The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 5
Monk did not enjoy the journey in any respect at all. The encounter on the platform with Rathbone gave him some sense of satisfaction because it demonstrated how acutely concerned Rathbone was. It would have taken an emotional involvement of extraordinary depth to cause him to abandon his dignity sufficiently to come on such a completely pointless errand. Normally, if nothing else, his awareness of Monk's perception of it would have been enough to keep him at home.

But the comfort all that gave him very quickly wore off as the train steamed and rattled its way out of the station and through the rain-soaked darkness of the London rooftops and the occasional glimpse in gaslight of emptying streets, wet cobbles gleaming, lamps haloed in mist, here and there a hansom about to do business.

He imagined Rathbone returning to his office to sit behind his desk shuffling papers uselessly and trying to think what to do that would help, and Hester alone in the narrow cell in Newgate, frightened, huddling beneath the thin blankets, hearing the hard sound of boot heels on the stone floor and the clang of keys in the lock, seeing the hatred in the wardresses' faces. And he had no illusions about that. They thought her guilty of a despicable crime; there would be no pity. The fact that she had not yet been tried would weigh little with them.

Why couldn't Hester be like other women, and choose a more sensible occupation? What normal woman traveled all over the place, alone, to nurse people she had never even met? Why did he bother himself with her? She was bound to meet with disaster some time or other. It was only extraordinary good luck she had not encountered it already in the Crimea. And he was stupid to allow his feelings to be engaged at all. He did not like the kind of woman she was, he never had. Almost everything about her irritated him in one way or another.

But then common humanity required that he do everything he could to help. People trusted Mm, and so far as he knew, he had never betrayed a trust in his life. At least not intentionally. He had failed his mentor, years ago, that much he now remembered. But that was different It was a failure through lack of ability, not in any way because he had not tried everything he could. It was not kindness; every evidence he had discovered about himself showed he was not a kind man. But he was honorable. And he had never suffered injustice.

No. He winced and smiled bitterly. That was untrue. He had never suffered legal injustice. He had certainly been unjust often enough himself-unjust to his juniors, overcrit-ical, too quick to judge and to blame.

But however much it hurt, there was no point wallowing in the past. Nothing could change it. The future lay in his own power. He would find out who had killed Mary Farraline, and why, and he would prove it. Apart from his own pride, Hester deserved that. She was frequently foolish, almost always overbearing, acid-tongued, opinionated and arbitrary; but she was totally honest. Whatever she said about the journey from Edinburgh would be the truth. She would not even lie to herself to cover a mistake, let alone to anyone else. And this was a rare quality in anyone, man or woman.

And of course she had not killed Mary Farraline. The idea was ludicrous. She might have killed someone in outrage-she would certainly have the courage and the passion-but never for gain. And if she had killed someone she deemed to be monstrous enough to warrant such an act, she would not have done it that way. She would have done it face-to-face. She would have struck her over the head, or stabbed her with a blade, not poisoned her in her sleep. There was nothing devious in Hester. Above all else, she had courage.

Hester would survive this. She had suffered worse in the Crimea, physical hardships of a greater order, terrible cold, probably hunger too, weeks without proper sleep-and danger as well, danger of injury or disease, or both. She had been on the battlefield within sound of the guns, within range of them, for all he knew. Of course she would survive a week or two in Newgate. It was absurd to be frightened for her. She was not an ordinary woman to faint or weep in the face of hardship. She would suffer, of course, she was as susceptible as anyone else, but she would rise above it.

His part was to go to the Farraline house and learn the truth.

But as the evening lengthened into night and those around him drifted into weary sleep, the sanguine mood left him, and all he could see as he grew colder and stiffer and more tired was the difficulty of discovering anything useful from a household in mourning, closed in on itself, where one member was guilty of murder and they had the perfect scapegoat in an outsider already accused and charged.

By morning his back ached, his leg muscles were jumping with the long lack of either comfort or exercise, and he was so cold his feet had lost all sensation. His mood and his temper were equally poor.

Edinburgh was bitterly cold, but at least it was not raining. An icy wind howled down Princes Street, but Monk had no interest in either its history or its architectural beauties, so he was perfectly happy to hail the first cab he saw and give the driver the Farralines' address in Ainslie Place.

From the footpath the house was certainly imposing enough. If the Farralines owned it freehold and without mortgage, then they were, financially at least, in very good fortune indeed. It was also, in Monk's opinion, in excellent taste. Indeed, the classical simplicity of the whole square appealed to him.

But that was all incidental. He turned his attention to the matter in hand. He mounted the step and pulled the doorbell.

The door opened and a man who should have been an undertaker, from his expression, regarded him without a shred of interest.

"Yes sir?"

"Good morning," Monk said briskly. "My name is William Monk. I have come from London on a matter of importance. I should like to speak either to Mr. Farraline or to Mrs. Mclvor." He produced a card.

"Indeed, sir." The man's face registered no change at all. He offered a silver tray. Monk dropped the card onto it. Apparently he was not an undertaker but the butler after all. "Thank you, sir. If you'll be good enough to wait in the hall, I'll see if Mrs. Mclvor is at home."

It was exactly the same polite fiction as in London. Of course he would know whether his mistress was at home, it was simply a matter of whether she would receive Monk-or not.

He waited in the crepe-hung hall, shifting from foot to foot in impatience. He had already worked out what message he would send next if she should refuse. He hoped the fact that he had come from London might be sufficient, anything further was not for the servants to be informed.

He had not long to be in doubt. It was not the butler who returned, but a woman in her mid-thirties, slender and straight-backed. For an instant her bearing reminded him of Hester; she had the same pride and determination in the set of her shoulders and the carriage of her head. However, her face was quite different, and the sweep of fair, almost honey-colored hair was unlike any he had ever seen before.

She was not quite beautiful; there was too much individuality in her features, a strength in the jaw and a coolness in the eyes which offended convention. This must be Oonagh Mclvor.

"Mr. Monk." It was an acknowledgment, not a question. As soon as he heard her voice with its clarity and timbre he knew she would have mastered any but the most desperate of situations. "McTeer informs me you have come from London on some business with which you wish my assistance. Did he understand you correctly?"

"Yes, Mrs. Mclvor." From Hester's description he had no doubt it was she, and no need to ask. Nor did he have the slightest qualm in lying. "I am involved in the prosecution of Miss Latterly in the matter of your late mother's death, and it is my assignment to ascertain the facts, such as are known or can be discovered, so that there will be no errors, oversights or unpleasant surprises when the matter comes to trial. The verdict will be final. We must make sure it is the right one."

"Indeed?" Her fair eyebrows rose minimally. "How very thorough. I had no idea the English prosecution-I believe it is not a Procurator Fiscal such as we have-was so diligent."

"It is an important case." He met her look squarely and without evasion or the slight tentativeness of good manners. Instinctively he felt she would despise deference and respect strength, as long as he at no time presumed, or allowed her to sense bluster in htm, and never made a threat, implicit or explicit, that he could not keep. They had met only moments before, and yet already there was an awareness of each other's nature and a measuring of both intellect and resolve, one he thought not without interest on her part.

"I am pleased you are sensible of it." She allowed the slightest smile to curve her lips. "Naturally the family will give you all the assistance of which we are capable. My elder brother is the Procurator Fiscal, here in Edinburgh. We are familiar with the fact that even in cases where guilt seems beyond question the prosecution can fail to obtain a conviction, if those conducting it do not take every care in the preparation of evidence, I assume you do have a letter to this effect?" The inquiry was made courteously, but brooked no evasion.

"Naturally." He produced a very creditable forgery he had taken the care to prepare on police paper he still had. That it was from the wrong station he trusted she would not know.

