it seems more than apparent to me that you need a good night's sleep." She regarded Henry Rathbone with affection. "I am sure you must be ready to retire, and I am. Good night, Mr. Rathbone. You have been of great support to me in this most trying time, and my gratitude to you is immense. I hope we shall remain friends once you have returned to London."

"I am always at your service, ma'am," he said with a smile which warmed his whole face. "Good night. Come, Oliver. We have all but outstayed our welcome."

"Good night, Lady Callandra," Oliver said courteously. He turned to Hester, ignoring Monk. His face was suddenly gentle. The anger fled and a pronounced tenderness took its place. "Good night, my dear. Tonight you are free, and we shall find the solution somehow. You shall not be jeopardized again."

"Thank you," she said with a sudden rush of emotion making her voice hoarse. "I know how much you have done for me already, and I am profoundly grateful. Nothing I can say-"

"Don't," he interrupted. "Just sleep well. Tomorrow is time enough to think of the next step."

She took a deep breath. "Good night."

He smiled and led the way to the door. Henry Rathbone followed immediately after him, smiling at Hester, and leaving without further speech.

Monk hesitated, frowning, then seemed to think better of what he had been going to say.

"Good night, Hester, Lady Callandra."

He was gone and the door closed before she realized it was the first time she could recall his having used her given name. It was odd to hear it on his tongue, and she was torn between relief that he had left and a desire for him to stay. That was ridiculous. She was much too tired and overwrought to make any sense even to herself.

"I think I will go to bed if you don't mind," she said to Callandra. "I think I am really..."

"Exhausted," Callandra finished very gently. "Of course you are, my dear. I shall have the innkeeper send us both up hot milk and a spot of brandy. I think I need it about as much as you do. I can confess to you now, I was deathly afraid I was going to lose one of the dearest friends I have. The relief is rather more than I can comfortably cope with. I am very ready to sleep." She held out her hand, and without an instant's hesitation, Hester took it, and walked into her arms to cling to her as fiercely as she was able, and did not move till the innkeeper knocked on the door.

Early the following morning everyone was a trifle self-conscious over the previous night's high emotion. No one referred to it Henry Rathbone took his leave back to London, stopping for a moment to speak with Hester and then failing to find words for what he meant. It did not matter in the slightest. She had no need of them.

Callandra also went, apparently satisfied that she could add nothing further to the situation.

Oliver Rathbone said that he was going to council with Argyll once more, and that no doubt he would see Monk and Hester again before he also returned to London. Not unnaturally he had other cases awaiting him. He said nothing to Monk about whatever he had intended to do at Ainslie Place, and took only a moment to speak, rather formally, to Hester. She thanked him yet again for his work on her behalf, and he looked embarrassed, so she pursued it no further.

By nine o'clock she and Monk were alone, everyone else having departed for the morning train south. It was a windy day but not unpleasant, and fitful shafts of sunlight gave it a brightness out of keeping with both their moods. They stood side by side on Princes Street, staring up its handsome length towards the rise of the new town, and Ainslie Place.

"I don't know where you think you are going to stay," Monk said with a frown. 'The Grassmarket is most unsuitable, and you cannot afford the hotel where Callandra was."

"What is wrong with the Grassmarket?" she demanded.

"It's not suitable for a woman alone," he replied irritably. 'Tor heaven's sake, I thought your own common sense would have told you that! The neighborhood is rough, and a great deal of it none too clean."

She looked at him witheringly. "Worse than Newgate?" she inquired.

"Acquired a taste for it, have you?" he said, tight-lipped.

"Then leave me to attend to my own accommodation," she said rashly. "And let us proceed to Ainslie Place."

"What do you mean 'us'? I'm not taking you!"

"I do not require you to. I am perfectly capable of taking myself. I believe I shall walk there. It is not an unpleasant day and I should welcome a little exercise. I have not had much of late."

Monk shrugged and set out at a smart pace, so smart she was obliged almost to run to keep up with him. She had no breath to continue the conversation.

They arrived after ten, Hester with sore feet and feeling too heated for comfort, and by now in a very different temper. Damn Monk!

He, on the contrary, was looking rather pleased with himself.

The door of number seventeen was opened by McTeer. His dismal expression fell even farther when he saw Monk, and approached disastrous proportions when he saw Hester behind him.

"And who will ye be wanting?" he said slowly, rolling the words on his tongue as if he were making a prognostication of doom. "Have ye come for Mr. Mclvor?"

"No, of course not," Monk said. "We have no power to come for anybody."

McTeer snorted. "I thought maybe ye were the po-liss..."

It still jarred Monk that he was no longer a policeman and had no power whatever. His new status gave him freedom, and at the same time robbed him of half the ability to use it to its uttermost.

"Then ye'll be wanting Mrs. Mclvor, no doubt," McTeer finished for himself. "Mr. Alastair is no here at this time o' day."

"Of course not," Monk agreed. "I should be obliged to see whoever I may."

"Aye, aye, I daresay. Well, you'd better come in." And reluctantly McTeer pulled the door wide enough open to allow them to pass into the hall, with its giant picture of Hamish Farraline dominating the room.

Hester stared at it with curiosity as McTeer withdrew. Monk waited impatiently.

"What are you going to say?" Hester asked him.

"I don't know," he replied tersely. "It can't be prescribed and followed like a dose of medicine."

"Medicine is not prescribed and followed regardless," she contradicted. "You watch the progress of the patient and do whatever you think best according to his response."

"Don't be pedantic."

"Well, if you don't know now, you had better make up your mind very rapidly," she replied. "Oonagh will be here in a moment, unless she sends a message that she will not receive you."

He turned his back, but remained standing close to her. She was right, and it irritated him almost beyond bearing. There had been too much emotion in the last few weeks, and he was profoundly disturbed by it. He hated his feelings to be beyond his control. The anger brought back memories which frightened him, recent memories of confusion and fear. The possibility of failure was another all too recent memory he preferred not to reawaken. The emotion caused by the knowledge that she might very easily die was a profound and deeply confused turmoil he chose to ignore. If he did so for long enough, he could sink into all the other memories he had lost.

She did not interrupt his thoughts again until McTeer returned to say that they would be received in the library. He did not say by whom.

When he opened the library door and announced them, all three of the women were there: Eilish, pale as a ghost, her eyes dark with fear; Deirdra, tense and unhappy, glancing all the time at Eilish; and Oonagh, composed and grave, and somewhat apologetic. It was she who came forward to greet first Hester, then Monk. As always, she was not lost for words.

"Miss Latterly, no expression of regret can suffice for what you have endured, but please believe that we are truly sorry, and as far as we have any part in it, we apologize profoundly."

It was a noble speech, most especially considering that it was her own husband who now stood so openly accused.

Eilish looked wretched, and Monk felt an unaccustomed wave of pity for her. Quinlan's behavior could only be acutely embarrassing to her.

Hester was generous about it, whatever her underlying feelings.

"You have no call to apologize, Mrs. Mclvor. You were newly bereaved in most fearful circumstances. I think you acted with dignity and restraint. I would be pleased to have done as well."

A slight smile touched Oonagh's lips.

"You are very gracious, Miss Latterly, more generous than I think I should be"-the smile broadened for a moment-"were we to change places."

Eilish made a strangled sound in her throat.

Deirdra turned to her, but Oonagh ignored the interruption, and looked at Monk.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. McTeer gave no indication as to why you have come. Was it simply to accompany Miss Latterly, that we might apologize to her?"

"I did not come for apologies," Hester cut across him before he could speak. "I came to say how highly I regarded your mother, and in spite of all that has happened since we last met, I regard her loss as the worst of it."

"That is generous of you," Oonagh accepted. "Yes, she was a remarkable person. She will be greatly missed, outside the family as well as within it."

They seemed to be on the point of being shown out again, and Monk had asked nothing at all.

"I have already expressed my regrets, long ago," he said somewhat abruptly. "I came to ask if you wished my assistance in the matter. It is far from resolved, and the police will not allow it to rest. They cannot."

