The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 4
Hester sat in the back of the black closed-in police van between the constable and the sergeant. She could see nothing, in fact only feel the jolt and sway of movement as they drove from Callandra's house to wherever they were taking her. Her mind was in a senseless whirl. It was as if her head were full of noise and darkness. She could not grasp hold of any thought. The moment she had it, it was whipped away from her.

How had the pearl brooch come to be in her bag? Who could have put it there? Why? Mary had left it at home, she had said so. Why would anyone have wished Hester any harm? She had not had time to make an enemy, even if she were important enough to any of them.

The van came to a stop, but she could see nothing through the closed-in sides. A horse whinnied somewhere ahead, and a man swore. They jolted forward again. Was she merely the victim of some plot, some scheme or vengeance she knew nothing about? But what scheme? How could she defend herself? How could she prove any of it?

She glanced sideways at the sergeant, and saw only his rigid profile as he stared ahead of himself at the far wall of the van. The disgust in him was so palpable she could feel it like a chill in the air. She could understand it. It was contemptible to steal from a patient, an old lady, an invalid who trusted you totally.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say again that she had not taken it, but even as she drew breath, she knew it would be futile. They would expect her to deny it A thief would. It meant nothing.

The journey passed like a nightmare, and eventually they reached the police station, where she was taken into a quiet, drab room and formally charged with having stolen a pearl brooch belonging to her patient, Mrs. Mary Farraline, of Edinburgh, now deceased.

"I did not take it," she said quietly.

Their faces were sad and scornful. No one made any answer at all. She was taken to the cells, pushed in gently with a hand in the small of her back, and before she had time to tum around the door was closed with a heavy clang and the bolt shot home.

The cell was about ten or eleven feet square, with a cot on one side and a wooden bench with a hole in it, which obviously served the calls of nature. There was a single high, barred window above the cot, the walls were whitewashed and the floor blackened stone of some smooth, seamless nature.

But the most surprising thing was that there were already three people in it, one an elderly woman of perhaps close to sixty, her hair unnaturally yellow, her skin putty-colored and curiously lifeless. She regarded Hester expressionlessly. The second occupant was very dark, with long loose hair that hung in a knotted mass. Her narrow face was handsome in its own way. Her eyes, so shadowed as to seem almost black, looked at Hester with growing suspicion. The third occupant was a child, not more than eight or nine years old, thin, dirty, and with raggedly cut hair so it was impossible to tell at a glance whether it was a boy or a girl. Clothes were little help, being a conglomeration of adult clothes shorn down to size, patched, and tied around with a length of twine.

"Well, you look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," the dark woman said critically. "First time, eh? What yer do? Thievin'?" Her sharp eyes took note of Hester's borrowed dress. "Dollymop? You don't look like no tail, not in that square-rigged thing!"

"What?" Hester was slow-witted, confused.

"You'll never pull no gents dressed like that," the woman said contemptuously. "No need to stand on your importance wi' us, we're all family." Her eyes narrowed again. "Which you ain't-are yer." It was an accusation, not a question.

" 'Course she ain't," the older woman said wearily. "She don't even understand yer, Doris."

"Are you... related?" Hester asked slowly, including the child in her remark.

"No we ain't related, yer dimwit!" The woman shook her head dismissively. "I mean we're all professionals. Which you ain't, are yer? Jus' thought you'd try yer 'and and yer got caught Watcha do... nick summink?"

"No. No, but they said I did."

"Oh. Innocent, eh?" Her sneer was totally disbelieving. "In't we all! Marge 'ere didn't do no abortions, did yer, Marge? And Tilly 'ere didn't spin no top. An' o' course I don't keep no bawdy 'ouse." She put one hand on her hip. "I'm a decent, respectable woman, I am. Can I 'elp it if some o' me clients is bent?"

"What do you mean, 'spin a top'?" Hester moved farther into the small cell and sat down on the cot, about two feet from the woman named Marge.

"You simple or summink?" Doris demanded. "Spin a top," she said, and made a spiral movement with her fingers. "In't yer never played wi' a top when you was a kid? Yer must 'ave seen one, less yer blind as well as daft."

"You don't go to jail for spinning tops." Hester was beginning to get annoyed. The gratuitous insults were something she could fight against.

"Yer do if it gets in people's way," Doris said with a curl of her lip. "Don't yer, Tilly, eh? Cheeky little sod."

The child looked at her with wide eyes and nodded slowly.

"How old are you?" Hester asked her.

"Dunno," Tilly said with indifference.

"Don't be daft," Doris said again. "She can't count"

"I can so!" Tilly protested indignantly. "I know 'ow many's ten."

"Yer in't ten," Doris said, dismissing the subject She looked back at Hester. "So what didn't you steal then, my fine lady wot got caught at it?"

"A brooch with pearls in it," Hester replied tartly. "What are you respectable ladies doing that brings you here?"

Doris smiled, showing stained teeth, strong and regular. They would have been beautiful had they been white. "Well, some of us was letting gentlemen pay for their pleasures, which is only fair, as I sees it. But there was one in me back room as was screevin', and the pigs don't like that, cos' the briefs don't like it." She watched Hester's confusion with evident complacency. "Or to put it fancy like, so your ladyship can understand it: they says I was taking money for fornication, and the geezer in the back room was writing recommendations and legal papers for people as wanted 'em but couldn't get 'em the usual way. Very good wi' a pen, is Tarn. Write anything for yer... deeds in property, wills, letters of authority, references o' character. You name it, 'e'll write it, and takes a good lawyer to know the difference."

"I see..."

"Do yer? Do yer now?" Her lip curled. "I don't think yer see anything, yer stupid cow."

"I see you in here the same as I am," Hester said. "Which makes you just as stupid, except you've been here before. To do it twice takes a real art."

Doris swore. Marge smiled mirthlessly. Tilly slunk backwards and crouched by the end of the cot, expecting a fight.

"You'll get yours," Doris said sullenly. "They'll put yer somewhere like the 'Steel' down Cold Bath Fields for a few years, stitching all day till yer fingers bleed, eating slops, 'ot all summer and cold all winter, and nobody ter talk ter wi' yer fancy voice."

Marge nodded. "That's right," she said dolefully. "Keep yer in silence, they do. No talking. An' masks, too."

"Masks?" Hester did not understand her.

"Masks," Marge repeated, dragging her hand across her face. "Masks, so yer can't see nobody's phys."

"Why?"

"Dunno. Just to make you feel worse, I suppose. So yer alone. Don't learn nothing wicked from nobody else. It's the new idea."

Hester's day was taking on more and more of the proportions of a nightmare. This last piece of information lent it a quality of total unreality. Hester tried to imagine troops of women in gray dresses, silent and masked, faceless, laboring, cold, filled with hatred and despair. In such a world, how could they be anything else? And children who spun tops in the street and got in people's way. She was choked with a mixture of rage and pity, and the almost hysterical desire to escape. Her heart was beating high in her throat, and her knees were suddenly weak, even though she was sitting down. She could hardly have stood, even if she had wanted to and there had been any point.