"It makes my task a great deal easier that you so readily comprehend the necessity of being sure of every detail," he said as she examined the letter. "I confess, I had not thought I should be so fortunate in finding such..." He hesitated, allowing her to think it delicacy, in truth searching for exactly the right word that would not sound like flattery. He judged her to be a woman who would feel only contempt for anything so obvious, although he doubted she would be so open as to show it, except by the chill of a glance, the sudden fading of interest from her eyes. "... a grasp of reality," he finished.

This time her smile was broader, a definite warmth in all her face, and something like a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as she regarded him.

"I am grieved, of course, Mr. Monk, but it has not so destroyed my wits as to rob me of my understanding that the world must proceed, and its business be done according to the law, and with the proper procedure. Please tell me in what way, precisely, we may be of assistance. I imagine you will wish to question people, the upstairs servants in particular?"

"That would be necessary," he agreed. "But servants can be very easily frightened by such a tragedy, and then their accounts sometimes vary. It would be most helpful to speak with the members of the family as well, perhaps leave the servants until later, when their first apprehension has had time to disappear. I do not wish to give the impression that I suspect them of anything."

This time her smile was one of humor, albeit bitter.

"Don't you, Mr. Monk? No matter how convinced you are of Miss Latterly's guilt, surely it must have crossed your mind that my mother's lady's maid, at least, could conceivably have stolen the brooch?"

"Of course it has crossed my mind, Mrs. Mclvor." He smiled back, without looking away from her eyes. "All sorts of other answers are possible, with a stretch of the imagination, however unlikely. And the defense-and no doubt there will be one-since it cannot prove Miss Latterly innocent, will have to endeavor to prove someone else guilty. Or at the worst for them, prove that someone else could have been guilty, by virtue of motive, means or opportunity. It is precisely that which I have come to forestall."

"Then we had better make plans to begin," she said with decision. "No doubt if you have just arrived in Edinburgh, you will wish to find yourself accommodation, and possibly rest after your journey, if you have been on the train all night. Then perhaps you would dine with us this evening, when you may meet the rest of my family?" It was an invitation formally given, and for a most businesslike reason, and yet there was interest in her which was of a sharper nature, however slight.

"That would be excellent, thank you, Mrs. Mclvor," he accepted. He must not become carried away with optimism; he had barely begun and had learned nothing whatever, but at least the first barrier was crossed with surprising ease. "Thank you."

"Then we shall see you at seven," she said with an inclination of her head. "McTeer will show you out, and if he can give you any directions which may be helpful, please feel free to ask. Good day, Mr. Monk."

"Good day, Mrs. Mclvor."

Monk had asked McTeer to advise him about lodgings, and the butler's grim response had stung him with its condescension. He had suggested several inns and public houses of one sort or another, all in the old part of the city. When Monk had asked if there was nothing closer to Ainslie Place, he had been informed, with raised eyebrows, that Ainslie Place was not the area where such establishments were to be found.

So at ten o'clock Monk was in a street with high tenements on either side, and known as the Grassmarket, his case in his hand, his temper still seething. He had a sharp sense of being in a foreign city. The sounds and smells were different from those in London. The air was colder and had not the grit and odor of chimneys in it, although the buildings were stained enough and the eaves dripping grimy water. The cobbles of the street were like those of London, but the narrow footpaths at the sides were barely above the level of the thoroughfare, the gutters shallow. But then the street itself was at such a pitch its surface drained down the hill anyway.

He walked slowly, staring around him, interested in spite of himself. The buildings were largely of stone, which gave them a dignity and permanence, and nearly all were four, five or six stories high, ending in a jumbled mass of steeply inclined roofs, dormers and fine crowstepped gables, like numerous flights of stairs amid the slates. On one gable he saw an iron cross, and then craning upwards to see the better, he noticed another, and another. It was certainly not a church, nor did it seem to have been a religious establishment of any sort.

Someone bumped into him sharply and he realized with a jolt that he had not stood still while gazing upwards, and was thus causing something of a hazard.

"Sorry," he apologized peremptorily.

"Aye, well watch where ye're goin' an' stop gaupin', afore ye knock some poor soul into the gutter," came the reply, in a voice so strongly accented it barely sounded like English, and yet so distinct was the diction it was understandable without effort. "Are ye lost?" The man hesitated, detecting a stranger and forgiving error because of it. Strangers were half-witted anyway, and one should not expect normal behavior from them. "Ye're in Templelands, in the Grassmarket."

"Templelands?" Monk said quickly.

"Aye. Where are you making for, do you know?" He was now disposed to be helpful, as good men are towards those they sense cannot care for themselves.

Monk was obliged to smile to himself. "I've been looking for lodgings."

"Oh, aye? Well ye'U find a good, clean room at William Forster's, down there at number twenty, and there's McEwan the baker's, next door. Innkeeper and stabler, Willie is. Ye'll see it written up on the wall. Can't miss that, if ye've eyes in yer head."

"Thank you. I'm obliged."

"Ye're welcome." He made as if to move on.

"Why Templelands?" Monk asked quickly. "What temple was there here?"

The man's face registered amusement and mild contempt. "No temple at all. The land used to belong to the Knights Templar, long ago. You know, Crusades, and the like?"

"Oh." Monk was surprised. He had not thought of Edinburgh as being of such age, or of the Templars so far north. Dim memories of history came back to him, names like Mary Queen of Scots, and the Auld Alliance with France, and the Stuart kings, battles on the moors above Culloden, Bannockburn, massacres in the snowbound steeps of Glencoe, secret murders like the death of Duncan, or of Rizzio, or perhaps Darnley right here in Edinburgh. It was in a mist of stories and impressions he could only dimly recall, but it was part of his northern heritage, and it made these streets with their towering houses more familiar. "Thank you," he added, but the man was already moving away, his duty discharged.

Monk crossed over the street and walked on until he saw WM. FORSTER, STABLER & INNKEEPER written right across the front of a large building, between the second and third stories, and the name of McEwan's Bakery at one end. It was a four-story building; the first two were of cut stone blocks, and the windows were large, indicating generous rooms. Several of the high chimney pots at the spine of the roof were smoking, a hopeful sign. Since he had no horse, he did not bother going through the archway into the yard, but knocked hastily on the front door.

It was opened almost immediately by a large woman, busy drying her hands on her apron. "Aye?"

"I'm looking for lodgings," Monk replied. "Possibly for a week or two. Have you a room?"

She glanced at him rapidly, summing him up, as was her trade.

"Aye, I have." Evidently she approved of him. If he had more clothes in his case of the same quality as those he was wearing, they alone would pay his rent for a month or more. "Come in and I'll show ye." She backed away to allow him in, and he followed gratefully.

Inside was narrow and dimly lit, but it smelled clean and the air was warm and dry. Someone was singing in the bowels of the kitchen, loudly, and every so often a little sharp, but it was a cheerful sound, and he felt it welcoming. She led him up three flights of stairs, puffing and blowing noisily and stopping on each landing to regain her breath.

"There," she said between gasps when they reached the top floor and she threw open the door to the room he was to occupy. It was clean and airy and looked out over the Grassmarket and the roofs opposite.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "This will do very well."

"Ye up from England?" she asked conversationally.

She made it sound like a foreign land, but then strictly speaking it was.

"Yes." It was an opportunity he should not waste. There was certainly no time to spare. "Yes, I'm a legal consultant." That was something of a euphemism, but advisable, and better than suggesting he was from the police. "Preparing for a trial concerning the death of Mrs. Farraline, up at Ainslie Place."

"She dead?" the woman said with surprise. "How'd that happen? Still, she was getting on, so little wonder. Contesting the will, are they?"

There was interest in her face, and her assumption certainly caught Monk's attention.

"Well, it really isn't something I should discuss, Mrs. Forster..." He took a chance, and it was not contradicted. "But I daresay you won't need me to tell you everything anyway?"