"As an agent of inquiry?" Oonagh's fair eyebrows rose curiously. "To help us obtain another verdict of 'not proven'?"

"Do you think Mr. Mclvor is guilty?"

It was an appalling thing to ask. There was a shocked, breathless silence. Even Hester gasped and bit her lip. A coal settled in the grate and outside beyond the windows a dog barked.

"No!" Eilish said at last, her voice a sob in her throat. "No, of course not!"

Monk was ruthless. "Then you will need to prove that it was someone else, or he will take Miss Latterly's place at the rope's end."

"Monk!" Hester exploded. "For heaven's sake!"

"You find the truth ugly?" he said. "I would have thought you, of all people, would not now balk at the real-ity"

She said nothing. He could feel her disgust as if it were a palpable thing radiating from her. It did not disturb him in the slightest.

A bar of pale sunlight came through the clouds and shone on one of the bookcases.

"I fear you are right, Mr. Monk," Oonagh said with distaste, "no matter how bluntly you phrase it. The authorities cannot afford to allow the matter to remain unresolved. They have not yet been here, but no doubt it is merely a matter of rime. If not today, then tomorrow. I know of no one else we could call to our assistance in the matter of learning the truth. Of course we do have lawyers, should that be necessary. What would you propose to do?" She did not mention money; it was vulgar, and she had more than sufficient means to meet anything he might charge, probably out of petty housekeeping.

It was an impossible question to answer. He was seeking the truth only to prove once and for all that it was not Hester. The only imaginable alternatives were members of the Farraline family. Looking at Oonagh's face, he saw the depths of her eyes, the black laughter in there, and knew that she understood it as perfectly as he did.

Eilish moved uncomfortably. Deirdra glanced at her.

"Discover which of you it was, Mrs. Mclvor," Monk said quietly. "At least let us hang the right man-or woman. Or would you prefer simply to hang the most convenient?"

Hester let out a suppressed groan of anguish.

Oonagh remained entirely composed.

"No one could accuse you of mincing your words, Mr. Monk. But you are correct. I should prefer it to be the right person, whether it is my husband or one of my brothers. How do you propose to proceed? You must know a great deal already, and it has not led you to any conclusion, or doubtless you would have said so in Miss Latterly's interests."

Monk felt himself tighten as if he had been slapped. Once again his respect for Oonagh mounted. She was unlike any woman he had known before, and he could think of few men, if any, who could match her cold courage or her monumental composure.

"I now know a great deal more than I did then, Mrs. Mclvor. I think we all do," he replied dryly.

"And you believe it!" Eilish could control herself no longer. "You believe everything Quinlan said, just because it was-"

"Eilish!" Oonagh's voice cut across her firmly, reducing her to agonized silence, staring at Monk with her brilliant eyes. Oonagh turned back to Monk. "I presume you do not believe the matter is ended, or you would not have bothered to come. I imagine, whatever tactics or courtesy require you to say, it is to clear Miss Latterly's name that you have really come. No, you do not need to answer that. Please don't protest, it is unworthy of either of us."

"I was not going to protest," he said tersely. "As I see it, there are at least two avenues to explore on the grounds of evidence, either old or new."

"Mother's property in Ross-shire," Oonagh said. "What else?"

"The diamond brooch which apparently you never found."

She looked a little surprised. "You think it matters?"

"I have no idea, but I shall find out. Who is your jeweler?"

"Arnott and Dunbar, of Frederick Street"

"Thank you." He hesitated only an instant. "Will it be possible to know a little more about the property in..."

"Ross-shire," she finished for him, her eyes wide. "If you wish to. Quinlan has naturally given the papers to the police. They took them yesterday evening. But the fact is irrefutable. Mother inherited a small croft in Easter Ross. She gave the leasing of it into Baird's hands, and there are, it would seem, no receipts of money whatever..."

"There will be some explanation for it!" Eilish said desperately. "Baird would never simply steal it!"

"Whatever it is, I doubt it is simple," Oonagh said dryly. "But of course, dear, we all wish to think it is not as it seems, no one more than I!"

Eilish blushed, and then went white.

"Where is Easter Ross?" Monk could not recall the county, if he had ever known anything of it. Presumably it was in the east, but to the east of where?

"Oh, beyond Inverness, I think," Oonagh replied absently. "It is really very far north indeed. Saint Colmac, Port of Saint Colmac, or something like that. Really, it is all rather absurd; the amount cannot be more than a few pounds a year. Hardly worth anyone's life!"

"People have been killed over a hand of cards," Monk said bitterly, then as Hester glanced towards him, suddenly wondered how he knew that. He was not conscious of knowing, and yet he had spoken with certainty. It was another of those little jolts of knowledge that returned every so often, utterly without warning and with no surrounding recollection.

"I suppose so." Oonagh's voice was little more than a whisper. She looked towards the window. "I shall find the precise address for you, if that is what you wish. Perhaps you would dine with us this evening, and I shall have it for you then?"

"Thank you," Monk replied, then suddenly was uncertain whether Hester had been included or not.

"Thank you," Hester accepted, before the question could be answered by anyone else. "That would be most generous of you, especially in the circumstances."

Oonagh drew in her breath, then decided against arguing, and smiled instead.

It was dismissal, and Monk and Hester were in the hall, waiting for the sepulchral McTeer to let them out, when Eilish came hurrying after them, grasping Monk by the arm, hardly seeming to see Hester.

"Mr. Monk! It wasn't Baird. He would never have hurt Mother, whatever anyone thinks. He doesn't even care all that much about money. There has to be another explanation for all this."

Monk felt acutely sorry for her. He knew only too well the bitterness of disillusion, the moment when one realizes that the man or the woman that one has loved intensely is after all not merely imperfect but flawed, and in a way that is ugly, shallow and alien. It is not that he or she has slipped, and needs forgiving, but never was the person one thought. The whole relationship was a mirage, a lie, unwitting perhaps, but still a lie.

"Have you asked him?" he said gently.

She looked very white. "Yes. He simply says that he did not steal anything but it is a subject he cannot speak of. I... I believe him, of course, but I don't know what to make of it. Why would he not speak of it, when Quinlan accuses him of something so terrible? What is worth pursuing now, when his"-she gulped-"his life may be at stake?"

The only answer that came to Monk's mind was that it could be some secret even uglier than the accusation, or one that substantiated it. He did not say so to her.

"I don't know, but I promise you I shall do all I can to find out And if Baird is innocent then he will be proved so."

"Kenneth?" she whispered. "I can't bear to believe that either."

Hester said nothing, although Monk knew she was aching to speak. Perhaps for once she also could think of no words that would not make it worse.

McTeer appeared, his face set in lines of imminent disaster, and immediately Eilish stepped back and began a formal good-bye.

Monk responded appropriately, and turned to leave, only to find Hester speaking to Eilish with total disregard for McTeer. He could not hear what she was saying, her voice was so low, but Eilish gave her a look of intense gratitude, and then a moment later they were out in the street.

"What did you say to her?" he demanded. "There is no point giving her any hope. It may very well have been Mclvor."

"Why?" she said crisply, her chin coming up. "What on earth would he do such a thing for? He liked Mary, and the rent of one croft is hardly worth killing anyone for."

He gave up in exasperation and began walking briskly back towards Princes Street and the route to the jeweler's. She was too naive to understand, and too willful to be told.

That night at dinner, Monk arrived in his usual immaculate dress, and Hester came looking, in his opinion, a complete fright, having nothing with her other than the gray-blue dress in which she had stood trial. They were armed with information which altered everything with respect to Baird Mclvor and Kenneth. The jeweler had informed them that it was not Mary Farraline who had commissioned the diamond pin at all, in spite of the fact that it was on her account. It was Kenneth. He had at the time assumed it was an errand, and had not questioned it, much to his chagrin when he had learned later, from Mary herself, that she had not requested it, and had indeed never seen it. Of course the matter was settled now, as far as he was concerned. What had passed between Kenneth Farraline and his mother he had no idea.