"Sick?" Doris said with a smile. "Yer'll get used ter it. An' don't think yer 'avin' the cot, cos yer ain't Marge is sick for real. She gets it Any'ow she was 'ere first"

Early the following morning Hester was taken to a magistrate's court and remanded in custody. From there she was taken to the prison at Newgate and placed in a cell with two pickpockets and a prostitute. Within an hour she was sent for and told that her lawyer had come to speak with her.

She felt a wild surge of hope as if the long nightmare were over, the darkness dispelled. She shot to her feet and almost fell over in her eagerness to get through the door and along the bare stone passage to the room where Rathbone would be.

"Now, now," the wardress said sharply, her hard, blunt face tightening. "Just be'ave yerself. No call to get excited. Talk, that's all. Come wi' me, stay be'ind me and speak when yer spoken to." And she turned on her heel and marched away with Hester at her elbow.

They stopped in front of a large metal door. The wardress produced a huge key from the chain at her belt and placed it in the lock and turned it. The door swung silently under the pressure of her powerful arms. Inside was painted white, gaslit and relatively cheerful. Oliver Rathbone was standing behind the chair at the far side of the plain wooden table. There was an empty chair on the nearer side.

"Hester Latterly," the wardress said with a half smile at Rathbone. It was a sickly gesture, as if she were undecided whether to try to be charming with him or whether he was an enemy, like all the inmates. She looked at his immaculate clothes, his polished boots and neat hair, and opted for charm. Then she saw the look on his face at the sight of Hester, and something within her froze. The smile was a dead thing, fixed and horrible.

"Knock when you want to get out," she said coldly, and then as soon as Hester was inside, banged the door so the reverberations of metal on stone jarred in the head.

Hester was too close to tears to speak.

Rathbone came around the table and took both her hands in his. The warmth of his fingers was like a light in darkness, and she clung to him as tightly as she dared.

He stared into her face for only a few moments, gauging the fear in her, then as suddenly let her go and pushed her gently back into the chair closest to her.

"Sit down," he ordered. "We must not waste the time we have."

She obeyed, fumbling with her skirts to arrange them so she could pull the chair comfortably to the table.

He sat opposite her, leaning forward a little. "I have already been to see Connal Murdoch," he said gravely. "I thought I might persuade him that the whole matter is one of error, and not something in which the police should be involved at all." There was apology in his eyes. "Unfortunately I found him very rigid on the subject, and I have not been able to reason with him."

"What about Griselda, Mary's daughter?"

"She barely spoke. She was present, but seemed to defer to him in everything and, frankly, to be in a state of considerable distress." He stopped, searching her face as if to judge from it how he should continue.

"Is that a polite way of saying she was not able to apply her mind?" she asked. She could not afford euphemisms.

"Yes," he conceded. "Yes, I suppose it is. Grief takes many forms, not a few of them unattractive, but she did not seem so much grieved as frightened-at least, that is the impression I received."

"Of Murdoch?"

"I am afraid I am not receptive enough to be certain. I thought not, but then I also felt that he made her nervous... or anxious? I have no clear impression. I'm sorry." He frowned. "But it is all of little importance now. I failed to persuade him to dismiss the matter. I am afraid it will proceed, and my dear, you must prepare yourself for it. I will do everything I can to see that it is settled as rapidly and discreetly as possible. But you must help me by answering everything you can with the utmost clarity." He stopped. His eyes were steady and seemed to look through all her defenses as if he could see not only her thoughts but the mounting fear inside her. A day ago she would have found that intrusive; she would have been angry at his presumption. Now she clung to it as if it were the only chance of rescue in a cold quicksand that was growing deeper by the moment.

"It doesn't make any sense," she said desperately.

"It will do," he insisted with a faint smile. "It is simply that we do not have all the facts. It is my task to learn at least enough of them to prove that you have committed no crime."

No crime. Of course she had committed no crime. Perhaps she had overlooked something, and if she had not, then Mary Farraline might still be alive. But certainly she had not taken the brooch. She had never seen it before. A lift of hope brightened inside her. She met Rathbone's eyes and he smiled, but it was a small, bleak gesture, a matter of determination rather than confidence.

Beyond the bare room in which they were sitting they could hear the sounds of slamming doors, heavy and resonating, iron against stone. Someone called out, and the sound echoed, even though the words were indistinguishable.

'Tell me again precisely what happened from the time you entered the Farraline house in Edinburgh," he instructed.

"But I-" she began, then saw the gravity in his face, and obediently recounted everything she could remember from the time she had stepped into the kitchen and met the butler, McTeer.

Rathbone listened intently. It seemed to Hester as if everything else in the world became distant except the two of them sitting opposite each other, leaning across the wooden table in desperate concentration. She thought that even with her eyes closed, she would see his face as it was now, every detail of it etched on her mind, even the silver flecks in his hair where it sprang smoothly from his temples.

He interrupted her for the first time. "You rested?"

"Yes-why?"

"Apart from your time in the library, was that the first occasion in which you were alone in the house?"

She perceived his meaning immediately.

"Yes." She spoke with difficulty. "I suppose they will say I could have gone back to the dressing room and taken the brooch then."

"I doubt it. It would be an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do. Mrs. Farraline was probably in her bedroom..."

"No-no, when I saw her, it was in a boudoir, a sitting room some distance from her bedroom, I think. Although I suppose I am not sure. Certainly it was some way from the dressing room."

"But the maid could have come into the dressing room," he argued. "In fact, her duties immediately prior to such a long journey would almost certainly have taken her there a number of times, checking that she had everything packed, all the necessary linen was clean, pressed, folded, placed where it should have been. Is that a time you would risk going in, if you were not supposed to be there?"

"No... no it isn't!" Then her spirits fell again immediately. "And when I rested in the afternoon my valise was in the room with me. No one could have put the pin into it there."

"That is not the point, Hester," he said patiently. "I am trying to think what they will say, what opportunity you had to find the pin and take it We must ascertain where it was kept."

"Of course," she said eagerly. "She may have kept it in a jewel case in her bedroom. It would be much more sensible than having it in the dressing room." She looked at his face, and saw a gentleness in it which gave her a curious prickle of pleasure, but there was no lightness in him which corresponded to hers. Surely if Mary had kept it in her room, that was almost proof Hester could not have taken the brooch?

He looked almost guilty, like someone who must disillusion a child.

"What?" she demanded. "Isn't that good? I never went into her bedroom. And all the time except when I was in the library, or resting, I was with other people."

"At least one of whom, my dear, must be lying. Someone placed the pin in your case, and it cannot have been by accident."

She leaned forward urgently. "But it ought to be possible to show that I had no chance to take it from the bedroom, which will be where she kept her jewel case. I am almost certain it was not in the dressing room. To begin with, there was nothing for it to rest on." Her voice rose in excitement as she recalled the details of the room. She leaned closer towards him. "There were three wardrobes along one wall, a window in the second, a tallboy with drawers on the third, and also a dressing table with a stool in front of it, and three mirrors. I remember the brushes and combs and the crystal jars for pins and hair combings. There was no jewel case on it It would have blocked the mirrors. And there was nothing on the tallboy, and it was too high to be reached."

"And the farther wall?" He smiled wryly.