Her smile broadened knowingly. "Money ain't always a blessing, Mr...?"

"Monk, William Monk," he supplied. "Lot of money, is there?"

"Well, ye'd know that, wouldn't ye?" Her eyes were bright brown and full of amusement.

"Not yet," he prevaricated. "But I have my guesses- naturally."

"Bound to be." She nodded. "All that big printing works, been there ever since the twenties, getting bigger all the time, and that fine house up the new town. Oh yes, there's a lot of money there, Mr. Monk. Well worth fighting over, I should think. And the old lady still owned a fair piece of it, or so I heard, in spite of Colonel Farraline being dead these eight or ten years."

Monk thought rapidly and took a gamble.

"Mrs. Farraline was murdered, you know? That is the case I am concerned with."

Her face was aghast.

"Ye don't say so! Murdered? Well I never! The poor old soul. Now who in the good God's name would have done a thing like that?"

"Well, there is suspicion it was the nurse who accompanied her on the train down to London..." He hated saying it, even in so slight a way and without naming Hester. It was almost like an admission that the idea was possible.

"Oh. What a wicked thing to do! Whatever for?"

"A brooch," he said between his teeth. "Which she gave back, and before anyone missed it. Found it in her own baggage, by accident, or so she said."

"Oh yes?" Mrs. Forster's eyebrows rose with delicate skepticism. "And what would a woman like that be doing with the sort of brooch Mrs. Farraline would wear? We all know what nurses are like. Drunken, dirty and no better than they should be, most of them. What a terrible thing. The poor soul."

Monk felt his face burning and his jaw tightened as if he would grind the words between his teeth.

"She was one of the young ladies who went out to nurse our soldiers in the Crimea-served with Miss Nightingale." His voice was rasping and without any of the control he had sworn he would keep.

Mrs. Forster looked nonplussed. She stared at Monk, reading his face to see if he had really meant what he had said. It took her only a glance to assure herself that he did.

"Well I never," she said again. She took a deep breath, her eyes wide and troubled. "Perhaps it was not her after all. Had ye thought o' that?"

"Yes," he said with a grim smile. "I had."

She said nothing, but stared at him, waiting.

"In which case it was somebody else," he said, completing the thought for her. "And it would be most interesting to find out who."

"Aye, that it would," she agreed, and shrugged her ample shoulders. "And I'll not be envying you the task o' that. They're a powerful family, the Farralines. He's the Fiscal, you know?"

"What about the others?" It was easy and natural to ask, and her opinion might yield something.

"Oh, well I don't know anything beyond what's said, mind. But Mclvor runs the printing business now, he's Miss Oonagh's husband, but he's no a Scot, he's from down south in England somewhere. No but he's a good enough sort of man, they say. Nothing really against him."

"Except that he's English?"

"Aye. And I suppose he canna help that. And then there's Mr. Fyffe. He comes frae Stirling, I've heard. Or maybe it's Dundee, but somewhere a wee bit north o' here. Clever man, word has it, gae clever."

"But not liked overmuch." Monk said what she did not.

"Oh well..." She was loath to put it into words, but the agreement was there in her face.

"He'd be Miss Eilish's husband," he prompted.

"Aye, he would. Now there's a great beauty, so they say. Not that I've ever seen her myself, y'understand? But they say she's the loveliest thing ever to set foot in Edinburgh."

"What else?'

"What?"

"What else do they say about her?"

"Why nothing. Isn't that enough?"

He smiled, in spite of himself. He imagined what Hester would have said to a description like that.

"What is she like, her ambitions, her ideas?"

"Oh, for certain I never heard that."

"And Mrs. Farraline herself?"

"A fine lady, so they say. Always was, for years back. Colonel Farraline was a gentleman, generous with his money, and she followed on the same. Always givin' to the city. Poor Major Farraline, that's the younger brother, now he's a different kettle of fish. Drinks like a sot, he does. Hardly ever sober. Shame that, when a gentleman with all his opportunities goes to the bottle."

"Yes it is a shame. Do you know why? Was there some tragedy?"

She pursed her lips.

"Not that I ever heard. But what would I know? Just a weak man, I suppose. World's full o' them. Looks for the answer to all o' life's problems in the bottom of a bottle. You'd think after a score or so they'd realize it wasn't there-but not them."

"What about the last son, Kenneth?" Monk asked, since she seemed to have exhausted the subject of Hector.

She shrugged again. "Just a young gentleman with more time and money than sense. He'll grow out of it by and by, I expect. Pity his mother isn't here any longer to see he does, but I daresay the Fiscal will. Wouldn't want him doing something stupid and spoiling the family name. Or making a foolish marriage. He wouldn't be the first young dandy to do that."

"Does he not work at the family business?" Monk asked.

"Oh aye, so I've heard. Don't know what he does, but no doubt it would be easy enough to find out." A strange expression lightened her eyes, curiosity, disbelief and a kind of beginning of excitement. "Do you think one of them killed their own mother?" Then caution took hold again. "Never! They're very well respected people, Mr. Monk. Highly thought of. Takes a big part in city affairs, does Mr. Alastair. A lot to do with government, as well as being the Fiscal."

"Yes, I don't suppose it's likely," Monk said judiciously. "But it could have been a maid. It's possible, and I've got to look at everything."

" 'Course you have," she agreed, straightening her apron and making to move. "Well, I'd best be leaving you to get on about it then." She went to the door and turned back. "And ye'U be here for a week or two, right enough?"

"I will," he agreed with a shadow of a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Forster."

As soon as he had unpacked the few clothes he had brought with him, he wrote a short note to Rathbone, giving his new address at 20, Grassmarket, Edinburgh, and after a brief luncheon at the inn, went to post his letter and then made his way back up towards the new town and Ainslie Place. The local public house would be a good spot at which to make inquiries about the family. In all possibility the footman or grooms would drink there. He would have to be extremely discreet, but he was used to that, it was his trade.

However, it was too early in the day now, and by dinnertime he would be at the Farraline house. He would fill in the afternoon by learning exactly which of the local tradesmen dealt with number seventeen, then tomorrow and the next day he could track down delivery boys, who in turn might know maids and bootboys, and discover more about the daily lives of the Farralines.

And of course there would be the routine tasks of questioning Mary Farraline's physician who had prescribed the medicine, finding the exact dosage normally given; and then the apothecary who had made up the prescription, and pressing him in the possibility of an error, which naturally he would deny.

And then he would have to search for all the other apothecaries in Edinburgh to prove Hester had not purchased digitalis from them, and there was always the remote hope they could identify one of the Farraline family as having done so.

Monk arrived back at Ainslie Place, faultlessly elegant, at seven o'clock, as he had been directed. He was admitted by McTeer, as lugubrious as before, but this time unques-tioningly polite, and shown into the withdrawing room, where the family was awaiting the announcement of dinner.

The room was large and very formal, but he had no time to spare for looking at it. His entire attention was immediately absorbed by the people who, as one, were staring at him as he was shown in. A lesser man would have found it unnerving. Monk was too worried and inwardly angry to have any such misgivings. He faced them with head high and eyes unwavering.

Oonagh was the first to come forward. She was dressed in black, of course, as they all were. One mourned at least a full year for a relative as close as a mother. But her gown was beautifully cut, quite moderate in fashion, the hoops of her skirt not extreme, and the lamplight shone on the rich, pale gleam of her hair, making one think she might well have chosen the color, or lack of it, for effect as well as duty.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said graciously. She did not smile, yet there was a warmth in her eyes and her voice which made him feel more welcome than he could have expected in the circumstances.

"Good evening, Mrs. Mclvor," he replied. "It is most gracious of you to be so courteous to me. You have turned a chore into an experience I shall not forget."