As usual McTeer met them at the door and ushered them into the withdrawing room, where this time the entire family was assembled, almost as if they might have known a revelation awaited them-although perhaps, in the circumstances, that was not surprising. Hester had been released, if not cleared of the charge, and Quinlan had openly accused Baird Mclvor. It was inconceivable that the case could rest as it was. Even if the police pressed it no further, it was beyond imagination that the Farralines themselves could leave matters as they stood.

As always it was Oonagh who acknowledged them first, but Alastair, looking pale and grim-faced, was only a moment behind.

"Good evening, Miss Latterly," he said with studied politeness. "It is good of you to come with such generosity. A lesser woman might have borne a grudge."

It crossed Monk's mind that that remark might have been a question as much as a statement. Alastair had a haunted look in the depths of his eyes, as well he might, knowing either his brother or his dearest sister's husband was guilty of murder, and the murder of his mother at that. Monk did not envy him. As he stood in the gracious withdrawing room with its tall windows and sweeping curtains, the fire blazing in the hearth and the generations of family mementos and embroideries, he felt a sharp touch of pity for Alastair. What if it were Baird Mclvor? Alastair and Oonagh had grown up together, sharing their dreams and their fears in a way the other siblings had not. If it were Oonagh's husband, Alastair would feel it almost as deeply as she. And he would be the one person from whom she might not hide her grief, her disillusionment, her intolerable sense of shame. No wonder he stood close to her now, as if he would touch her, were it not so obvious, and so intrusive of a wound not yet delivered.

Hester had already deflected the remark generously, turning it into a mere exchange. They were invited in, offered wine. Eilish caught Monk's eye. She looked painfully embarrassed, knowing that at least some people would associate her with her husband's accusations. And galling as it was, Hester probably owed him her freedom, even though it was brought about by Argyll's questions.

Quinlan was standing at the farther end of the room, his lean face, with its long nose and chiseled lips, deep in thought. He was watching Hester, amusement in his eyes. Perhaps he was wondering how she would approach Mm, what she would find to say. Monk felt a rush of loatMng towards the man, not for Hester's sake-she was well able to take care of herself, or if she were not it was her own fault for being here-but for Eilish, who could not escape.

Baird stood by the fireplace, as far as possible from Quinlan. He looked pale, as if he had not eaten or slept, and there was a haunted air about him, as though he were preparing to fight but had no hope of winning.

Kenneth sat on the arm of one of the easy chairs, regarding Hester with undisguised interest.

They had been indulging in polite conversation about nothing that mattered, but the room seemed to crackle with the underlying silence, the waiting for someone to broach the only subject that mattered. Finally it was Alastair who did it.

"Oonagh says you went to find out about the other brooch which no one has seen. I can't imagine why." A curious look came into his eyes, doubt, incredulity, hope. "Surely you don't think one of the servants took it... do you? Isn't it merely lost? Mother does seem to have been somewhat careless..." He left the remark hanging in unfinished silence. No one had yet explained the gray pearl brooch, and somehow it seemed crass to mention the subject at all now, in front of Hester.

"No I don't," Monk said grimly. "I am sorry, Mr. Farral-ine, but the explanation for that is quite simple. Your mother never had it. It was commissioned in the first place by your brother, Kenneth, I assume in order to give to his lady friend, who is so determined never to be poor again. A very understandable resolve, not perhaps to you, but certainly to anyone who has lain awake all night because he or she was too hungry or too cold to sleep."

Alastair pulled a face of distaste, then turned slowly to look at Kenneth.

Kenneth flushed a dull red, and his face tightened defiantly.

Monk glanced at Eilish. Her expression was a painful mixture of anguish and hope, as though she had not expected to be hurt by Kenneth's guilt, and now that it was on the brink of reality, it caught her unaware, both wounded and abashed. She looked across at Baird, but he was sunk in gloom of his own.

Oonagh turned a questioning gaze at her younger brother.

"Well?" Alastair demanded. "Don't just stand there glowering, Kenneth. This requires very considerable explanation. Do you admit buying this piece of jewelry and charging it to Mother? Not that mere seems any point in denying it; the proof is there."

"I admit it," Kenneth said in a strangled voice, although there seemed as much anger in it as fear. "If you paid us decently I wouldn't have to-"

"You are paid what you are worth!" Alastair said, the color mounting in his cheeks. "But if you were paid nothing at all beyond your keep, that would not excuse you from buying presents for your mistress on Mother's account. Dear God, what else have you done? Is Uncle Hector right? Have you embezzled from the company accounts?"

The blood fled from Kenneth's cheeks, but he seemed defiant as much as frightened, and there was still no remorse in him that the eye could see.

Oddly, it was Quinlan who stepped forward to speak, not Kenneth himself.

"Yes he did, months ago, over a year now, and Mother-in-law knew about it at the time. She paid it all back."

Alastair exploded with disbelief. "Oh really, Quin! Don't expect me to believe all that. I know how you feel about Baird, but this is absurd. Why on earth would Mother cover up Kenneth's embezzlement and simply repay it all? I presume we are not speaking about a few pennies. That would hardly fund the life he enjoys and keep his poverty-stricken mistress in the diamonds she apparently likes so much."

"Of course not," Quinlan agreed with a twist of his mouth. "If you look at Mother-in-law's will, you will find that Kenneth gets nothing at all. She took his share in settlement of his debt-both for the embezzlement and, I imagine, the brooch. She knew about that too." His eyes stared levelly at Alastair, so absolutely without wavering, Monk wondered if this last was a lie.

Alastair said nothing.

Quinlan smiled. "Come on, Alastair. That is what Mother-in-law would have done, and you know it She would never have precipitated a scandal by prosecuting her own son. We all knew her better than mat-even Kenneth. Not when the remedy lay so easily to hand." He shrugged very slightly. "Certainly she punished him, and redeemed the debt at the same time. If he'd done it again she'd have taken it out of his skin-she would have had him work all day and all night till it was earned again. I daresay she'd received one or two nice presents in her day..."

"How dare you-" Alastair began furiously, but Oonagh cut him off.

"I presume the solicitors will know this much?" she said quietly.

"Of course," Quinlan agreed. "There is no reason given in the will, except that Kenneth himself will understand why he has no inheritance, and have no complaints."

"How do you know this, when the rest of the family doesn't?" Monk asked him.

Quinlan's eyebrows rose. "Me? Because as I said before, I conducted a great deal of her affairs for her. I am extremely good at business, especially investments, and Mother-in-law knew it. Besides, Alastair is too busy, Baird has no head for it, and obviously she would be a complete fool to trust Kenneth."

"If you know so much about the business," Eilish challenged him in a choking voice, "how is it you knew nothing about the land in Easter Ross and that she was getting no rent from it?"

Kenneth seemed to be forgotten, at least temporarily. All eyes turned to Eilish, and then to Baird. No one took the slightest notice of Monk or Hester.

Baird looked up at them, his face wretched.

"Mary knew everything that I did, and it was done with her permission," he said quietly. "That is all I will tell you."

"Well, it is not enough." Alastair swung around at him desperately. "Good God, man! Mother is dead-poisoned by someone. The police aren't going to accept an answer like that. If Miss Latterly didn't do it, then one of us did!"

"I didn't." Band's voice was barely a whisper between his lips. "I loved Mary, more than anyone else... except..." He stopped. Few in the room doubted he was going to say "Eilish," not "Oonagh."

Oonagh was very pale, but perfectly composed. Whatever emotions tore her at such a reality, they were too well concealed by time, familiarity, or sheer courage to show now.

"Of course," Alastair said bitterly. "We would hardly expect you to say anything less. But words are immaterial now; it is only facts that matter."

"Nobody knows the facts," Quinlan pointed out "We only know what Mary's papers say, what the bankers say, and Baird's excuses. I don't know what other facts you think there are."