"Oh... the door, of course. And another chair. And there was a sort of daybed."

"But no jewel case?"

"No. I am certain of it" She felt triumphant It was such a small piece of memory and reason, but it was the first. "It has to mean something."

"It means your recollection is very clear, not a great deal more."

"But it has to," she said urgently. "If the case was not there, then I could not have taken anything from it"

"But, Hester, there is only your word that the case was not there," he said very softly, his mouth pinched with concern and sadness.

"The maid-" she began, then stopped.

"Precisely," he agreed. "The two people who would know that are the maid, who may well have been the one to place the pin in your luggage... and Mary herself, who is beyond our reach. Who else? The eldest daughter, Oonagh Mclvor? What will she say?" There were both anger and pain in his face, though he was attempting to be as formal as his profession demanded.

She stared at him wordlessly.

He reached one hand across the table as if to touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.

"Hester, we cannot afford to hide from the truth," he said earnestly. "You have fallen into the midst of something we do not yet understand, and it would be foolish to imagine anyone involved in it is your friend, or will necessarily tell the truth if it is contrary to their interests. If Oonagh Mclvor has to choose whether to blame someone in her own household or you, a stranger, we cannot rely upon her either wishing, or being able, to recall and repeat the exact truth."

"But... but if someone in her house is a thief, surely she would wish to know that?" she protested.

"Not necessarily, particularly if it is not a maid, but one of her family."

"But why? Why just one brooch? And why put it in my case?"

His face tightened, as if he were suddenly colder, and the anxiety in his eyes deepened.

"I don't know, but the only alternative I can see is to suppose that you did take it, and that is not tolerable."

The enormity of what he had said became hideously plain to her. How could she expect anyone to believe she had not seized the chance, suddenly offered, and taken the brooch... then when Mary was found dead, suddenly become frightened and tried to return it? She met Rathbone's eyes and knew he was thinking precisely the same thing.

Did he really believe her, in his heart? Or was he only behaving as if he did because it was his professional obligation to do so? She felt as if reality were slipping away from her and nightmare closing in, isolation and helplessness, endless confusion where nothing made sense, one moment's sanity was the next moment's chaos.

"I didn't take it," she said suddenly, her voice loud in the silence. "I never saw it before I found it in my bag. I gave it straight to Callandra. What else could I have done?"

His hands closed over hers, surprisingly warm when she was so cold.

"I know you didn't take it," he said firmly. "And I shall prove it. But it will not be easy. You will have to resign yourself to a battle."

She said nothing, struggling to keep the panic under control.

"Would you like me to inform your brother and sister-"

"No! No-please don't tell Charles." Her voice was sharp, and unconsciously she had jerked forward. "You mustn't tell Charles-or Imogen." She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. "It will be hard enough for him if he has to know, but if we can fight it first..."

He was frowning at her. "Don't you think he would wish to know? Surely he would wish to Offer you some support, some comfort?"

"Of course he would wish it," she agreed with a fierce mixture of anger, pity and defensiveness. "But he wouldn't know what to believe. He would want to think I was innocent, and he would not know how to. Charles is very literal. He cannot believe something he cannot understand." She knew she sounded critical, and she had not meant to, but all her own fear and anguish was in her voice, she could hear it and it was out of control. "It would distress him, and he could do nothing to help. He would feel he ought to visit me, and that would be terrible for him."

She wanted to explain to Rathbone about her father's suicide when he was ruined by a cheat, and their mother's death shortly afterwards, and the shock it had been for Charles. He had been the only one of the three children to be in England at the time, James having died recently in the Crimea, and Hester being still out there nursing. The full weight of the disgrace and the financial ruin had fallen on Charles, and then the grief afterwards.

Of course Rathbone knew something of it, because he had defended the man charged in the resulting murder case. But if he had not known the full extent of her father's disgrace, she was not willing to tell him now, or to expose and relive her father's vulnerability. She found herself sitting silently, risking his thinking her sullen.

Rathbone smiled very slightly, a small expression of resignation, and a kind of bitter humor.

"I think you are judging him ill," he said calmly. "But it is not of great importance now. Perhaps later on we can discuss it again." He rose to his feet.

"What are you going to do?" She stood up also, too quickly, knocking herself against the table and scraping the chair legs loudly on the floor. She lost her balance clumsily and only regained it by holding on to the table. "What happens next?"

He was close to her, so close she could smell the faint odor of the wool of his coat and feel the warmth of his skin. She longed for the comfort of being held with a depth that made the blood rush up to her face in shame. She straightened and took a step backwards.

"They will keep you here," he answered, wincing. "I shall go and seek Monk and send him to leant more of the Farralines and what really happened."

"To Edinburgh?" she said with surprise.

"Of course. I doubt there is anything more we can discover in London."

"Oh."

He moved to the door and knocked. "Wardress!" He turned back to see her. "Keep heart," he said gently. "There is an answer, and we shall find it."

She forced herself to smile. She knew he was speaking only to comfort her, but even so the words themselves had some power. She clung to them, willing herself to believe.

"Of course. Thank you..."

They were prevented from saying anything further by the clang of the keys in the lock and the wardress's appearing, grim-faced and implacable.

Before calling upon Monk, which Rathbone viewed with very mixed thoughts, he returned to his offices in Vere Street. He had learned little of practical value from his interview with Hester, and he felt more emotionally drained than he had foreseen. Visiting clients accused of crime was always trying. Naturally they were frightened, shocked by arrest. Even when they were guilty, capture and charge took them by surprise. When they were innocent the sense of bewilderment and having been overtaken by events out of their control was devastating.

He had seen Hester angry before, burning with injustice, frightened for other people, close to despair, but never with the fear for herself. In a sense she had always been in some control of events, her own freedom not at stake.

He took off his coat and gave it to the clerk waiting to take it from him. Hester was so impatient of fools, so fierce to charge into battle. It was a characteristic most alarming, and highly unattractive in a woman. Society would not tolerate it. He smiled as he imagined how it would be greeted by most of the respectable ladies he knew. He could visualize the expressions in their well-bred faces. And it alarmed him, as his smile broadened with self-mockery, that it was the quality in her which most appealed to him. Gentler, more conventionally behaved women he found more comfortable, less challenging, less disturbing to his well-being, his assumptions and certainly his social and professional ambitions, but they did not remain always in his memory after they had parted. He was neither troubled by them nor invigorated. Safety was beginning to cloy, for all its seeming advantages.

Absentmindedly he thanked the clerk and walked past him to his office. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. He must not allow this to happen to Hester. He was one of the best barristers in England, he was the ideal person to protect her and get this absurd charge dismissed. It irritated him that he would have to use Monk to find out the truth of what had happened, or at least enough of it to prove Hester's innocence-and reasonable doubt would be far from satisfactory-but without facts he could do nothing.

It was not that he disliked Monk, not entirely. The man had an excellent mind, courage, and a kind of honor; even the fact that he was abrasive, often ill-mannered, and always arrogant was not of itself a strike against him. He was not a gentleman, for all his confidence, his elegance, his fine diction. The difference was indefinable, but it was there. There was a certain underlying aggression in him of which Rathbone was always aware. And his attitude towards Hester was intensely irritating.