She received the compliment as it was intended, a little more than a mere politeness; and then she turned to indicate the man who stood almost to the mantelshelf, in the warmest and most comfortable place in the room. He was slightly above average height, slenderly built but beginning to put on weight around the waist. His hair was as fair as hers, but thickly waved, and already sparse at the front. His features were aquiline and distinguished, perhaps not ordinarily handsome, but certainly imposing.

'This is my elder brother, Alastair Farraline, the Procurator Fiscal," she said, introducing them. Then, turning to Alastair, she added, "As I told you earlier, Mr. Monk has come up from London to make quite certain that the trial produces no unpleasant surprises through our having taken too much for granted."

Alastair surveyed Monk with cool, very blue eyes. His expression did not change except for the slightest tightening of the curves of his lips.

"How do you do, Mr. Monk," he replied. "Welcome to Edinburgh. I cannot see the necessity of your journey, myself. It seems overcautious to me. But I am glad that the prosecution in London regards the matter as of sufficient importance to dispatch someone up here to make certain of things. I have no idea what they are afraid of. There can be no defense."

Monk bit back the response that rose in him. He must never, for an instant, forget why he was here. Only the truth was important, whatever it cost to find it. "I can think of none," he agreed, his voice unexpectedly harsh. "I imagine they may well be desperate when they anticipate the prospect of facing a jury."

Alastair smiled bleakly. A flicker in his face betrayed that he had heard the edge to Monk's tone and taken it for horror at the crime. It must never occur to him that Monk's outrage was not against Hester, but on her behalf.

"I imagine it will be a formality," he said grimly. "Enough to satisfy the law that she has been represented."

Oonagh turned to a dark-haired man standing some distance back from the rest of them. His features were quite different in character, the very shape of his head broader and less angular. He could have been a member of the family only by marriage. His expression was brooding, his face full of unexpressed emotion.

"My husband, Baird Mclvor," Oonagh said with a charming smile, though still looking at Monk. "He manages the family company, since my father's death. Perhaps you already knew that?" It was only a rhetorical question, to remind them all of Monk's purpose.

"How do you do, Mr. Mclvor," Monk responded.

"How do you do," Baird replied. His voice was precise, a little sibilant, his diction perfect, but Monk instantly caught a shadow of regional flavor, and in a moment realized it was Yorkshire. So Baird Mclvor was not only an Englishman, but from that wild and proudest of counties, almost a small country to itself. Hester had not mentioned that. Perhaps her ear had not placed the intonation. Like most women, she was more interested in relationships.

Next Oonagh turned to a man of barely average height and long face like her own, but even fairer hair which surrounded his head in an aureole of close curls. Superficially he resembled the Farralines, but the differences were easy to see, the less generous mouth with carefully chiseled lips, and the ruler-straight nose. And there was something different in his manner as well, a confidence born of intellect, not status or power. Curious how such fractional things, the angle of a head, a furrow between the brows, a hesitation, a measuring as if of a potential threat, could give away a man's origins even before he spoke.

"This is my brother-in-law, Quinlan Fyffe," Oonagh said, looking first to him and then back at Monk. "He is a master at printing, fortunately for us, and brilliant at business of every sort." She did not use the slight condescension an English gentlewoman would have towards trade; she spoke of it with admiration. But then the Farralines were not gentry-they had made their own wealth, and presumably were proud of their skills. Her father had begun the company, not merely as owner but as proprietor. She would have no false vanity about idleness and the superiority of those who could afford to spend their lives in leisure.

"How do you do, Mr. Fyffe," Monk acknowledged.

"And Quinlan's wife, my sister Eilish," Oonagh continued, smiling at the younger woman with gentleness, and then glancing back at Quinlan and touching his arm. It was an odd, familiar gesture, as if she were in some way again giving her sister to him, or perhaps reminding him of the event.

After what Mrs. Forster had said, Monk regarded Eilish with interest, and was prepared to be disappointed, even condescending. One glance at her swept away all such indifference. Her beauty was not merely a matter of flawless features, it had a radiance, almost a luminescence, that touched the imagination, and a grace that stirred all manner of half-forgotten dreams. Looking at her, Monk was not sure if he even liked it; it was disturbing, self-sufficient, lacking in the vulnerability which usually appealed to him in feminine beauty. He liked a certain imperfection-it made a woman seem fragile, attainable. But he could not possibly dismiss her either. When one had seen Eilish Farraline, one could not forget her.

She looked at him with very little curiosity, as if her attention were not fully engaged. It occurred to him that perhaps she was too absorbed in herself to occupy her thoughts with anyone else.

The moment the introductions had been effected they were interrupted by the entrance of the nominal mistress of the house. Deirdra Farraline was small and dark with a vitality powerful enough to make her rather scruffy black gown seem irrelevant and her lack of jewelry an oversight of no importance. She had none of the extraordinary beauty of her sister-in-law, but hers was a face that pleased Monk the moment he saw her. There was warmth in her, and humor, and he felt he might discover yet more admirable qualities in her, upon acquaintance.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said as soon as she had been introduced. "I hope we shall be of assistance to you." She smiled at him, but looked beyond him almost immediately, something else upon her mind. "Has anyone seen Kenneth? It really is too bad of him!"

"Don't wait," Alastair said tartly. "He can catch up with us when he arrives, or go without. His behavior these days is totally thoughtless. I shall have to speak to him." His face tightened. "One would have thought in the circumstances he would have shown a little family loyalty. It is more than time we found out who this woman is he is pursuing, and if she is suitable."

"Don't worry about it now, my dear," Oonagh said quietly. "You have more than enough to attend to. I'll speak with Kenneth. I daresay he did not like to bring her here just at the moment."

He looked at her with a flash of relief, then smiled. It altered his whole face. With a little imagination Monk could visualize the youth he had been and see something of the closeness between brother and sister. He glanced at Oonagh, and wondered if in fact she were the older, in spite of appearance to the contrary.

"Very well," Deirdra said hastily. "McTeer informs me dinner is served. Let us go through to the dining room. Mr. Monk?'

"Thank you," he accepted, pleased that it was she who had asked him.

The meal was good, but not lavish, and Alastair presided at the head of a long, oak refectory table with gravity, as suited the occasion, but perfectly adequate courtesy. Kenneth did not appear, and Monk saw no sign of Hector Farraline, whom Hester had described. Parhaps he was too inebriated to attend.

"Maybe I missed the explanation," Quinlan began as the soup was cleared away and the beef served. "But what is it you have come to Edinburgh to accomplish, Mr. Monk? We know nothing of that wretched woman, beyond what she told us herself, which presumably is lies anyway."

A shudder of anger crossed Oonagh's face, but she controlled it almost immediately.

"You have no cause to say that, Quin," she reproved. "Do you really suppose I would have sent Mother with someone who had no proof of her identity or her qualifications?"

Pure malice gleamed for an instant in Quinlan's face, then he hid it beneath respect "I am quite sure, my dear Oonagh, that you would not knowingly have sent her anywhere at all with a murderess, but it seems indisputable that you did so unknowingly."

"Oh that's beastly!" Eilish burst out, glaring at him.

He turned towards her, smiling, completely unperturbed by her anger or her disgust. Monk wondered if he was used to it, or if he was truly indifferent. Did he take some perverse pleasure in shocking her? Perhaps it was the sharpest reaction she was capable of feeling, and to arouse that was better man mere apathy. Still, the nature of their relationship was probably irrelevant to Mary Farraline's murder, and that was what mattered. All else was peripheral.

"My dear Eilish," Quinlan said with mock concern. "It is undoubtedly tragic, but it is also unarguably true. Isn't that why Mr. Monk is here? Mary was robust enough; she could have lasted for years. She was certainly not absentminded or clumsy, and anyone less suicidal I have never met."

"You are unnecessarily indelicate," Alastair said with a frown. "Please remember you are in the presence not only of ladies, but ladies newly bereaved."