"I imagine the police may think that sufficient," Monk responded. "At least for trial. What else they find, or need, is their affair."

"Is that what you are going to do?" Eilish was desperate; it stared out of her anguished face and rang in the rising pitch of her voice. "Just accuse, and leave it to the police? Baird is one of the family. We've lived with him in this house, known him every day for years, shared our dreams and our hopes with him. You can't just-just say he's guilty-and abandon him." She looked wildly from one to another of them, all except Quinlan, ending with Oonagh, perhaps to whom she had always turned in times of need.

"We are not abandoning him, my dear," Oonagh said quietly. "But we have no alternative to facing the truth, however terrible it is for us. One of us killed Mother."

Unintentionally Eilish looked again at Hester, then blushed scarlet.

"That won't work, my sweet," Quinlan said sourly. "Of course it is still possible. 'Not proven' is a vicious verdict, but they cannot try her again, whatever they think. And let us face facts, her reason hardly matches Baud's. He could have slipped the brooch into her bag... she could hardly have embezzled Mother-in-law's rents."

"For God's sake, Baird, why don't you say something?" Deirdra burst out after her long silence. She went to Eilish and put her arm around her. "Can't you see what this is doing to all of us?"

"Deirdra, please control your language," Alastair reproved almost automatically.

Monk was amused. If Alastair had the faintest idea of his wife's midnight activities, he would be grateful it was so relatively mild. Monk would swear she knew a great deal that was more colorful than that from her mechanic friend.

"There seems only one way." Hester spoke for the first time since the charge had been made against Baird. Everyone looked at her with some surprise.

"I don't know what it can be." Alastair frowned. "Do you know something that we don't?"

"Don't be absurd," Quinlan said. "Mother-in-law would hardly confide her business to Miss Latterly on one day's acquaintance, and not tell at least Oonagh, if not all of us."

"Miss Latterly?" Alastair turned to her.

"One of us must go to the croft in Ross-shire and learn what has happened to the rents," she replied. "I have no idea how far it is, but it hardly matters. It must be done."

"And which of us will you trust?" Deirdra asked dryly. "I can think of no one."

"Monk, of course," Hester replied. "He has no interest whatever in the answer one way or the other."

"As long as it is not you," Quinlan added. "I think his interest in the case is now quite obvious to all. He came here originally talking what, at the kindest, was much less than the truth, what less kindly but more accurately was a complete lie."

"Would you have helped him for the truth?" she asked.

Quinlan smiled. "Of course not. I am not accusing, merely pointing out that Mr. Monk is not the paragon of honesty you seem to imagine."

"I don't imagine it," she said crossly. "I simply said he has no interest in which of you is lying or what happened to the rents."

"What a charming turn of phrase you have."

Hester blushed hotly.

"Please!" Deirdra interrupted them, turning to Monk. "All this is beside the point now. Mr. Monk, would you learn the particulars from Quinlan and travel north to Easter Ross, find the person who leases the croft and what they have done with the rents, to whom they were paid. I imagine it will be necessary to bring with you some burden of proof, documents, or whatever it may be. Probably- a sworn testimony..."

"An affidavit," Alastair supplied. "I presume there will be notaries public, or justices of the peace, even up there."

"Yes," Monk said immediately, although he was irritated he had not suggested it himself, before Hester had. Then as quickly he wondered how he was going to find the fare. He lived precariously as it was. Callandra provided for him in lean times, when his clients were few, or poor, in return for his sharing the interesting cases with her. It was her form of both friendship and philanthropy, and her occasional excitement and touch of danger. But she had gone home, and he could not ask her for a contribution towards this. She had already paid him for his part in Hester's defense, sufficient to take him to Scotland and to secure his lodgings, both here and in London during his absence. She had not known such a prolonged trip would be necessary.

"How far is it?" he said aloud. It galled him intensely to have to ask.

Alastair's eyes widened. "I have no idea. Two hundred miles? Three hundred?"

"It isn't so far," Deirdra contradicted him. 'Two hundred at most. But we will provide your fare, Mr. Monk. After all, it is our business which takes you there, not your own." She disregarded Alastair's frown and Oonagh's look of faint surprise and a flicker of black humor. She at least understood that it was to remove the final question from Hester's innocence, not because Monk wished to assist Baird Mclvor or any of the Farralines. "I expect there is a train as far as Inverness," Deirdra continued. "After that you may have to ride, I don't know."

"Then as soon as I have the information, and a note of authority from you," Monk said, for the first time looking at Quinlan, not Oonagh, for agreement, "I shall collect my belongings and take the first train north."

"Will you travel also?" Eilish said, addressing Hester.

"No," Monk said instantly.

Hester had opened her mouth to speak, but no one knew what she was going to say. She took one look at Monk's face, then at the faces of the assembled company, and changed her mind. "I shall remain in Edinburgh," she said obediently. Had Monk been less consumed by his own forthcoming task, he might have been suspicious of the sudden collapse of her argument, but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.

They remained for dinner: a good meal, punctiliously served. But there was a gloom over the whole house, not only of recent death, but now of newborn fear, and conversation was stilted and meaningless. Hester and Monk took their leave early, without the necessity or artificiality of excuses.

The journey north was long and extremely tedious for Monk, because he was chafing to be there. No one in Edinburgh had been able to tell him how to proceed into Easter Ross after he should reach Inverness. As far as the ticket clerk was concerned, it was an unknown land, cold, dangerous, uncivilized, and no sensible person would wish to go there. Stirling, Deeside and Balmoral were all excellent places for a holiday. Aberdeen, the granite city of the north, had its qualities, but beyond Inverness was no-man's-land, and you went there at your own risk.

The long journey took nearly all the daylight hours, as it was now deepest autumn. Monk sat morosely and turned over and over in his mind all he knew of the death of Mary Farraline and the passions and characters of her family. He came to no conclusion whatever, only that it was one of them who had killed her; almost certainly Baird Mclvor, because he had embezzled the rents from the croft. But it seemed such a futile reason, so incredibly petty for a man who seemed moved by so much stronger emotions. And if he loved Eilish, as he seemed to so apparently, how would he have brought himself to kill her mother, whatever the temptation?

When he disembarked at Inverness it was already too late to think of proceeding farther north that night. Resentfully he found lodgings, and immediately inquired of the landlord about travel to the Port of Saint Colmac on the next day.

"Oh," the landlord said thoughtfully. He was a small man by the name of MacKay. "Oh aye, Portmahomack, ye mean? That'll be the ferry ye'U be wanting."

"The ferry?" Monk said dubiously.

"Aye, ye'U be wanting to go over to the Black Isle, and then across the Cromarty Firth over by Alness and up towards Tain. It's a long way, mind. Can ye no do your business in Dingwall, maybe?"

"No," Monk replied reluctantly. He could not even remember if he could ride a horse, and this was a harsh way to find out. His imagination punished him already.

"Oh well, needs must when the devil drives," MacKay said with a smile. "That'll be out Tarbet Ness way. Fine lighthouse that is. See it for miles on a dark night, so ye can."

"Can I take a horse on the ferry?" Then the instant he had asked, MacKay's face told him it was a foolish question. "Well, can I hire one on the other side?" he said before MacKay could answer.

"Aye, that ye can. And ye can walk to the ferry here that will take you to the Black Isle. Just yonder by the shore there. Ye'U be a southerner, no doubt?"

"Yes." Monk did not debate it. Instinct told him that a Borderer, like himself, from Northumberland, whose men had fought the Scots in raid and battle and foray for close on a thousand years, might be unwelcome, even as far north as this.

MacKay nodded. "Ye'll be hungry," he said sagely. "It's a tidy journey from Edinburgh, so they say." He pulled a face. It was a foreign land to him, and he was well content to leave it so.

"Thank you," Monk accepted.

He was served a meal of fresh herrings rolled in oatmeal and fried, with bread still warm from the oven, butter, and oatmeal-covered cheese named Caboc, which was delicious. He went to bed and slept deeply, with barely the stirring of dreams.