Hester's welfare was the only thing that mattered at the moment. His own feelings about Monk were irrelevant. He would send a messenger to fetch him, and while he was waiting for him to arrive, prepare sufficient money to send him to Edinburgh on the night train with instructions to remain there until he could learn precisely what jealousies, pressures financial or emotional, existed in the Farraline household which had produced this ridiculous accident of circumstance.

He rang the bell for the clerk to come, and when the door opened, drew breath to speak, then saw the man's face.

"What is it, Clements? What is wrong?"

"The police, sir. Sergeant Daly is here to see you."

"Ah." Perhaps the charge had been withdrawn, and he would not need to send for Monk after all. "Ask him to come in, Clements."

Clements bit his lip, his eyes troubled, and withdrew to obey.

"Yes?" Rathbone said hopefully as Sergeant Daly appeared in the doorway looking solid and sad. Rathbone was about to ask if the charges had been dropped when something in Daly's face stopped him.

Daly closed the door behind him quietly, the latch clicking home with a snick.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rathbone." His voice was light and very clear. In other circumstances it would have been pleasant, in spite of the London edge to the accent. "But I've got some rather unpleasant news."

The words were very mild, and yet Rathbone felt a sense of dread out of all proportion to the situation. He breathed in, and his stomach lurched. His mouth was suddenly dry.

"What is it, Sergeant?" He managed to sound almost as calm as Daly had, completely belying the fear inside him.

Daly remained standing, his blunt face filled with sorrow.

"Well sir, I'm afraid Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch weren't totally satisfied with the way poor Mrs. Farraline died, it being so unexpected like, and they called their own doctor to make an examination..." He left the words hanging in the air.

"You mean a postmortem?' Rathbone said sharply. Why on earth did the man not come to the point? "What of it?"

"He's not satisfied she died natural, sir."

"What?"

"He's not satisfied-"

"I heard you!" Rathbone made as if to rise from his seat but his legs betrayed him and he changed his mind. "What was... unnatural about it? Didn't the police surgeon say it was heart failure?"

"Yes sir, he did that," Daly agreed. "But it was a somewhat hasty examination, made with the understanding that the lady was elderly and that she suffered from a heart ailment already."

"Are you now saying that that is not true?" Rathbone's voice rose, even though he had not intended it to. He sounded shrill and he knew it. He must keep more control of himself!

"No sir, o' course I'm not," Daly said, shaking his head. "There's no question she was elderly, and apparently she'd 'ad this complaint for some time. But when Mr. Murdoch's own doctor had a closer look, like 'e was asked to, he wasn't so sure. Mr. Murdoch suggested a postmortem examination, as is Mrs. Murdoch's right, in the circumstances, what with the theft, an' all."

"What on earth do you mean, man?" Rathbone exploded. "You aren't suggesting Miss Latterly strangled her patient for a piece of jewelry, are you? And then immediately reported finding it and made every effort to return it to the family?"

"No sir, not strangled..." Daly said quietly.

Rathbone's throat tightened so he could hardly breathe.

"Poisoned," Daly finished. "With a double dose of her medicine, to be exact." He looked at Rathbone with deep sadness. "They found it when they cut her open an' looked inside her. Not easy to spot, affects the heart, but seein' as the lady was on the medicine, an' two vials was empty when it should'a' bin one, natural thing to look for, see? Not very pleasant, I'm afraid, but undeniable. I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Latterly is now being held on a charge of murder."

"B-but..." Rathbone's voice died away, choked in his throat, his lips dry.

"There weren't no one else there, sir. Mrs. Farraline were perfectly all right when she got onto the train in Edinburgh with Miss Latterly, and she was dead, poor soul, when she arrived in London. You tell me what else we're to believe."

"I don't know. But not that!" Rathbone protested. "Miss Latterly is a brave and honorable woman who served in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. She saved dozens of lives, at great cost to herself. She gave up the comfort and safety of England to-"

"I know all that, sir," Daly interrupted firmly. "You prove as someone else killed the old lady, and I'll be the first to drop the charge against Miss Latterly. But until you do, we're holding 'er." He sighed, looking at Rathbone sadly. "I got no pleasure in it She seems like a nice young lady, and I lost a brother in the Crimea meself. I know what some o' those women did for our men. But it's my duty, and liking 'as nothing to do with it most of the time."

"Yes-yes of course." Rathbone leaned back in the chair, feeling drained, as if he had run a great distance. "Thank you. I shall begin my duty now, to find out what did happen and prove she had no part in it."

"Yes sir. I wish you luck, sir. You'll need all you can get, and more than luck as well." And with that he turned around and opened the door, leaving Rathbone staring after him.

He had been gone only a few moments when Clements returned, his expression anxious. He poked his head around the door inquiringly.

"Mr. Rathbone, is there anything I can do, sir?"

"What?" Rathbone jerked to attention, at least physically. His thoughts were still in tumult. "What is it, Clements?"

"Is there anything I can do, sir? I take it it's bad news of some nature."

"Yes there is. Go and fetch Mr. William Monk, immediately."

"Mr. Monk, sir? The detective, do you mean?"

"Yes of course, the detective. Fetch him here."

"I shall have to give him some reason, Mr Rathbone," Clements said unhappily. "He is not the sort of gentleman to come simply because I say so."

"Tell him the Farraline case has taken a profound turn for the worse, and I need his undivided attention most urgently," Rathbone replied, his voice growing sharper and unintentionally louder.

"If I don't find him-" Clements began.

"Keep looking until you do! Don't return here without him, man."

"Yes sir. Indeed, I'm very sorry, sir."

Rathbone forced his mind to attention. "What for? You've done nothing amiss."

"No sir. I'm very sorry the Farraline case has turned for the worse. Miss Latterly is a fine young lady, and I'm sure-" He stopped. "I'll go and find Mr. Monk, sir, and fetch him back right away."

But it was two long, heavy hours before Monk pushed the office door open, without having knocked, and strode in. His face was pale, his wide, thin mouth drawn in a hard line.

"What happened?" he demanded. "What's gone wrong now? Why haven't you got in touch with the Farralines' lawyer and explained what happened?" His eyebrows rose. "Surely you don't want me to take it up to Edinburgh."

The emotions that Rathbone had been fighting against since Daly first came in-the fear, the anxiety, the helplessness, the imaginings ahead that his intelligence foresaw- all burst in anger, the rawest and easiest release.

"No I do not!" he said between his teeth. "Do you think I'd send Clements 'round to fetch you simply to run errands for me? If that's the extent of your ability, I've wasted my time-and yours. I should have called someone else... anyone else, God help me!"

Monk grew even paler. He read Rathbone's temper as if it had been a page printed large in front of him. He understood both the fear and the self-doubt, and both were like a cold slap to the face for Rathbone.

"Mary Farraline's body has been examined, postmortem," Rathbone said icily, "at the request of her daughter Griselda Murdoch. Apparently she died of an overdose of her medicine, the medicine Hester was employed to give to her. The police have accordingly charged Hester with her murder... presumably for the sake of the gray pearl brooch."

