The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 6
On the train northwards Monk had comforted himself with the thought that Hester had endured the Crimea, so a time in Newgate would not be beyond her experience, or even markedly worse than that with which she was already familiar. Indeed, he had thought in many ways it would even be better.

He was mistaken. She found it immeasurably worse. Certainly there were elements that brought back memory so sharply her breath caught in her throat and her eyes prickled. She was intensely cold. Her body shook with it, her extremities lost sensation, and at night she was unable to sleep except for short spells because the cold woke her.

And she was hungry. Food was regular, though it was minimal, and not pleasant. That was like the Crimea, but rather better: she had no fear of being allowed to starve. The chance of disease was present, but it was so slight she gave it no thought. The fear of injury did occur to her once or twice, not from shell or bullets, of course, simply of being beaten or knocked down by wardresses who were quite open in their loathing for her.

If she became ill, she treasured no illusions that anyone would care for her, and that thought was far more frightening than she had foreseen. To be ill alone, or with malicious eyes looking on and enjoying your distress, your weakness and indignity, was a horror that brought out the cold sweat on her skin, and her heart beat faster in near panic.

That was the greatest difference. In the Crimea she had been respected by her colleagues, adored by the soldiers to whom she had dedicated so much. Such love and purpose can be food to the hungry, warmth in the hardest winter, and anesthetic to pain. It can even blind out fear and spur on exhaustion.

Hatred and loneliness cripple everything.

And then there was time. In the Crimea she had worked almost every moment she was awake. Here there was nothing to do but sit on the cot and wait, hour after hour, from morning till night, day after day. She could do nothing herself. Everything rested with Rathbone or Monk. She was endlessly idle.

She had resolved not even to think of the future, not to project her mind forward to the trial, to picture the courtroom as she had seen it so many times before from the gallery when watching Rathbone. This time she would be in the dock, looking down on it all. Would they try her in the Old Bailey? Would it be the same courtroom she had been in before, feeling such compassion and dread for others? She rolled her fear around in her mind, although she had swom she would not, testing it, trying to guess how different the reality would be from the imagining. It was like touching a wound over and over again, to see if it really hurt as much as you had thought, if it was any better yet, or any worse.

How often had she criticized injured soldiers for doing just that? It was both stupid and destructive. And here she was doing exactly the same. It was as if one had had to look at one's own doom all the time, deluding oneself that it might change, that it might not have been as it had seemed.

And there was the other idea at the back of her mind, that if she absorbed all the pain now, in some way when it really happened she would be prepared.

Her misery was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and the door swinging open. There was no privacy here; it was both totally isolated and yet open at any time to intrusion.

The wardress she hated most stood glaring at her, her pale hair drawn back in a knot on her head so tightly it dragged the skin around her eyes. Her face was almost expressionless. Only a tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth betrayed both her contempt and the satisfaction she had in showing it.

"Stand up, Latterly," she ordered. "There's someone 'ere ter see yer." She invested the announcement with both surprise and anger. "Yer lucky. Better make the best of it. Can't be long now till yer goin' ter trial, then there won't be people comin' and goin' all hours."

"I shan't be here to care," Hester said tartly.

The wardress's thin eyebrows rose.

"Think yer goin' 'ome, do yer? That'll be the day! They'll 'ang yer, my fine lady, by yer skinny white neck, until ye're dead. No point nobody comin' te see ye then!"

Hester looked at her slowly, carefully, meeting her eyes.

"I've seen too many people hanged, and found innocent afterwards, to argue with you," she said clearly. "The difference is that that doesn't bother you. You want to see someone hanged, and the truth doesn't interest you."

A dull red color washed up the woman's face and the heavy muscles in her neck tightened. She took half a step forward.

"You watch yer mouth, Latterly, or I'll 'ave yer! You just remember who 'olds the keys 'ere-an' it ain't you. I got power-and yer'll be glad enough to 'ave me on yer side- when the end comes. I seen a lot o' people think 'emselves brave-till the night before the rope."