The morning was windy and bright. He rose immediately and instead of eating breakfast at MacKay's hostelry, he took bread and cheese with him and set out to find the ferry across to the Black Isle, which he had been informed was not literally an island but a large isthmus.

The passage was not broad-it might at some stage conceivably be bridged-but the tide was swift from the Moray Firth into the smaller Beauty Firth and the wide bay within swept around to the left far out of sight.

The ferryman looked at him dubiously when he asked to be taken across.

"There's a fair wind, the day." He squinted eastwards, frowning.

"I'll help," Monk offered instantly, then could have bitten his tongue. He had no idea whether he could row or not. He had absolutely no memory of water or boats. Even when he had gone back home to Northumberland, as soon as he was out of hospital after the accident, and woken in the night to find his brother-in-law with the lifeboat, it stirred no recollection of boats in him.

"Aye, well that'll maybe be needed," the ferryman agreed, still not moving from the spot.

Monk could not afford to anger the man. He had to cross the straits today; riding around the long coastline by Beauly, Muir-of-Ord, Conon Bridge and Dingwall would take him an entire day longer.

"Then shall we begin?" Monk said urgently. "I need to reach Tarbet Ness tonight."

"Ye'll be having a long ride." The ferryman shook his head, looking at the sky, then back at Monk. "But ye might make it. Looks like a fair day, in spite of the wind. Might drop when the tide turns. Sometimes does."

Monk took that as an acceptance and made to step into the boat.

"Ye'll no be wanting to see if there's anyone else, then?" the ferryman asked. "It'll be half the fare if ye're willing to lend a hand yourself?"

Monk might have argued, closer to home, that the fare should have been less if he were prepared to row, whether there was anyone else or not, but he did not wish to provoke ill feeling.

"Aye, well, come on then." The ferryman extended his hand to help Monk. "We'd best be going. There'll maybe be someone on the Black Isle who wants to come to Inverness."

Monk took his hand and stepped into the small boat. As soon as his feet touched the boards and the whole thing rocked with his added weight, he felt a wave of memory so sharp he hesitated in mid-motion, his balance spread between the boat and the quay. It was not visual, but emotional; a fear and a sense of helplessness and embarrassment. It was so powerful he almost withdrew.

"What's the matter wi' ye?" The ferryman looked at him warily. "Ye're no seasick, are ye? We've no even set out yet!"

"No, I'm not," Monk said sharply. He forbore from giving any explanation.

"Aye, well if ye are"-the ferryman was dubious-"ye'll please throw up over the side."

"I'm not," Monk repeated, hoping it was true, and let himself down into the boat, sitting down in the stern rather hard.

"Well, if ye're going to help, ye'll no do it there." The ferryman frowned at him. "Have ye never been in a wee boat before?" He looked as if he doubted it severely.

Monk stared at him. "It was remembering last time that made me hesitate. The people I knew then," he added, in case the man thought he was afraid.

"Oh, aye?" The ferryman made room in the seat beside him and Monk moved over, taking the other oar. "I may be daft doing this." The ferryman shook his head, "I'm hoping I'll no regret it when we're out in the current. But I don't want you trying to move over then, or we'll likely both end up in the water. An' I canna swim!"

"Well, if I have to save you, I'll expect my fare back," Monk said dryly.

"No if ye're the one that upsets us." The ferryman looked him squarely in the eye. "Now hold your hush, man, and bend your back to the oar."

Monk obeyed, principally because it took all his attention to keep in rhythm with the ferryman, and he was intent not to make more of a fool of himself than he had already.

For more than ten minutes he rowed steadily, and was beginning to be satisfied with himself. The small boat skimmed over the water with increasing ease. He began to enjoy it. It was pleasant to use his body for a change from the pent-up anguish of mind over the previous weeks, and the necessity of sitting in the crowded courtroom, completely uselessly. This was not so difficult. The day was bright and the sunlight off the water almost dazzling, giving the sky and water a unity of blue brilliance which was curiously liberating, as if its very endlessness were a comfort, not a fear. The wind in his face was cold, but it was sharp and clean, and the salt smell of it satisfied him.

Then without any warning they were out of the tee of the headland and into the current and the tide sweeping in from the Moray Firth and into the Beauly, and he almost lost the oar. Involuntarily he caught sight of the ferryman's face, and the wry humor in the man's eyes.

Monk grunted and clasped the oar more firmly, bending his back and heaving as powerfully as he could. He was disconcerted to find that instead of shooting forward and outrowing the ferryman, turning the boat on a slew, he merely kept up and the boat plowed through the water across the current towards the far distant shore of the Black Isle.

He tried to compose his mind and consider what he might find when he arrived at Mary Farraline's croft. There did not seem many possibilities. Either there was no resident tenant, and therefore there would be no rents, and Baird Mclvor had merely been either lazy or incompetent, or there was a tenant, and Baird had never collected the rents-or he had, and for some reason not given them to Mary.

Presumably he had kept them, or used them to pay some dishonorable debt, which he could not pay openly out of the money he was known to have. Another woman was the answer which leaped to mind. But surely he could not love anyone beside Eilish? Was it a past indiscretion he was paying to keep silent, both from Oonagh and Eilish? That had a ring of truth to it that was curiously unwelcome. Why, for heaven's sake? Someone had killed Mary. Proof that it was Baird Mclvor would clear Hester beyond shadow.

They were halfway across and the current was more powerful. He had to pull with all his strength, throwing his weight into each stroke, driving his feet against the boards across the bottom of the boat. The ferryman was still rowing easily in a long, slow rhythm which made it look like a natural, almost effortless movement, while Monk's shoulders were already aching. And he still wore the same very slight smile. Their eyes met for a moment, then Monk looked away.

He began to develop a rhythm within himself, to block out the pain across his back with each stroke. He must be getting soft for this to cause him such discomfort. Was that recent? Before the accident, had he been different: ridden horseback perhaps, rowed on the Thames, played some sport or other? There had been nothing in his rooms to indicate so. Yet there was no surplus fat on him, and he was strong. It was just that this was an unaccustomed exercise.

Unwittingly he found himself thinking of Hester. It was quite unreasonable, and yet even while he knew it, he was angry. The loss of her would have hurt him far more than he wished. It made him vulnerable, and he resented it. He could think of courage with power and clarity; it was the one virtue he admired above all others. It was the cornerstone on which all rested. Without it everything else was insecure, endangered by any wind of fortune. How long would justice survive without the courage to fight for it? It was a sham, a hypocrisy, a deceit better unspoken. What was humility unless one possessed the courage to admit error, ignorance and futility, the strength to go back and begin again? What was anything worth-generosity, honor, hope, even pity-without courage to carry it through? Fear could devour the very soul.

And yet the loneliness and the pain were so real. And time was a dimension too easy to overlook. What was bearable for a day, two days, became monstrous when faced without end. Damn Hester!

Suddenly there was water in his face.

"Caught a crab," the ferryman commented with amusement. "Getting tired?"

"No," Monk said tersely, although he was nearly exhausted. His back was aching, his hands were blistered, and his shoulders felt like cracking.

"Oh, aye?" the ferryman said dubiously, but did not slacken his pace.

Monk caught another "crab," skimming the oar over the top of the water instead of digging in, and sending the spray up into their faces, tasting it cold and salty on his lips and in his eyes.

Suddenly memory returned like a blinding moment of vision, except that the actual sight portion of it-the gray, glimmering sea and light on the waves-was gone almost before it registered in his mind. It was the cold, the sense of danger and overwhelming urgency that remained. He was frightened, his shoulders had hurt just as they did now, but he had been younger, far younger, perhaps only a boy. The boat had been bucketing all over the place, tossed on heavy waves, their crests curling white with spume. Why on earth would anyone be out in such weather? Why was he frightened? It was not the waves, it was something else.