It was a vicious satisfaction to him to see Monk's face blanch even further and his eyes widen fractionally with shock, as if he had sustained a heavy and totally unexpected blow.

The two stood facing each other across Rafhbone's desk in frozen silence for seconds. Then Monk absorbed the shock and recovered himself, far more rapidly than Rathbone had expected him to, more rapidly than he had himself.

"I presume we are agreed that Hester did not kill her?" Monk said levelly. "In spite of any evidence to the contrary?"

Rathbone smiled bleakly, remembering Monk's own fearful suspicions of himself when he had awakened in his amnesia, the struggle through the tightening webs of evidence. He saw the same memories in Monk's eyes and for an instant their understanding was as clear as the dawn light. Even great distances seemed close enough to touch. Enmity vanished.

"Of course," Rathbone agreed. "We know only a fraction of the truth. When we know it all, the story will be utterly different."

Monk smiled.

Then the moment vanished.

"And what makes you think we shall ever know it all?" Monk demanded. "Who, in God's name, ever knows all the truth about anything? Do you?"

"If I know enough about the facts to put it beyond dispute," Rathbone said coldly, "that would be sufficient. Are you willing to help in the practicalities, or do you wish to stand there arguing the nicer philosophical points of it?"

"Oh, practicalities?" Monk said sarcastically, his eyebrows high. "What had you in mind?" His gaze swept the desk, searching for something achieved, some sign of progress, and found nothing.

Rathbone was acutely aware of his inadequacies, and what he had actually been doing between the time Daly left and Monk arrived was getting rid of all other pressing matters to leave himself free to attend to the Farraline case, but he refused to explain himself to Monk.

'There are three possibilities," he said in a hard, level voice.

"Obviously," Monk snapped back, "she might have taken an overdose herself, by accident..."

"No she didn't" Rathbone contradicted him with satisfaction. "She did not take it herself at all. The only accident could be if someone else filled the vial wrongly before it left the Farraline house in Edinburgh. If she took anything herself then it was deliberate, and must have been suicide, which is physically the second possibility, but from the circumstances, and her personality as Hester described her, quite out of the question."

"And the third is murder," Monk finished. "By someone other than Hester. Presumably someone in Edinburgh who filled the medicine vial with a lethal dose and left Hester to administer it."

"Precisely."

"Accident or murder. Who prepared the dose? The doctor? An apothecary?" Monk asked.

"I don't know. That is one of a number of questions to be answered."

"What about the daughter, Griselda Murdoch?" Monk moved impatiently about the office as if he could not bear to remain still. "What do you know of her?"

"Only that she is recently married and is expecting her first child, and is apparently anxious about her health. Mrs. Farraline was coming south to reassure her."

"Reassure her? What do you mean? How could she reassure her? What could she know that Mrs. Murdoch didn't know herself?" Monk looked irritated, as if the nonsense of the answer were stupidity on Rathbone's part.

"For heaven's sake, man, I'm not a midwife. I don't know," Rathbone said waspishly, sitting down in his chair again. "Perhaps it was some childhood complaint she was worried about."

Monk ignored his reply. "I assume there is money in the family?" he said, turning back to face Rathbone.

"It appears so, but they may be mortgaged to the hilt, for all I know. It is one of the many things to find out."

"Well, what are you doing about it? Aren't there lawyers in Scodand? There must be a man of affairs. A will?"

"I shall attend to it," Rathbone said between his teeth. "But it takes time. And whatever the answer, it will not tell us what happened in the railway carriage, nor who tampered with the medicine cabinet before they even boarded the train. The best we can hope for is some light on family affairs and the motives of the Farraline household. It may be money, but we cannot sit here waiting with our aims folded in the hope that it will be."

Monk's eyebrows shot up, and he regarded Rathbone's elegant figure, seated with his legs crossed, with intense dislike.

Curiously, Rathbone found it did not anger him. Complacency would have. Any kind of calm would have incensed him, because it would have meant Monk was not afraid, that it did not matter to him enough to reach his emotions and cut them raw. Lack of fear in Monk would not have comforted him. The danger was real; only a fool would not see it.

"I want you to go to Edinburgh," Rathbone said with a tiny smile. "I shall provide funds, of course. You are to learn everything you can about the Farraline family, all of them."

"And what are you going to do?" Monk demanded again, standing in front of the desk, feet slightly apart, hands clenched at his sides.

Rathbone looked at him icily, in part because there was so very little that was of use yet. His real skill was in the courtroom, faced with witnesses and a jury. He knew how to smell a lie, how to twist and turn words until they trapped the liar, how to uncover truth beneath the layers of deceit, the fog of ignorance and forgetfulness, how to probe like a surgeon until he extracted the damning fact But he had no witnesses yet, except Hester herself, and she knew so desperately little.

"I am going to learn more of the medical facts," he replied. "And the legal ones you pointed out earlier. And I shall prepare for trial."

The word trial seemed to sober Monk out of his anger as sharply as a dash of cold water in the face. He stood still, staring at Rathbone. He made as if to say something, then changed his mind. Perhaps there was nothing that was not already known.

"I'll go and see Hester first," he said quietly. "Arrange it" His face tightened. "I have to know all she can tell me about them. We need everything we can find, even impressions, things half heard, thoughts, memories... anything at all. God knows how I am going to get them to admit me, let alone speak to me."

"Lie to them," Rathbone said with a twisted smile. "Don't tell me that offends you!"

Monk gave him a filthy look, but did not answer. He stood stiffly for a moment, then turned on his heel and went to the door.

"You said something about funds," he said with acute dislike. It occurred to Rathbone with a sudden flash of insight that Monk loathed having to ask. He would like to have done it without assistance, for Hester's sake.

Monk saw the understanding in Rathbone's eyes, and it infuriated him, both to be read so easily and that Rathbone should know his financial state, and perhaps even more, his care for Hester. He had not wished to know that himself. The color burned up his cheeks and his mouth tightened.

"Clements has it ready for you," Rathbone answered. "And a ticket for tonight's train to Edinburgh. It leaves at quarter past nine." He glanced at the gold watch at his waistcoat, a beautiful piece with an engraved case. "Go to your lodgings and pack whatever you will need, and I will make arrangements for you to visit the prison. Write from Edinburgh with whatever progress you make."

"Of course," Monk agreed. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and went out.

Monk went back to his lodgings with his mind in a daze. Hester charged with murder. It had the horrible quality of a nightmare; the brain would not accept it, and yet the gut knew it was violently and dreadfully real. It had an air of familiarity, as if he had known it all before.

He packed all the clean linen he would be likely to need, and socks, shaving brush and razor, hairbrush, toiletries, and a spare pair of boots. He could not foresee how long he would be there. So far as he knew he had not been to Edinburgh before. He had no idea how cold it would be. Probably like Northumberiand. But then he could remember that only in snatches, and in pictures, not sensation. Still, that hardly mattered now.

He knew why the sinking feeling was familiar, the fear and the mixture of disbelief and complete acceptance. It was like his own experience of being both hunter and the hunted when he had first awakened in the hospital after the accident. He had not even known his own name, discovering himself piece by piece as he pursued Joscelin Grey's murderer. He still knew far from all of himself nearly two years later, and much of what he had learned, seeing it through the eyes of others, half remembered, half guessed at, was confusing to him, full of qualities he did not like.