Quinlan's fair eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his brow.

"And what would be the delicate way of putting it?" he inquired.

Baird Mclvor glowered at him.

"The delicate way would have been to hold your tongue altogether, but since nobody thought to tell you so, it would be too much to expect of you."

"Really-" Deirdra began, and was cut off by Oonagh's decisive interruption.

"If we must quarrel over the dinner table"-she waved a slender hand-"let it at least be over something that matters. Miss Latterly brought excellent references with her, and I have no doubt whatever that she was in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale and that as a nurse she was both skilled and diligent. I can only assume she succumbed to a momentary temptation, brought about by some circumstance in her own life of which we know nothing, and that when it was too late, she panicked. It may conceivably even have been remorse." She shot a quick glance at Monk, her eyes wide and bright. "Mr. Monk is here to make sure that the case against her is perfect and her defense counsel can spring no surprises upon us. I think it would be in all our best interests for us to assist him as we may."

"Of course it would," Alastair said quickly. "And we shall do so. Pray tell us what you wish from us, Mr. Monk. I have no idea."

"Perhaps we could begin with everyone giving as exact an account as they can of the day Miss Latterly was here," Monk answered. "That would at least define more closely the times at which she had opportunity to put the brooch in her bag, or to tamper with the medicine cabinet." As soon as he had said it he realized how he had betrayed himself. He felt his face burn and his stomach go cold.

There was a moment's silence around the table.

Alastair frowned, glanced at Oonagh, then at Monk.

"What makes you think she did either of those things here in this house, Mr. Monk?"

Everyone was watching him, Deirdra with curiosity, Eilish with anxiety, Quinlan with contempt, Baird with guarded interest, Oonagh with humor and something close to pity.

Monk's brain raced. How could he extricate himself from the trap he had sprung upon himself? He could think of no lie that would serve. They were waiting. He must say something!

"You think it was spontaneous?" he asked slowly, looking from one to another. "Which did she do first, steal the brooch or mix the poison?"

Deirdra winced.

Eilish let out a little grunt of distress.

Quinlan smiled at Monk. "You make my attempt of indelicacy look amateur," he said pleasantly.

Eilish put her hands up to her face.

Baird shot Quinlan a look of venom.

"I imagine Mr. Monk is doing it for a purpose, Quin, not simply out of malice," Deirdra said quietly.

"Quite," Monk agreed. "How do you imagine it happened?" Unconsciously he looked at Oonagh. In spite of the fact that Alastair was the head of the family, and Deirdra the mistress of the house, he felt Oonagh was the strongest, that it was she who had taken what he imagined had been Mary's place.

"I-I admit, I had not thought of it at all," she said hesitantly. "It is not something I had-wished to think of."

"Mr. Monk, is this really necessary?" Alastair's nose wrinkled in distaste for the crudity of it. "If it is, perhaps we could discuss it in my study afterwards, away from the ladies?'

Monk had no gentlemanly delusions about the emotional strength of women. In a flash of memory astoundingly vivid he recalled women he had known in the past whose courage and endurance had held families together through illness, poverty, bereavement, social disgrace and financial ruin, and who were perfectly capable of keeping a stiff lip and steady eye in the face of all human weakness and extremity. When it came to raw nature, they were much less shockable than men.

"I would prefer to discuss it with the ladies present," he said aloud, smiling around his teeth at Alastair. "It has been my experience that they are far more observant of people, especially other women, and their memories are usually excellent. I would be very surprised if they do not remember a great deal more of Miss Latterly than you do, for example."

Alastair looked at him thoughtfully.

"I daresay you are right," he conceded after several seconds. "Very well. But not this evening. I have some papers I have to read tonight. Perhaps you would care to come for luncheon on Sunday, after kirk? That would give you an opportunity to conduct whatever other inquiries you have to make in the area. I assume you will wish to see the house. And the servants, of course."

"Thank you. That is most thoughtful of you," Monk accepted. "With your permission I shall do both, perhaps tomorrow. I should also like to speak with the family physician. And I should be delighted to dine with you on Sunday. What time would be suitable?"

"A quarter to one," Alastair replied. "Now, to speak of something pleasanter. Have you been to Edinburgh before, Mr. Monk?"

Monk returned to the Grassmarket deep in thought, trying to see in the people in Ainslie Place the emotions Hester had outlined so briefly, and to build on them something darker than the very natural, prosperous trading family that they appeared. Certainly Quinlan and Baird Mclvor did not like each other. It might have had some ugly cause, but it might equally easily be simply a natural antipathy of two men who had all the wrong things in common- arrogance, hasty temper and ambition-and none of the right ones-such as background, humor or tolerance.

But he was extremely tired after a poor night on the train and the shattering news of the previous day. Speculation now was pointless. He could observe them all on Sunday, time enough then to form theories. Tomorrow he would begin with the family physician, whose name Alastair had given him, and the apothecaries. After that it would be a matter of other sources for general information, the nearest public house which the male servants might occasionally frequent, errand and delivery boys, street peddlers and crossing sweepers who might have an observant eye and, for a few pence, a ready tongue.

"Aye," the physician said dubiously, regarding Monk with profound suspicion. "I treated Mrs. Farraline. A fine lady she was too. But ye'll be knowing that anything that passed between us was in confidence?"

"Of course," Monk agreed, keeping his temper with difficulty. "I merely wish to know the exact dosage of the heart medicine you prescribed for her..."

"For why? What affair is it o' yours, Mr. Monk? Did ye no' say ye were to do with the prosecution o' that wretched nurse who killed her? I heard she gave her two doses, is that no' true?" He looked at Monk through narrowed eyes.

"Yes it is," Monk said very carefully, keeping his voice level. "But it needs proving beyond doubt in the court of law. All the details must be checked. Now, Dr. Crawford, will you please tell me precisely what you prescribed, was it exactly the same as usual, and who was the apothecary who made it up?"

Crawford seized a pen and paper and wrote furiously for several moments, then passed the paper across to Monk.

"There you are, young man. That is the precise prescription, which ye'll not be able to fill, because I've no signed it. And that is the name and address of the apothecary who made it up usually. I daresay they always had the same one."

"Is it unusual for a double dose of medicinal strength to be fatal?"

"Aye, there's very little in it. It must be measured exact." He held up his finger and thumb to show a hair's breadth between them. "That's why it's put in a suspension in glass vials. One vial per dose. Can't make a mistake."

Monk considered trying to elicit a little information from him about the other members of the family, and judged it would be pointless.

Crawford watched him with guarded eyes, full of both suspicion and amusement.

"Thank you," Monk said curtly, folding the slip of paper and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. "I'll call upon Mr. Landis."

"Have not known him make a mistake," Crawford said cheerfully. "And never known an apothecary who admitted to one either." He laughed with genuine amusement.

"Nor I," Monk conceded. "But someone either put two doses into one, or substituted a lethal dose for a medicinal one. He may be able to tell me something of use."

"Why wouldn't they simply have given her two of the usual doses?" Crawford said argumentatively.

"They could have." Monk smiled back. "Was she the sort of woman who would have taken two? I assume you did warn her that two would be lethal?"

The amusement vanished from Crawford's eyes.

"O' course I did!" he said. "Are you accusing me of incompetence?"

Monk looked at him with undisguised satisfaction. "I'm trying to learn if it was likely Mrs. Farraline would have taken two doses, rather than one that had been tampered with."

"Aye, well now you know! Go and see Mr. Landis. He'll no doubt tell you how it could be done. Good day to you, sir."

"Well, you could distill it." Landis screwed up his face thoughtfully. "Reduce the liquid till it was the same amount as a single dose. But you'd have to have the right equipment for that, or something that would serve. Hardly use the kitchen while the cook was busy. Be noticed. Too chancy. Not the sort of thing to have to do on the spur of the moment."