But he could not find the memory. There was nothing more, just the cold, the violence of the water, and the terrible overwhelming sense of urgency.

Suddenly the boat shot forward. They were in the lee of the Black Isle and the ferryman was smiling.

"Ye're a stubborn man," he said as they slid into the shore. "Ye'U no be doing this tomorrow, I'll be thinking. Ye'll be hurting sore."

"Possibly," Monk conceded. "Maybe the tide'll be on the turn, and the wind not so hard against us."

"Ye can always hope." The ferryman held out his hand and Monk paid him his fare. "But the train to the south will no wait for ye."

Monk thanked him and went to hire a horse to take him the several miles up over the high hills of the Black Isle, almost due north towards the next ferry across the Cromarty Firth.

He obtained the animal, and rode steadily. It was a comfortable feeling, familiar. He found he knew how to guide the animal with a minimum of effort. He was at home in the saddle, although he had no idea how long it was since he had last ridden.

The land was beautiful, rolling away to the north in soft slopes, some heavily wooded in deciduous trees, some in pines, much of it in meadows dotted with sheep and occasional cattle. He could see at least fifteen or twenty miles, at a guess.

What was the memory that had troubled him in the boat? Was it one he even wanted to find? There was something else at the back of the other matter, something uglier and more painful. Perhaps he would rather leave it lost. There could be mercy in forgetfulness.

It was hard traveling up the rise of the hill. He had used his back to exhaustion rowing across the Firth, but walking would not be unpleasant. He dismounted and gave the horse a break in its labor. Side by side they reached the crest and saw the mass of Ben Wyvis ahead of them, the first snows of winter crowning its broad peak. With the sunlight on it it seemed to hang in the sky. He walked gently, still on foot, while the hill to the left fell away, and he could see mountains beyond mountains, almost to the heart of Scotland: blue, purple, shimmering white at the peaks against the cobalt sky. He stopped, breathless, not with exhaustion but with the sheer wonder of it. It was vast. He felt as if he could see almost limitlessly. Ahead of him and below was the Cramarty Firth, shining like polished steel; to the east it stretched out of sight towards the sea. To the west were range after range of mountains lost in the distance. The sun was strong on his face, and unconsciously he rifted it towards the wind and the silence.

He was glad he was alone. Human companionship would have intruded. Words would have been a blasphemy in this place.

Except he would have liked to share it, have someone else grasp this perfection and keep it in the soul, to bring back again and again in time of need. Hester would understand. She would know just to watch, and feel, and say nothing. It was not communicable, simply to be shared by a meeting of the eyes, a touch, and a knowledge of it.

The horse snorted, and he was returned to the present and the passage of time. He had a long way to go yet. The beast was rested. He must proceed downwards to the shore and the Foulis Ferry.

It took him all day, with many inquiries, to reach Portmahomack, as Saint Colmac was now called, and it was long after dusk had deepened into true night when he finally reached the blacksmith's forge on Castle Street and inquired where he could stable his horse and find lodgings for the night. The smithy was happy to keep the animal, knowing the beast from previous travelers who had hired it at the same place, but he could only suggest Monk go to the nearest inn a few yards down the hill by the shore.

In the morning Monk walked the mile or so along the pale beach and up the hill to find Mary Farraline's croft, which was apparently rented by a man named Arkwright. He was well known in the village-but not, from the intonation of voice, with much love. That could be because, to judge from his name, he was not a Highlander, and probably not even a Scot-although Monk had personally met with only the greatest courtesy, in spite of his very English voice.

He had arrived in the dark, but the morning was brilliant again, as clear as the day before. It was not a long walk, barely a mile at the outside, and at the crown of the ridge was an avenue of sycamore and ash trees lining the road. To the left was a large stone barn or byre of some sort, and to the right a smaller house which he presumed was Mary Farraline's croft. He could see over the rooftops the chimneys of a larger building, a manor house possibly, but that could not be what he was seeking.

He must compose his thoughts to what he would say. He stopped under the trees and turned back the way he had come... and caught his breath. The sea stretched out below him in a silver-blue satin sheet; in the distance lay the mountains of Sutherland, the farthest peaks mounded with snow. To the west a sandbar gleamed pale in the sunlight, and beyond it was blue water stretching inland towards blue hills fading into purple on the horizon, a hundred miles or more. The sky was almost without a blemish and a skein of wild geese threaded its way slowly overhead, calling their way south.

He turned slowly, watching their passage and pondering the miracle of it, as they disappeared. He saw the sea to the south as well, silver-white in the mounting sun, and the outline of a lone castle dark against it.

In another mood he might have been angry at the ugliness which brought him here. Today he could only feel a weight of sadness.

He finished the last few yards of his journey and knocked on the door.

"Aye?" The man who came to answer him was short and stocky, with a smooth face which in no way masked his resentment of strangers.

"Mr. Arkwright?" Monk inquired.

"Aye, that's me. Who are you, and what do you want here?" His voice was English, but it took Monk a moment to discern the intonation. It was mixed, softened by the Highland.

"I've come from Edinburgh-" Monk began.

"You're no Scot," Arkwright said darkly, backing away a step.

"Neither are you," Monk countered. "I said I came from Edinburgh, not that I was born there."

"What of it. I don't care where you're from."

Yorkshire! That was the cadence in his voice, the nature of the vowels. And Baird Mclvor had come originally from Yorkshire. Coincidence?

The lie sprang instantly to Monk's lips.

"I am Mrs. Mary Farraline's solicitor. I have come to see to her affairs. I don't know if you were informed of her recent death?"

"Never heard of her," Arkwright said intently, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He was lying too.

"Which is odd," Monk said with a smile, not of friendliness but of satisfaction. "Because you are living in her house."

Arkwright paled, but his face set hard. There were the shadows of a hundred other bitter struggles in him. He knew how to fight and Monk guessed he was not particular as to his weapons. There was something dangerous in the man. He found himself measuring his response. What was this alien man doing in this huge, wild, clean place?

Arkwright was staring at Monk.

"I don't know whose name is on the deeds, but I rent it from a man called Mclvor, and that is none of your affair, Mr. Crow."

Monk had not introduced himself, but he knew the cant name for a solicitor.

Monk raised his eyebrows skeptically. "You pay rent to Mr. Mclvor?"

"Yeah. That's right." There was belligerence in Arkwright, and still a thread of uncertainty.

"How?" Monk pressed, still standing well back.

"What you mean, how? Money, o' course. What you think, potatoes?"

"What do you do, ride over to Inverness and put a purse on the night train to Edinburgh? Weekly? Monthly? It must take you a couple of days."

Arkwright was caught out, and the realization of it blazed in his eyes. For a second he seemed about to swing a fist at Monk, then he looked at Monk's balance, and the leanness of his body, and decided against it.

"None of your business," he growled. "I answer to Mr. Mclvor, not you. Anyway, you got no proof who you are, or that Mary Whatsisname is dead." A momentary gleam of triumph lit his eyes. "You could be anybody."

"I could," Monk agreed. "I could be the police."

"Rozzers?" But his face paled. "What for? I keep a farm. Isn't nothing illegal in that. You ain't a rozzer, you're just a nosy bastard who don't know what's good for him!"

"Would it interest you, or surprise you, to know that Mclvor never passed on all this money that you sent to him on the train?" Monk asked sarcastically.

Arkwright tried to leer, but there was no laughter behind it, only a strange gleam of anxiety.

"Well, that's his problem, isn't it?"

In that moment Monk knew that Baird Mclvor could not betray Arkwright, and Arkwright was totally sure of it. But equally, if Baird lost his power of authority for the croft, Arkwright would lose it too. Blackmail. That was the only conceivable answer. Why? Over what? How would this man ever come to know an apparent gentleman like Baird Mclvor? Arkwright was at best bordering on criminal, at worst a fully fledged professional.

Monk shrugged with deliberate casualness and made as if to turn away.

"Mclvor'll tell me all about it," he said smugly. "He'll grass you."