But this was no time to think of himself. He must solve this absurd problem of the death of Mrs. Farraline, and Hester's part in it.

He closed his case and took it with him as he informed his landlady briskly and without further explanation that he was off to Edinburgh on business and did not know when he would be back.

She was used to his manner and disregarded it.

"Oh yes," she said absently. Then added, with a sharp eye to what was important to her, "And you'll be sending the rent, no doubt, if you're gone that long, Mr. Monk?"

"No doubt," he agreed tersely. "You'll keep my letters."

"That I will. Everything will be exactly as it should be. When have you ever found it different, Mr. Monk?"

"Never," he said grudgingly. "Good day to you."

"Good day, sir."

By the time he reached the prison where Hester was being held Rathbone had been as good as his word, and arrangements had been made for Monk to gain admittance, as Rathbone's assistant, and therefore, in a sense, a legal adviser to Hester.

The wardress who took him along the gray, stone-floored passageway towards the cell was broad-backed, heavily muscled and had an expression of intense dislike in her powerful face. It chilled Monk to see it and filled him with something as close to panic as he could remember in a long time. He knew why it was there. The woman knew the charge against Hester-that of having murdered an old lady who was her patient and who trusted her implicitly, for the chance to steal a piece of jewelry worth perhaps a few hundred pounds. That was enough to keep her in luxury for a year-but at the cost of a human life. She would have seen all sorts of tragedy, sin and despair pass through her cells, brutalized women who had murdered violent husbands, pimps or lovers; inadequate despairing women who had murdered their children; hungry and greedy women who had stolen; cunning women, crude or brazen women, ignorant, vicious, frightened, stupid-all manner of folly and vice. But there was little as despicable in her mind as an educated woman of good family who stooped to poison an old lady who was in her specific charge, and for gain of something she did not need.

There would be no forgiveness in her, not even the usual casual pity she showed for the thief and the prostitute caught in a sudden act of violence against a violent world. With the envy and frustration of the ignorant and oppressed, she would hate Hester for being a lady. And at the same time she would hate her also for not having lived up to the privilege with which she was born. To have been given it was bad enough, to have betrayed it was beyond excusing. Monk's fear for Hester condensed into a cold, hard sickness inside him.

The wardress kept her back to him all the way along the corridor until she came to the cell door, where she inserted the heavy key into the lock and turned it. Even now she did not look at Monk. It was a mark of her utter contempt that it extended to him. Even curiosity did not alleviate it.

Inside the cell Hester was standing. She turned slowly as she heard the bolt draw back, a look of hope lighting her face. Then she saw Monk. The hope died, and was replaced by pain, wariness and a curious flicker between expectancy and distress.

For a moment Monk was torn with emotion, familiarity, a desire to protect her, and anger with events, with Rathbone, most of all with himself.

He turned to the wardress.

"I'll call when I want you," he said coldly.

She hesitated, for the first time her curiosity caught. She saw something in Monk's face which disturbed her, an instinctive knowledge that he would fight with weapons she could not match, that he would never be afraid for his own safety.

"Yes sir," the wardress said grimly, and slammed the door closed unnecessarily hard.

Monk looked at Hester slowly and with great care. She had nothing to do here from morning till night, and yet she looked tired. There were shadows around her eyes and no color at all in her skin. Her hair was straight and she had obviously made no effort to dress it flatteringly. Her clothes were plain. She looked as if she had given up already. She must have had her own clothes sent to her lodgings, by Callandra, probably. Why had she not chosen something less drab, more defiant? Then memory flooded back of his own despair during the Grey case, when worse horror had stared him in the face, the thought not only of prison, and hanging, but the nightmare of guilt itself. It was Hester's courage and her stinging anger which had saved him then.

How dare she give up for herself.

"You look awful," he said icily. "What in God's name is that you're wearing? You look as if you're waiting to be hanged. They haven't even tried you yet!"

Her expression darkened slowly from puzzlement to anger, but it was a quiet, cold emotion, no heat in it at all.

"It is a dress I used nursing," she said calmly. "It is warm and serviceable. I don't know why you bother to mention it What on earth does it matter?"

He changed the subject abruptly. "I am going to Edinburgh on the train tonight. Rathbone wants me to find out all I can about the Farralines. One assumes it was one of them who murdered her..."

"It is all I can think of," she said quietly, but without conviction in her voice. "But before you ask me, I don't know who or why. I can't think of any reason, and I have had nothing to do here but try to think of it."

"Did you kill her?'

"No." There was no anger in her, only quiet, black resignation.

It infuriated him. He wanted to take her physically and shake her until she was as angry as he was, until she was enraged enough to fight and go on fighting until they knew the truth, and then force everyone else to look at it, acknowledge it and admit they had been wrong. He hated the change in her; the quietness was uncharacteristic. Not that he was so fond of the way she had been. She talked far too much, and with much too much opinion, whether she was informed or not. She was quite unlike the sort of woman that appealed to him; she had not the gentleness, the feminine warmth or the grace he admired and which quickened his pulses and awoke his desire. But still, to see her like this disturbed him profoundly.

"Then someone else did," he said. "Unless you are telling me she committed suicide?"

"No of course she didn't!" Now at last she was angry too. There was a faint touch of pink in her cheeks. "If you'd known her you would not even entertain such an idea."

"Perhaps she was senile and incompetent?" he suggested. "And she killed herself by accident?"

"That's ridiculous." Her voice rose sharply. "She was no more senile than you are. If that is the best you can do, you are wasting my time! And Oliver's, if he is employing you!"

He was delighted to see her spirit returning, even if it was only in the defense of Mary Farraline; and he was thoroughly piqued by the suggestion that he was here solely at Rathbone's request, and because he was paid. He did not know why it stung so sharply, but it was a painful thought, and he reacted instantly.

"Don't be childish, Hester. There isn't time, and it's most unbecoming in a woman of your age."

Now she was really angry. He knew it was the reference to her age, which was idiotic, but then at times she was idiotic. Most women were.

Hester looked at him with intense dislike.

"If you are going to Edinburgh to see the Farralines, they are hardly likely to tell you anything other than that they employed me to accompany Mrs. Farraline to London, to give her her medicine night and morning, and see that she was comfortable. And I failed them most dismally. I don't know what else you would expect them to say?"

"Self-pity doesn't become you any better than it does most people," he said sharply. "And we haven't time."

She glared at him with loathing.

He smiled back, a twisting of the lips, but still relieved that she was angry enough to fight-not that he wished her to perceive that. "Of course they will say that," he agreed. "I will ask them a great many questions." He was formulating his plan as he spoke. "Because I shall tell them that I have come on behalf of the prosecution and wish to make sure of everything in order to have an unanswerable case. I shall pursue every detail of your stay there."

"I was only there a day," she said.

He ignored her. "Then in the course of so doing, I shall learn everything else I can about them. One of them murdered her. In some way, however slight, they will betray themselves." He said it with more certainty than he felt, but he must not allow her to know that. The least he could do was protect her from the bitterest of the truth, the odds against success. He wished desperately he could do more. It was appalling to be helpless when it mattered so intensely.