"What else?" Monk asked. "How would you do it?"

Landis looked at him sideways. "On the spur of the moment? That's hard to say. Don't think I would. I'd wait a bit until I had a better idea. Has to be instant though, doesn't it!"

"She was only there one day."

"Buy some digitalis and substitute a double-strength dose for the ordinary one. Are you sure she didn't carry digitalis with her? Woman was a nurse, wasn't she? Perhaps she had some already, against an emergency-no, that won't do. Doctor, perhaps, not a nurse. Stole it?"

"What for?"

"Ah, there you have me; unless she was waiting for a chance like this? That'd make her a cold-blooded woman all right." Landis pulled a face. "Mind, that's possible. Had a nasty poisoning with digitalis a few months ago here in Edinburgh. Man poisoned his wife. Ugly case. Terrible woman, tongue like a viper, but doesn't excuse poisoning her, of course. Would have got away with it too, if he'd just given her a little less. Not easy to trace, digitalis. Looks like ordinary heart failure, if you get the amount exactly right. The poor devil overdid it. Made them suspicious."

"I see. Thank you."

"Not been much use, have I? Sorry."

"I suppose you didn't sell any digitalis that day to a woman who could answer her description?" Monk asked, feeling suddenly a little sick. Of course Hester had not bought it, but what if someone like her had? "A little taller than average, thin, square shoulders, brown hair, intelligent face, rather strong, pronounced features, but a very good mouth."

"No," Landis said with certainty.

"You are quite sure? You could swear to it?"

"With no trouble at all. Didn't sell any that day to anyone."

"What about that week, to anyone else in the Farraline household?"

"No, not to anyone except Dr. Mangold and to old Mr. Watkins. Known them both for years. Nothing to do with the Farralines."

"Thank you," Monk said with sudden enthusiasm. "Thank you very much. Now, sir, can you tell me the names and whereabouts of all the other apothecaries within reasonable radius of Ainslie Place?"

"Of course I can," Landis agreed with a frown of puzzlement. He reached for a paper and wrote down several lines of information, then gave them to Monk, wishing him luck.

Monk thanked him profusely and strode out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

He received in essence the same answer from every other shop he tried. No one recognized his description of Hester, and none of them had sold digitalis to any member of the Farraline household, or indeed to anyone not known to them personally.

He pursued the other sources of information, the public house, the street peddlers and crossing sweepers, the errand and delivery boys and the news vendors, but all he learned was very general gossip that seemed to serve no purpose. The Farralines were extremely well thought of, and had long been generous to the city and the various worthy causes. Hamish had been ill for some time before his death eight years before, but his reputation was high without being unnatural. Hector was spoken of with tolerance and a pity for Mary, while respecting her that she gave him a home. Indeed, she seemed to be respected for just about everything she did, and more essentially for what she was, a lady of dignity, character and judgment.

Alastair also was held in both respect and something amounting to awe. He held high office and wielded considerable power. That he did it discreetly was to his credit. He had conducted himself with dignity during the recent case involving a Mr. John Galbraith, who had been accused of defrauding investors out of a very great deal of money, but the issue was very clouded. Those bringing the charge were of a very dubious honor. The evidence was tainted. The Fiscal had had the courage to throw the case out.

The rest was just gossip of the most ordinary sort. Quinlan Fyffe was very clever, an incomer from Stirling, or perhaps it was Dundee. Not yet a popular man. Mclvor, for all his name, was English. Pity Miss Oonagh had not seen fit to marry an Edinburgh man. Miss Deirdra was very extravagant, so it was said, always getting new dresses, but absolutely no taste at all. Miss Eilish stayed in bed till all hours of the day. She might be the most beautiful woman in Scotland; she was also the laziest.

It was all quite useless, and not even very interesting. Monk thanked the various sources and gave up.

Sunday luncheon at Ainslie Place was a less formal affair than dinner had been. Monk arrived just as the family was returning from the high kirk, all dressed in black. The women were in huge skirts like upturned bells, fur-trimmed capes hugged about them and black-ribboned bonnets narrowing vision and protecting the face from the splattering rain. The men wore tall hats and black overcoats, Alastair's with an astrakhan collar. They walked in pairs, side by side, unspeaking until they were in the hall, Monk immediately behind them. The funereal McTeer took their coats and welcomed them. He also took Alastair's hat and stick, leaving Baird, Quinlan and Kenneth to place their own in the stand or the rack appropriately.

"Good day, Mr. Monk," he said grimly, taking Monk's hat and coat. Monk had never carried a stick since the Grey case. "A verra cold day, sir, and bound to get worse. It'll be a hard winter, I'm thinking."

"Thank you," Monk acknowledged. "Good afternoon," he said, inclining his head to each member of the family. Alastair looked pinched with cold, but Deirdra's warm coloring made her vividly alive, and if she were grieving, it did not mar her vitality. Oonagh was pale, but as previously, her resolve of character more than compensated for any turmoil or misgivings within.

Eilish had obviously made the effort to get up in time to accompany the family to kirk, and nothing could dim her beauty.

The errant Kenneth was also present, an agreeable but ordinary young man with sufficient resemblance to mark him as one of the family. He seemed to be in something of a hurry, and as soon as he was relieved of his outdoor clothing, he nodded to Monk, then disappeared towards the withdrawing room.

"Do come in, Mr. Monk," Oonagh said with a curious, direct smile. "Warm yourself by the fire and perhaps take a little wine. Or maybe you would prefer whiskey?"

Monk disliked declining her invitation, but he could not afford to have his wits dulled.

"Thank you," he said. "The fire sounds excellent, and wine too, if everyone else is also partaking? It is a little early for me to enjoy whiskey." He followed where she led into the same large withdrawing room as on the first occasion. The fire was roaring in the grate with a hiss and crackle that promised heat even before he glanced at its yellow blaze. He also found himself smiling without intending to.

As each person came into the room, unconsciously he or she moved closer to the fire, the women sitting in the large chairs, the men standing. One of the footmen served goblets of mulled wine from a silver tray.

Alastair looked across the top of his at Monk.

"Are you having any success with your inquiries, Mr. Monk?" he asked with a frown. "Although I don't know what it is you think you can discover. Surely the police will do all that is necessary?"

"Pitfalls, Mr. Farraline," Monk replied easily. "We don't want the case dismissed because we have been overconfident and careless."

"No-no indeed. That would be disastrous. Well, please make any inquiries you wish of the servants." He glanced at Oonagh.

"I have already instructed them," she said gently, turning from Alastair to Monk. "They are to answer you fully and frankly." She bit her lip as if considering an apology of some sort, but then deciding against it "You will have to excuse a little nervousness on their part." She regarded him gravely, searching his face for understanding, her eyes widening a fraction when she perceived it "They are all anxious to excuse themselves from carelessness. Naturally each of them feels that in some way they should have been able to prevent what happened."

"That's absurd," Baird said abruptly. "If anyone is to blame, we are. We hired Miss Latterly. We spoke to her and we thought she was an excellent person. It wasn't up to the servants to argue with us." He looked acutely unhappy.

"We have already had this conversation," Alastair said with irritation. "No one could have known."

"Oh yes." Quinlan shot a look at Monk. "You asked us what we thought had happened. I don't recall that anyone ever answered you, did they?"

"Not yet," Monk conceded, his eyes wide. "Perhaps you would begin, Mr. Fyffe?"

"I? Well, let me see." Quinlan sipped his wine, his eyes thoughtful, but if there was distress in him, it was well masked. "The wretched woman would not have killed poor Mother-in-law unless she had already seen the brooch, so that must have happened fairly early on..."

Deirdra winced and Eilish set down her glass, untasted.

"I don't know what you hope to gain with this," Kenneth said angrily. "It is an appalling conversation!"