"No 'e won't!" Arkwright said victoriously. " 'E daren't, or 'e'll shop 'imself."

"Rubbish! Who'd believe you against him? He'll grass you all right. To account for the money."

"Anyone as can read'll believe me," Arkwright sneered. "It's all writ. An' 'e's still got the marks o' a cockchafer on 'is backside."

Prison. So that was the answer. Baird Mclvor had served a term in jail somewhere. Possibly Arkwright knew about it because he had been there too. Perhaps they had trodden side by side on the "cockchafer," that dreaded machine more properly called a treadmill, where inmates were imprisoned for a quarter of an hour at a time, treading down a wheel of twenty-four steps attached to a long axle and an ingenious arrangement of weather vanes so they always turned at exactly the right speed to cause the most breath-lessness, suffocation and exhaustion. The cant name arose because of the agony caused by the leather harness constantly rubbing on the tender flesh.

But had Mary Farraline known all this? Had he killed her to keep that dreadful secret, as he had paid Arkwright with a rent-free croft to keep his? It seemed so obvious it was hard to deny.

Why should it pain Monk? Because he wanted it to be Kenneth? That was absurd.

And yet somehow the shining bay did not seem so warm when he turned to leave, and walked down the gentle slope between the hedges towards the smithy and his horse, to ride long and hard back to Inverness.

He had crossed Cromarty and the Black Isle and was on the ferry across the Beauly, his back aching, pain shooting through his shoulders as he pulled furiously on the oars. He was determined to vent his anger on something, despite the ferryman's smile and his offer to do it all himself. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he remembered the time in his childhood that the first memory had brought back with such pain. He knew what the other emotion was, the one that hovered on the edges, dark and unrecognized. It was guilt. Guilt because they were returning from a lifeboat rescue, and he had been afraid. He had been so bitterly afraid of the yawning gulf of water that had opened up between the lifeboat and the doomed ship that he had frozen in terror, missing the thrown rope and too late seeing it coil and slither back off the deck, into the water. They had thrown it again, of course, but the few precious seconds had been lost, and with it the chance of a man's life.

The sweat broke out on his skin here in the present as he bent his back and dug the oar savagely into the bright water of the Beauly Firth. All he could see in his mind's eye was the gaping chasm of water between the boat sides all those years ago. He could taste the shame as if it were minutes past and feel the tears of humiliation prickle in his eyes.

Why did he remember that? There must have been dozens of happy memories, times he had shared with his family; there must have been successes, achievements. What was it in him that chose this to bring back so vividly? Was there more to it, something else, uglier, that he still did not recall?

Or was it that his pride could not accept failure of any sort, and he clung to the old wound because it still rankled, souring everything else? Was he really so self-obsessed?

"A wee bit dour today," the ferryman observed. "Did ye no find what you wanted up at the port?"

"Yes... yes, I found it," Monk replied, heaving on the oars. "It was what I expected."

"Then it's no to your taste, to judge from the dreich look on your face."

"No... it's not"

The ferryman nodded and kept his silence.

They reached the far side. Monk climbed out stiffly, paid him, and took his leave. His whole body ached abominably. Served him right for his pride. He should have let the ferryman row.

He arrived back in Edinburgh tired and without any feeling of satisfaction in his discovery. He chose to walk, in spite of the gusty wind blowing in his face and the touch of sleet now and again out of a gray sky. He strode across the Waverley Bridge, right down Market Street, up Bank Street and over the George IV Bridge and right into the Grassmarket. He ended outside Hester's lodgings without having given a thought to why he chose there instead of Ainslie Place. Perhaps in some way he decided she deserved to learn the truth before the Farralines, or to be present when they were told it. He did not even consider the cruelty of it. She had liked Baird, or at least he had formed that impression.

He was already at her door before he realized he simply wanted to share his own disillusion, not with anyone, although there was no one else, but specifically with her. The knowledge froze his hand in the air.

But she had heard his footsteps on the uncarpeted passage and opened the door, her face filled with expectancy, and an element of fear. She saw his own disillusion in his eyes before he spoke.

"It was Baird...." It was almost a question, not quite. She held the door for him to go in.

He accepted without the impropriety of it crossing his mind. The thought never occurred to him.

"Yes. He was in prison. Arkwright, the man on the croft, knew it; in fact, I imagine the bastard served with him." He sat down on the bed, leaving the one chair for her. "I expect Mclvor let him use the croft to keep him silent, and when Mary found out, he killed her for the same reason. He could hardly have the Farralines, and all Edinburgh, know he was an old lag."

She looked at him gravely, almost expressionlessly, for several seconds. He wanted to see some reaction in her, a reflection of his own hurt, and he was about to speak, but he did not know what to say. For once he did not want to quarrel with her. He wanted closeness, an end to unhappy surprises.

"Poor Baird," she said with a little shiver.

He was about to ridicule her sentiment, then he remembered with a jolt that she had tasted prison herself, bitterly and very recently. His remark died unspoken.

"Eilish is going to be destroyed," she said quietly, but still there seemed a lack of real horror in her.

"Yes," he agreed vehemently. "Yes she is."

Hester frowned. "Are you really sure it was Baird? Just because he was in prison doesn't necessarily mean he killed Mary. Don't you think it is possible, if this Arkwright creature was blackmailing him, that he might have told Mary, and she helped him by letting him use the croft that way?"

"Come on, Hester," he said wearily. "You're clutching at straws. Why should she? He'd misled them all, lied to them about his past. Why should she do what was virtually paying blackmail for him? She may have been a good woman, but that calls for a saint."

"No it doesn't," she contradicted him. "I knew Mary, you didn't."

"You met her on one train journey!"

"I knew her! She liked Baird. She told me that herself."

"She didn't know he was an old lag."

"We don't know what he did." She leaned forward, demanding he listen. "He may have told her, and she still liked him. We knew about a time when he was very upset and went off by himself. Maybe this was when Arkwright turned up. Then he told Mary about it, and she helped him, and he was all right. It's quite possible."

"Then who killed Mary?"

Her face closed over. "I don't know. Kenneth?"

"And Baird playing with the chemicals?" he added.

A look of scorn filled her face. "Don't be so naive. No one else saw that but Quinlan, and he's green with jealousy. He'd lie about Baird as quick as look at you."

"And hang him for a crime he didn't commit?"

"Of course. Why not?"

He looked at her and saw certainty in her eyes. He wondered if she ever doubted herself, as he did. But then she knew her past, knew not only what she thought and felt now, but what she had always thought, and done. There was no secret room in her life, no dark passages and locked doors in the mind.

"It's monstrous," he said quietly.

She searched his face. "It is to you and me." Her voice was soft. "But to him, Baird has stolen what should be his. Not his wife-but his wife's love, her respect, her admiration. He can't accuse him of that, he can't punish him for it. Perhaps he feels that is monstrous too."

"That..." he began, and then stopped.

She was smiling, not with anything like laughter, but a wry, hurting perception.

"We had better go and tell them what you found out."

Reluctantly he rose to his feet. There was no alternative.

They stood in the withdrawing room in Ainslie Place. Everyone was present. Even Alastair had contrived not to be in court or his offices. And presumably the printing was running itself, at least for the day.

"We assumed you would return this morning," Oonagh said, regarding Monk carefully. She looked tired-the fair skin under her eyes was paper thin-but as always her composure was complete.

Alastair looked from Monk to Oonagh and back again. Eilish was in an agony of suspense. She stood beside Quinlan as if frozen. Baird was in the farther side of the room, eyes downcast, face ashen.

Kenneth stood by the mantelshelf with a shght smirk on his face, but it was hard to tell if it was not predominantly relief. Once he smiled at Quinlan, and Eilish shot him such a look of loathing he blushed and turned away.

Deirdra sat in an armchair looking unhappy, and beside her. Hector Farraline was also sunk in gloom. For once he seemed totally sober.