The anger drained out of her as suddenly as if someone had turned out a light. Fear overtook everything else.

"Will you?" Her voice shook.

Without thinking he reached forward and took her hand, holding it tightly.

"Yes I will. I doubt it will be easy, or quick, but I will do it." He stopped. They knew each other too well. He saw in her eyes what she was thinking, remembering-that other case they had solved together, finding the truth at last, too late-when the wrong man had been tried and hanged. "I will, Hester," he said with passion. "I'll find the truth, whatever it costs, and whoever I have to break to get it"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away suddenly. For a moment she was so frightened she could hardly control herself.

He gritted his teeth.

Why was she so stupidly independent? Why could she not weep like other women? Then he could have held her, offered some kind of comfort-which would have been meaningless. And he would have hated it. He could not bear the way she was, and yet for her to change would have been even worse.

And he hated the fact that he could not dismiss it and walk away. It was not simply another case. It was Hester- and the thought of failure was unendurable.

"Tell me about them," he commanded gruffly. "Who are the Farralines? What did you think of them? What were your impressions?"

She turned and looked at him with surprise. Then slowly she mastered her emotions and replied.

"The eldest son is Alastair. He is the Procurator Fiscal-"

He cut across her. "I don't want facts. I can find them for myself, woman. I want your feelings about the man. Was he happy or miserable? Was he worried? Did he love his mother or hate her? Was he afraid of her? Was she a possessive woman, overprotective, critical, domineering? Tell me something!"

She smiled wanly.

"She seemed generous and very normal to me..."

"She's been murdered, Hester. People don't commit murder without a reason even if it is a bad one. Somebody either hated her or was afraid of her. Why? Tell me more about her. And don't tell me what a charming person she was. People sometimes murder young women because they are too charming, but not old ones."

Hester's smile grew a little wider.

"Don't you think I've lain here trying to think why anyone would kill her? Alastair did seem a little anxious, but that could have been over anything. As I said, he is the Procurator Fiscal..."

"What is a Procurator Fiscal?" This was not a time to stand on his pride and blunder on in ignorance.

"Something like the Crown Prosecutor, I think."

"Hmm." Possibilities arose in his mind.

"And the youngest brother, Kenneth, was bound on an appointment the family knew little of. They assumed he was courting someone and they had not met her."

"I see. What else?"

"I don't know. I really don't. Quinlan, that is Eilish's husband-"

"Who is Eilish? Did you say Eilish? What kind of a name is that?"

"I don't know. Scottish, I presume. She is the middle daughter. Oonagh is the eldest. Griselda is the youngest."

"What about Quinlan?"

"He and Baird Mclvor, Oonagh's husband, seemed to dislike each other. But I don't see how any of that could lead to murder. There are always undercurrents of likes and dislikes in any family, most particularly if they all live under one roof."

"God forbid!" Monk said with feeling. The thought of living so closely with other people appalled him. He was jealous of his privacy and he did not wish to account for himself to anyone at all, least of all someone who knew him intimately.

She misunderstood him.

"No one would murder for the freedom to leave."

"Wasn't the house hers?" he asked instantly. "What about the money? No, don't bother to answer. You wouldn't know anyway. Rathbone will find that out. Tell me exactly what you did from the time you arrived at the house until you left. When were you alone? Where was the dressing room or wherever the medicine case was left?"

"I've already told Oliver all that," she protested.

"I want it from you," he said coldly. "I can't work on secondhand evidence. And I'll ask you my own questions, not his."

She complied without further argument, sitting on the edge of the cot, and carefully in exact detail, telling him all she could remember. From the ease of her words, and the fact that she did not hesitate, he knew she had rehearsed it many times. It made him acutely aware of how she must have lain in the cell in the dark, frightened, far too intelligent not to be fully aware of the magnitude of the danger, even of the possibility they might never learn the truth, or that if they did it would be too late to save her. She had seen it happen. Monk himself had failed before.

By God he would not fail this time, no matter who it cost.

"Thank you," he said at length, rising to his feet. "Now I must go. I must catch the train north."

She stood up. Her face was very white.

He wanted to say something which would ease her fear, something to give her hope-but it would be a lie, and he had never lied to her.

She drew in her breath to speak, and then changed her mind.

He could not leave without saying something-but what?

What was there that would not be an insult to her courage and her intelligence?

She gave a little sniff. "You must go."

On impulse he took her hand and raised it to his lips, and then let it go and strode the three steps to the door. "I'm ready!" he shouted, and the next moment the key clanged in the lock and the door swung open. He left without looking backwards.

When Monk left the office, Oliver Rathbone hesitated only a few moments before making his decision that he would, after all, go and see Charles Latterly. Hester had begged him not to tell her family when it had been only a charge of theft, which they had both hoped would be dealt with, and dismissed, within a matter of days at the very most But now it was murder, and the evening newspapers would carry the story. He must reach him before that, in common humanity.

He already knew the address, and it was a matter of five minutes to find a hansom cab and instruct the driver. He tried to think of some decent way to break the news. Even though his intelligence told him there was none, it was an easier problem to consider than what he would do next to prepare for Hester's defense. He could not possibly allow anyone else to conduct it, and yet the burden of such a responsibility was already heavy on him, and not twelve hours had passed yet since Daly's arrival in his office with the news.

It was ten minutes past five in the afternoon. Charles Latterly had just arrived home from his day's business. Rathbone had never met him before. He alighted from the cab, instructed the driver to wait however long was necessary until he should be ready to leave, and went up to the front door.

"Yes sir?" the butler said with polite inquiry, his skilled eye summing up Rathbone's status as a gentleman.

"Good evening," Rathbone replied briskly. "My name is Oliver Rathbone and I am Miss Hester Latterly's barrister-at-law. I require to see Mr. Latterly on a matter of business which, I regret to say, cannot wait."

"Indeed, sir? Perhaps if you would be good enough to come into the morning room, sir, I will acquaint Mr. Latterly with your arrival and the urgency of your business."

"Thank you." Rathbone stepped in, but instead of going to the morning room when the butler opened the door for him, he remained in the hall. It was a pleasant room, comfortable, but even at a casual and somewhat hasty glance, he could see the signs of wear and subtly reduced circumstances. He was reminded with a stab of pity of the ruin and suicide of Mr. Latterly senior, and the death from distress shortly afterwards of his wife. Now he had brought news of a new tragedy, even worse than the last.

Charles Latterly came out of the door to the right of the back of the hall. He was a tall, fair man in his late thirties or early forties, his hair thinning a little, his face long and, at this time, pinched with apprehension.

"Good evening, Mr. Rathbone. What can I do for you, sir? I do not recall that we are acquainted, but my butler informs me you are my sister's attorney-at-law. I was not even aware she had occasion for such a person."

"I am sorry to disturb you without warning, Mr. Latterly, but I bring most distressing news. I have no doubt whatever that Miss Latterly is totally without blame of any kind, but there has been a death-an unnatural death-of one of her patients, an elderly lady traveling by train from Edinburgh to London. I am sorry, Mr. Latterly, but Hester has been charged with murdering her."