"Appalling or not, we have to know what happened," Quinlan said viciously. "There's no point pretending it will go away decently just because we don't like it."

"For God's sake, we do know what happened!" Kenneth's voice rose also. "The damned nurse murdered Mother! What else do we have to know-isn't that enough? Do you want every jot and tittle of the details? I certainly don't."

"The law will want it," Alastair said icily. "They won't hang the woman without absolute proof. Nor should they. We must be sure, beyond any doubt at all."

"Who doubts it?" Kenneth demanded. "I don't."

"Do you know something that the rest of us do not?" Monk asked, his voice polite, his eyes glittering.

Kenneth stared at him, frustration, self-justification and resentment flaring in his face.

"Well, do you?" Alastair demanded.

"Of course he doesn't, my dear," Oonagh said soothingly. "He just hates thinking of the details."

"Does he imagine the rest of us enjoy it?" Alastair's voice rose suddenly and for the first time his composure seemed in danger of slipping. "For God's sake, Kenneth, either say something useful or hold your tongue."

Oonagh moved a little closer to him and put her hand lightly on his arm.

"Actually, Quin has made a point," Deirdra said with her face screwed up in concentration. She did not appear to have noticed Alastair's distress. "Miss Latterly must have seen the brooch before she decided to give Mother-in-law a double dose of medicine..." She avoided using the word poison. "And since Mother-in-law was not wearing it, then either she saw it in her case, which does not make a lot of sense-"

"Why not?" Alastair said tersely.

There was no anger in Deirdra's face, only deep thought. "How could she? Did she look all through Mother's case at some time when she was supposed to be resting? And then mix the medicine at the same time?"

"I don't know why you say that." Alastair looked at her irritably, but already there was a quickening in his expression belying his words.

All heads turned from Alastair to Deirdra.

"Well, she couldn't mix it in front of her," Deirdra said quickly. "And she couldn't give her two doses. Mother would not have taken them."

Monk smiled with the first real satisfaction he had felt since Rathbone had broken the news.

"You have an excellent point, Mrs. Farraline. Your mother-in-law would not have taken the double dose."

"But she did," Alastair said with a frown. "The police informed us of that, the day before you arrived. That is precisely what happened."

Oonagh looked very pale, a flicker of tension between her brows. She turned from Alastair to Monk without speaking, waiting for him to explain.

Monk chose his words with intense care. Could this be the key to it all? He refused to hope, but still he found his body rigid, muscles aching.

"Was Mrs. Farraline sufficiently forgetful that she might either have accepted two doses of her medicine or have taken one herself and then allowed Miss Latterly to have given her another?" He remembered Crawford's dismissal of such an idea and he knew what the answer would be.

Oonagh opened her mouth, but in the minute's hesitation before she spoke, Eilish interrupted.

"No, certainly not. I don't know what the answer is, but it is not that."

Baird was very pale. He looked at Eilish with something so fierce in his eyes it seemed to be agony, even though it was apparently Monk to whom he was speaking.

"Then the answer must be that Miss Latterly saw the brooch in the house, before it was packed, and decided then on her plan. She must have doubled the dose before she left."

"How?" Deirdra asked.

"I don't know." He was not disconcerted. "She was a nurse, after all. Presumably she knew how to make some medicines as well as give them. Any fool can pass out a vial or present it to someone."

"Make it out of what?" Monk asked with assumed innocence. "The ingredients would hardly be lying about the house."

"Of course not," Deirdra agreed, looking from one to another of them, her face puckered. "It doesn't make sense, does it. I mean, it doesn't sound remotely likely. She was only here for one day... less than that. Did she go out, does anyone know? Mr. Monk?"

"I assume you have questioned the local apothecaries?" Quinlan asked.

"Yes, and none has sold digitalis that day to any woman answering Miss Latterly's description," Monk replied. "Or indeed to anyone else not already known to him personally."

"How confusing," Quinlan said without any apparent un-happiness.

Monk felt himself beginning to hope. He had the essence of doubt already.

"I think you are missing the point," Oonagh said very gently. "The brooch will have been packed in Mother's traveling jewel case, which was in the carriage with them. And of course Mother had the key. Miss Latterly saw it when she was preparing the medicine, or perhaps she looked through it out of curiosity when Mother may have alighted at the station to use the convenience. There would be plenty of opportunities during a long evening."

"But the digitalis," Baird argued. "Where did she get that? She didn't find that in a railway station."

"Presumably she carried it with her," Oonagh replied with a tiny smile. "She was a nurse. We have no idea what she had in her case."

"On the chance of having someone to poison?" Monk said incredulously.

Oonagh looked at him with amusement and something like patience.

"Possibly, Mr. Monk. It does seem the most likely explanation. You yourself have pointed out that the other ways and means that we assumed were, after all, not possible. What else is left?"

Monk felt as if the fire had died. The light and the warmth faded all around him. It had been stupid to hope for anything so easy, and yet in spite of all intelligence, he had hoped. He realized it now with anger and self-criticism.

"Of course-" Alastair began, but was interrupted by a large man with fading red-gold hair and blurry eyes walking uncertainly in, leaving the doors gaping behind him. He looked at the walls, his gaze finishing on Monk with a lift of curiosity.

There was a moment's total silence.

Alastair let his breath out in a sigh.

Monk caught a glimpse of Oonagh's face, her expression fierce and unreadable for an instant before she stepped forward and took the man by the arm.

"Uncle Hector-" Her voice caught in her throat, then was smooth again. 'This is Mr. Monk, who has come up from London in order to help us in the matter of Mother's death."

Hector swallowed hard, as if there were something tight around his neck and he could not free himself from it. The distress in his face was so naked it would have been embarrassing had he not been oblivious of anyone watching him.

"Help?" he said incredulously. He looked at Monk with disgust "What are you, an undertaker?" He scowled at Alastair. "Since when did we have the undertaker to dinner?"

"Oh God!" Alastair said desperately.

Kenneth turned away, his face white.

Deirdra looked helplessly to one, then another.

"He's not the undertaker," Quinlan began.

"Griselda took care of all that, Uncle Hector," Oonagh said gently, passing him her glass of wine. "In London. I did tell you, don't you remember?"

He took the glass and drank it all in one long gulp, then looked at her with slight difficulty in focusing.

"Did you?" He hiccupped loudly and waved his hand in embarrassment. "I don't think I..."

"Come on, dear, I'll have your dinner sent up. I don't think you are well enough to enjoy it down here."

Hector turned to Monk again.

"Then what the hell are you?"

Monk had an uncharacteristic moment of tact.

"I have to do with the law, Mr. Farraline. There are details to be dealt with."

"Oh-" He seemed satisfied.

Oonagh half turned and shot Monk a look of gratitude, then gently steered Hector towards the door and out.

By the time she came back they were in the dining room and seated at the table. The meal was served, and while they were eating, Monk had the opportunity to observe them individually, conversation requiring no effort on his part.

He turned over in his mind what the errand boy had said. He looked discreetly at Deirdra Farraline. Her face still pleased him. It was thoroughly feminine, soft curves to the cheek and jaw, neat nose, good brow, and yet it was full of determination; there was nothing weak or apathetic about her. He was stupidly disappointed that she was apparently dedicated to spending her time in society and using extravagant amounts of money to impress others.

Of course she was dressed entirely in black now, as mourning required, and it became her, but looking at it with a critical eye, her gown was hardly high fashion. Indeed, he would have said by London standards it was really very ordinary. The gossip was right; she had no taste. It angered him to concede the point.

He turned to look at Eilish, unwilling to be caught staring at her. Her beauty irritated him enough as it was, without his being observed watching her. The last thing he wished was to pander to her vanity.

He need not have worried. She kept her head bent towards her plate, and only twice did she glance upward, and then it was to Baird.