Alastair cleared his throat. "I think you had better tell us what you discovered, Mr. Monk. It is pointless standing here doubting and fearing, and thinking ill of each other. Did you find this croft of Mother's? I confess I knew nothing of it, not even of its existence."

"No reason why you should," Hector said darkly. "Nothing to do with you."

Alastair frowned, then decided to ignore him.

They were all looking at Monk, even Baird, his dark eyes so full of pain, and the knowledge of pain, that Monk could have no doubt he knew exactly what Arkwright would have said, and that it was the truth. He hated doing this. But it was not the first time he had liked someone who was guilty of a crime he deplored.

"I found the man who is living in the croft," he said aloud, looking at no one in particular. Hester was standing beside him silently. He was glad of her presence. In some way she shared his sense of loss. "He claimed that he sent money to Mr. Mclvor."

Quinlan gave a little grant of satisfaction.

Eilish started, as if to speak, but said nothing. Her face looked as if she had been struck.

"But I did not believe him," Monk continued.

"Why not?" Alastair was amazed. "That won't do."

Oonagh touched his sleeve, and as if understanding some unspoken communication, he fell silent again.

Monk answered the question anyway.

"Because he could offer no explanation as to how he contrived the payments. I asked him if he rode to Inverness, a day's ride on a good horse, across two ferries, and put a purse on a train to Edinburgh..."

"That's absurd," Deirdra said contemptuously.

"Of course," Monk agreed.

"So what are you saying, Mr. Monk?" Oonagh asked very steadily. "If he did not pay Baird, then why is he still there? Why has he not been thrown out?"

Monk took a deep breath. "Because he is blackmailing Mr. Mclvor over a past association, and is living there freely as the price of his silence."

"What association?" Quinlan demanded. "Did Mother-in-law find out about it? Is that why Baird killed her?"

"Hold your tongue!" Deirdra snapped at him, moving closer to Eilish and glaring at Baird, as if praying for him to deny it, but one look at his face was enough to know that would not happen. "What association, Mr. Monk? I presume you have proof of all you are saying?"

"Don't be fatuous, Deirdra," Oonagh said bitterly. "The proof is in his face. What is Mr. Monk talking about, Baird? I think you had better tell us all, rather than have some stranger do it for you."

Baird looked up and his eyes met Monk's for a long, breathless moment, then he acquiesced. He had no alternative. He began in a low, tight voice, harsh with past hurt and present pain.

"When I was twenty-two I killed a man. He abused an old man I respected. Made mock of him, humiliated him. We fought. I did not intend to, at least I don't think I did... but I killed him. He struck his head against the curb. I served three years in prison for it. That was when I met Arkwright. When I was set free I left Yorkshire and came north to Scotland. I made my way quite successfully, and put the past behind me. I had all but forgotten it, until one day Arkwright turned up and threatened to tell everyone unless I paid him. I couldn't-I had barely enough means for myself, and I would have had to explain to Oonagh..." He said her name as if she were a stranger, some figure that represented authority. "Of course I couldn't. I hesitated for days, close to despair."

"I remember..." Eilish whispered, staring at him with anguish, as though even now she yearned to be able to comfort him and heal the past.

Quinlan made a noise of impatience and turned away.

"Mary knew," Baird continued, his voice rasping with hurt. "She knew something was troubling me more than I could bear, and in the end I told her..."

He did not even notice Eilish stiffen and a sudden surprise and pain in her face. He did not seem to realize it was different, no longer an agony for the past, or for him, but a hurt for herself.

Quinlan smiled. "Told her you'd served time in prison," he said with blatant disbelief.

"Yes."

"You expect us to believe that?" Alastair looked grim, doubt written plain in his expression. "Really, Baird, that's asking too much. Could you prove it?"

"No-except that she gave me permission to lease the croft to Arkwright, for his silence." Baird looked up and met Alastair's eyes for the first time.

It was an absurd story. Why would a woman like Mary Farraline accept a man with such a past-and even help him? And yet Monk found himself at least half believing it.

Quinlan gave a sharp bark of laughter.

"Come on, Baird, that isn't even clever," Kenneth said with a smile, letting his foot slide off the fender and sitting down in the nearest chair. "I could think of a better excuse than that."

"No doubt you have-frequently," Oonagh said dryly, regarding her younger brother with contempt. It was the first time Monk had seen an expression of contention or open criticism on her face, and it surprised him. The peacemaker was rattled at last. He looked at her puckered mouth, the anxiety marked deep between her brows, but still could only guess what emotions burned inside her. He could make no hazard as to whether she had known or even suspected her husband had such a shadowed past.

Or was that what she had sought to do all the time? Was that the blindingly obvious thing he had always missed, that Oonagh loved her husband, in spite of his obsession with her younger sister, and that she sought to protect him from both his reckless past and his tortured present.

Quite suddenly he saw her in a different light, and his admiration for her leaped beyond the mere courage and composure she had shown to something of classical magnitude; she was a woman who bore herself with silence and generosity almost immeasurable.

Instinctively he turned to Eilish, to see if she had the remotest conception of what she had done, however unwittingly. But all he could see was disillusion and the scalding pain of rejection. In his desperation Baird had turned not to her, but to her mother. She was excluded. He had not even trusted her with it afterwards. He would not have. She had learned it publicly, from a stranger.

And little as he admired it, in that instant he knew exactly what she felt, all the loneliness, the confusion, the feelings of unworthiness, the longing to strike back and hurt just as much. Because he knew now what else had happened in the lifeboat so long ago. He had tried so hard, and yet someone else had been the hero. Someone else had retrieved his mistake and saved the man on the doomed ship. In his mind's eye he could see the boy, a year or two older, standing balanced on the slippery deck, hurling the rope at risk of being pitched overboard, drenched to the skin, lashing it fast, heaving the man out of that awful chasm.

No one had said anything to him, no one had blamed him, and yet his ears rang with the other boy's praises, not just his skill, but his courage. That was what hurt, his quickness of thought, his self-denial and his courage, the qualities Monk had wanted above all.

It was the same with Eilish. Above all she had wanted to be loved and trusted.

They were each of them regarding Monk now; the judgment awaited.

Quinlan had decided, but then he had from the beginning. "If you believe all that, you're a fool," he said bitterly. "We'd do better to call the police before Monk does. Or do you plan to pay him off as well? It's too late to avoid scandal, if that has occurred to anyone?' He looked around with wide eyes. "One of us did it No one can escape that"

"Scandal," Deirdra said thoughtfully, her face intent. "Is it not possible that Baird is telling the truth, and Mother-in-law paid off this Arkwright to avoid scandal?"

There was a long silence. Oonagh turned to Baird.

"Why didn't you say that?" she asked him.

"Because I don't believe it is true," he said, answering her very directly, his dark eyes staring into hers. "Mary was not the sort of person to do that."

"Of course she was," Alastair said, then glanced at Oonagh with abject apology, having just realized what he had said.

"I think we had best leave this for the present," Oonagh said decisively. "We do not know the truth..."

Hester spoke for the first time.

"Mrs. Farraline mentioned Mr. Mclvor to me several times on the train, always with affection," she said very quietly. "I cannot imagine she was paying blackmail simply to keep the family name out of scandal. If she were doing that, she would have loathed him, perhaps even required that he go away......"

"Thank you for your comments, Miss Latterly," Alastair said dryly. "But I really do not think you are sufficiently informed to-"

Deirdra interrupted him. "Yes she is." But before she could say anything further Alastair commanded she be silent, and he turned to Monk.

"Thank you for your work, Mr. Monk. Do you have documented proof of what you have told us?"

"No."

"Then I think, in that event, you will keep silent about it until we have made a decision as to what is wisest to do. Tomorrow is Sunday. After kirk you will take luncheon with us, and we shall then discuss this matter to its conclusion. Good day to you, Mr. Monk, Miss Latterly."

There was nothing to do but accept their dismissal. Monk and Hester walked together into the hall, past the great picture of Hamish, and out into the steadily falling rain.