Charles Latterly stared at him as if he did not understand the meaning of the words.

"She was neglectful?" he said, blinking his eyes. "That is not like Hester. I do not approve of her profession, if you can call it such, but I believe she is more than competent in its practice. I do not believe, sir, that she has conducted herself improperly."

"She is not charged with negligence, Mr. Latterly," Rathbone said slowly, hating having to do this. Why could the man not have understood without his having to repeat it? Why did he have to look so injured and bewildered? "She is charged with having deliberately murdered her, in order to steal a brooch."

"Hester? That's preposterous!"

"Yes, of course it is," Rathbone agreed. "And I have already employed an agent of inquiry to go to Edinburgh, tonight, in order to investigate the matter so that we can learn the truth. But I'm afraid we may not be able to prove her innocence before the whole matter comes to trial, and most likely it will be in the newspapers by tomorrow morning, if not this evening. That is why I have come to inform you so you do not discover it that way."

"The newspapers! Oh dear heaven!" Every vestige of color fled from Charles's already pallid face. "Everyone will know. My wife. Imogen must not hear of this. She could be..."

Rathbone felt unreasonably angry. Charles's every thought had been for his wife's feelings. He had not even asked how Hester was-or even where she was.

"I am afraid that is something from which you cannot protect her," he said a little tartly. "And she may well wish to visit Hester and take her whatever comfort she can."

"Visit?" Charles looked confused. "Where is Hester? What has happened to her? What have they done with her?"

"She is in prison, where she will be until she comes to trial, Mr. Latterly."

Charles looked as if he had been struck. His mouth hung slack, his eyes stared as disbelief turned to horror.

"Prison!" he said, aghast. "You mean..."

"Of course." Rathbone's tone was colder than he would have made it were his own emotions less engaged. "She is charged with murder, Mr. Latterly. There is no possibility of them allowing her free in those circumstances."

"Oh..." Charles turned away, his thoughts inward, his face at last showing pity. "Poor Hester. She always had courage, so much ambition to do the most extraordinary things. I used to think she must be afraid of nothing." He gave a jerky little laugh. "I used to wish she would be afraid, that it would give her a little sense of caution." He hesitated, then sighed. "I wouldn't have had it happen this way." He looked back at Rathbone, his features still touched with sorrow, but quite composed now. "Of course I will pay you whatever I can towards her defense, Mr. Rathbone. But I am afraid I have very little, and I cannot rob my wife of the support and care I owe her, you understand?" He colored unhappily. "I have some knowledge of your reputation. Perhaps in the situation in which we find ourselves, it would be better if you were to pass over the case to some less..." He searched for a euphemism for what he meant, and failed to find one.

Rathbone assisted him, partly because he did not enjoy seeing the man struggle-although he felt little liking for him-but mainly because he was impatient.

"Thank you for your offer, Mr. Latterly, but your financial help will not be necessary. My regard for Hester is sufficient recompense. The greatest boon you can offer her will be to go to her aid personally, comfort her, assure her of your loyalty, and above all, keep your spirits high so that she may draw strength from you. Never, in any circumstances, allow her to think you fear the worst."

"Of course," Charles said slowly. "Yes of course. Tell me where she is, and I shall go to her-that is, if they will allow me in?"

"Explain to them that you are her only family, and they will certainly allow you in," Rathbone answered. "She is in Newgate."

Charles winced. "I see. What am I permitted to take her? What might she need?"

"Perhaps your wife could find her some change of clothes and of personal linen? She will have no facilities for laundering."

"My wife? No-no, I should not permit Imogen to go. And to such a place as Newgate. I shall keep as much of this from her as I am able to. It would distress her terribly. I shall find Hester some clothes myself."

Rathbone was about to protest, but looking at Charles's face, suddenly closed over, his mouth pursed, his eyes stubborn, he knew there were subtleties in the relationship he could not guess at, depths of Charles's own character, and argument would be useless. An unwilling visit would do Hester no good, and Hester was all he really cared about.

"Very well, if that decision is final," he said coolly. "You must do what you believe to be right." He straightened his shoulders. "Again, Mr. Latterly, I am profoundly sorry to bring you such grave news, but please be assured I shall do everything that is possible to insure that Hester is cleared completely and that in the meantime she is treated as well as may be."

"Yes-yes of course. Thank you, Mr. Rathbone. It is most courteous of you to have come in person. And..."

Rathbone waited, half turned towards the door, his eyebrows raised.

Charles looked uncomfortable.

"Thank you for undertaking Hester's defense without fee. I-we-we are deeply grateful to you."

Rathbone bowed very slightly. "My privilege, sir. Good day to you."

"Good day, sir."

By a quarter to nine Rathbone was at the railway station. It was quite pointless. There was nothing else he could tell Monk, yet he could not help himself from being there to speak to him a last time, even to make absolutely sure he was on the train.

The platform was noisy, crowded with people and baggage carts, porters shouting, carriage doors swinging wide one moment, slamming shut the next. Travelers stood shivering, some saying their last good-byes, others glancing one way and then another looking for a familiar missing face. Rathbone made his way through them, coat collar turned up against the wind. Where was Monk? Damn the man! Why did he have to be dependent on someone he liked so little?

He ought to be able to recognize him on the platform. His stance was individual enough, and he was that fraction taller than average. Where on earth was he? For the fifth time he glanced at the station clock. Ten to nine. Perhaps he was not here yet? It was still early. The best thing would be to go through the train itself.

He traced his steps to the end closest to the buffers, pushing his way through the thickening crowd, and boarded the train, looking into every compartment to see if Monk were there. Every so often he glanced out of the window as well, and it was on one of those occasions, about halfway along the length of the train, and already seven minutes past nine, that he saw Monk's face for an instant as he passed by, outside, hurrying along the platform.

Rathbone swore in a mixture of anger and relief, and pushing past a large gentleman in black, flung open the carriage door and almost fell out.

"Monk!" he shouted loudly. "Monk!"

Monk turned. He was dressed as elegantly as if he were on the way to dine out. His coat was beautifully cut, slender and hanging without a wrinkle, his boots were polished to a satin gleam. He looked surprised to see Rathbone, but not discomforted.

"Have you found something?" he said in surprise. "Already? You can't have heard back from Edinburgh, so what is it?"

"I haven't found anything," Rathbone said, wishing passionately that he had. "I merely came to see if there was anything else upon which we should confer while there is still the opportunity."

A shadow of disappointment crossed Monk's eyes, so slight that had Rathbone been less perceptive he would have missed it altogether. He almost forgave the perfect coat.

"I know of nothing," Monk replied coldly. "I shall report to you by mail, whatever I learn of use. Impressions I shall keep until I return. It would be useful if you would do the same for me, assuming you do find anything. I shall inform you of my address as soon as I have lodgings. Now I am going to take my seat, before the train leaves without me. That would serve neither of us." And without any further form of farewell, he turned and walked towards the nearest carriage door and climbed in, slamming it behind him, leaving Rathbone standing on the platform swearing under his breath, feeling offended, inadequate, and as if there were something else he should have said.