Her gown was also black, naturally, but more becomingly cut, and certainly more up-to-the-minute in detail. In fact, it could not have been bettered by any London beauty, whatever the cost.

He turned to Oonagh. She was surveying the table, watching everyone to assure herself they had sufficient and were comfortable. He could afford only a moment to look at her, or she would see him. Her gown also was well cut, simple, and more fashionable than Deirdra's. It was not just her fire and her intelligence which made it so. Whatever Deirdra spent her money on, it was not her mourning clothes.

The meal progressed with polite conversation about nothing in particular, and when it was over Kenneth excused himself, to Alastair's annoyance and a sarcastic comment from Quinlan, and the rest of the company retired to the withdrawing room to take up occupations suitable to the Sabbath. Alastair shut himself away in his study to read, although whether it was the Scriptures or not he did not say, and the question from Quinlan went unanswered. Oonagh and Eilish took up embroidery; Deirdra said she had a duty visit to make to a neighbor who was ill, which passed without remark. Apparently she was known to the family, and Deirdra called upon her regularly. Quinlan picked up a newspaper-to one or two looks of disapproval, which he ignored-and Baud said he was going to write letters.

Monk took the opportunity to find the domestic staff and question them about the day Hester had been in the house.

It was a difficult task. Their memories were clouded and distorted by their knowledge of Mary's death and their conviction that Hester was to blame. Impressions were useless, only facts had any hope of representing truth, and even they were suspect. Hindsight blurred previous certainties and lent conviction to others which had been only thoughts at the time.

No one argued as to when she had arrived or left, or that she had taken breakfast in the kitchen, then Oonagh had taken her to meet Mary Farraline. The women had had both elevenses and luncheon together. Presumably what Hester had done between was uncertain. One maid recalled seeing her in the library; someone else thought she might have gone upstairs, but she would not swear to it. Undoubtedly she had taken a rest upstairs in the afternoon, and yes of course she could have been in Mary's dressing room and done all manner of things.

Yes, the lady's maid had shown her Mary's clothes, her cases and most particularly the medicine chest. That was her job, wasn't it? She was employed to give Mrs. Farraline her medicine. How could she do it if she were not shown where it was?

No one blamed her for that.

Didn't they indeed? Just look at the expressions on their faces, if that was what you thought. Listen to what they whispered to one another when they thought she wasn't listening.

By five o'clock, as it was getting dusk, Monk gave up. It was extremely dispiriting. There was very little that he could prove, or disprove, and in view of what Oonagh had said about the jewel case being with Mary on the train, it was hardly of any importance anyway.

He was bitterly discouraged. All he had learned in three days was nebulous, nothing was certain except that Hester had had the opportunity, the means were to hand and she had the knowledge to use them more than almost anyone else, and the motive was apparent-the pearl brooch- hardly a motive for any member of the family.

He returned to the withdrawing room angry and fighting despair.

"Did you learn anything?" Eilish asked as he came in.

He had already decided what he would say, and he composed himself with an effort.

"Only what I expected," he replied, forcing a smile that was a matter of lips bared over his teeth.

"I see."

"Well, what did you think?" Quinlan looked up from his newspaper. "You don't imagine one of us did it, do you?"

"Why not?" Baud snapped. "If I were defending Miss Latterly, that is exactly what I would think."

"Indeed?" Quinlan swung around to face him. "And why would you have murdered Mother-in-law, Baird? Did you quarrel with her? Did she know something about you that the rest of us don't? Or was it for Oonagh's inheritance? Or was Mary going to make you keep your eyes off my wife?"

Baird shot out of his chair and lunged towards Quinlan, but Oonagh was there before him, standing between them, her face white.

He stopped abruptly, almost knocking into her.

Quinlan sat perfectly still, the sneer frozen on his face, his eyes wide.

"Stop it!" Oonagh said between her teeth. "This is indecent and quite ridiculous." She took a deep, shaking breath. "Baird, please... we are all upset with what has happened. Quin is behaving very badly, but you are only making it worse." She smiled at him, staring into his angry face, and very slowly he relaxed and took a step backwards.

"I'm sorry..." he apologized, not to Quin but to his wife.

Oonagh's smile became a little more certain. "I know you were defending me, as well as yourself, but there is no need. Quin has always been jealous. It happens to men with such beautiful wives. Although, heaven knows, there is no need." She swung around to Quinlan, smiling at him also. "Eilish is yours, my dear, and has been for years. But she is part of the whole family, and everyone with eyes will admire her beauty. You shouldn't resent that. It is a compliment to you also. Eilish, dear..."

Eilish looked at her sister, her face scarlet.

"Please assure Quin of your undivided loyalty. I'm sure you do so often... but once again? For peace?"

Very slowly Eilish obeyed, turning to her husband, then back towards Baird, and forcing herself to look into her husband's face and curve her lips into a smile.

"Of course," she said softly. "I wish you wouldn't say such things, Quin. I have never done anything to give you cause, I swear."

Quinlan looked at Eilish, then at Oonagh. For a second no one moved, then slowly he relaxed and smiled as well.

"Naturally," he agreed. "Of course you haven't. You are quite right, Oonagh. A man with a wife as beautiful as mine must expect the world to look at her and envy him. Isn't that right, Baird?"

Baird said nothing. His face was unreadable.

Oonagh turned to Monk.

"Is there anything further we could do to assist you, Mr. Monk?" she asked, leaving Baird and coming towards him. "Perhaps you may think of something in a day or two... that is, if you will still be in Edinburgh?"

"Thank you," he accepted quickly. "I shall certainly remain a little longer. There are other things to look into, proof I might find that would place it beyond question."

She did not ask him what he had in mind, but walked gracefully towards the door. Accepting the gesture of parting, he followed her, bidding good-night to the others and thanking them for their hospitality.

Outside in the hall Oonagh stopped and faced him, her expression grave. Her voice when she spoke was low.

"Mr. Monk, do you intend to continue investigating this family?"

He was uncertain how to answer. He searched for fear or anger in her face, for resentment, but what he saw was that same curious interest and sense of challenge, not unlike the emotion she stirred in him.

"Because if you do," she continued, "I have something to ask of you."

He seized the chance.

"Of course," he said quickly. "What is it?"

She looked down, masking her thoughts. "If-if in your... discoveries, you learn where my sister-in-law manages to spend so much money, I would... we would all be much obliged if you would advise us... at least advise me." She looked up at him suddenly, and yet there was neither candor nor anxiety in her eyes. "I may be able to speak to her privately and forestall a great deal of unpleasantness. Could you do that? Would it be unethical?"

"Certainly I can do it, Mrs. Mclvor," he said without hesitation. It was a gauntlet thrown down, whether she cared for the answer in the slightest, and it was precisely the excuse he needed. He liked Deirdra, but he would sacrifice her in an instant if it would help him find the truth.

She smiled, humor and challenge under the cool tones of her voice and behind the composure of her features. "Thank you. Perhaps in two or three days you will return and dine with us again?"

"I shall look forward to it," he accepted, and as McTeer appeared and handed him his hat and coat, he took his leave.

It was quite by chance as he was hesitating on the footpath, deciding whether to walk the entire distance to the Grassmarket or go east and down to Princes Street to look for a hansom, that he glanced back towards the Farraline house and saw a small, neat figure in wide skirts emerge from near the side entrance and run down to the carriageway. He knew it must be Deirdra; no maid would have such a sweeping crinoline, and it was too small to be either Eilish or Oonagh.

The next moment he saw the other figure, coming across the road. As he passed underneath the gas lamp the light fell on him and Monk saw his rough clothes and dirty face. He was intent on the silhouette of Deirdra, going towards her eagerly.

Then he saw Monk. He froze, turned on the spot, hesitated a moment, then loped off up the way he had come. Monk waited nearly fifteen minutes, but he did not come back again, and at last Deirdra returned alone into the house.