"After a month in your charge, the rope may not seem so bad," Hester said bitterly, but inside her stomach was knotted and her breath came unevenly. "Who is my visitor?"

She had hoped it would be Rathbone. He was her lifeline to sanity, and hope. Callandra had been twice, but somehow Hester found herself very emotional when she saw her. Perhaps it was Callandra's very obvious affection and the depth of her concern. Hester had felt uncontrollably lonely after she had gone. It had taken all the willpower she possessed not to give in to a fit of weeping. It was primarily the thought of the wardress's returning, and her contempt and satisfaction, that prevented her.

Now beyond the wardress's powerful shoulder she could see not Rathbone but her brother Charles. He looked pale and profoundly unhappy.

Suddenly memory overwhelmed her. She was almost drowned in the recollection of his face when she had arrived home from the Crimea after her parents' deaths and Charles had met her at the house to tell her the full extent of the tragedy, not only the death by suicide of their father, but the broken heart so shortly afterwards which had taken their mother also, and the financial ruin left behind. He had just the same, familiar look of embarrassment and anxiety now. He looked curiously emotionally naked, and seeing him, Hester felt like a child again.

He came in past the wardress, walking a little around her, his eyes intent on Hester.

Hester was standing, as she had been bidden. Charles's eyes glanced around the cell, taking in the details of the bare walls, the single deep window high above the level of anyone's sight, the gray sky beyond the bars. Then he looked at the cot with its built-in commode. Lastly he looked at Hester, in her plain blue-gray nursing dress. He looked at her face reluctantly, as if he could not bear to see what must be there in it.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice husky.

She had been going to tell him, unburden herself of the loneliness and the fear, but looking at his tiredness, his red-rimmed eyes, and knowing he could do nothing whatever to help, except hurt as well and feel guilty because he was powerless, she found it impossible. She did not even consider it.

"I'm perfectly well," she said in a clear, precise voice.

"No one could say it is pleasant, but I have survived a great deal worse without coming to any harm."

His whole body relaxed and some of the tension eased out of his face. He wanted to believe her and he was not going to question what she said.

"Yes-yes, of course you have," he agreed. "You are a remarkable woman."

The wardress had been waiting to give him instructions to recall her, but she felt excluded by the exchange, and she withdrew and slammed the door without speaking again.

Charles jumped at the sound, and swung around to see the blank, iron barrier, handleless on the inside.

"It's all right," Hester said quickly. "She'll be back when your time is up."

He looked at her, forcing himself to smile, but it was a sickly gesture.

"Do they feed you properly? Keep you warm enough? It feels cold here to me."

"It's not bad," she lied. "And really it isn't so important. There must be many people who never have better."

He was struggling for something to say. Polite conversation seemed so ridiculous, and yet he dreaded the realities.

Hester took the decision for him, otherwise the whole visit would have come and gone and they would never have said anything that mattered.

"Monk has gone up to Edinburgh to find out what really happened," she began.

"Monk? Oh, that policeman you were... acquainted with. Do you-" He stopped, changed his mind about what he had been going to say.

"Yes," she finished for him. "I think he has as good a chance as anyone of learning the truth. In fact, better. He won't accept lies, and he knows I did not kill her, so he will keep on asking and watching and thinking until he finds out who did." She felt better for putting it into words. It had been said to convince Charles, but it had lifted her at least as much.

"Are you sure?" he said anxiously. "You couldn't have made a mistake, could you? You were tired, unfamiliar with the patient......" He looked acutely apologetic, his face pink, his eyes desperately earnest.

She wanted to be furious with him, but her anger died in pity and long familiarity. What was the point in hurting him? He was going to suffer enough as it was.

"No," she said quickly. "There was one vial of medicine for each dose. I gave her one vial. She wasn't some vague little old lady who didn't know what she was doing, Charles. She was interesting, funny, wise, and very much aware of everything. She wouldn't have allowed me to make a mistake, even if I had been in a frame of mind to do so."

He frowned. "Then you mean someone else killed her deliberately?"

It was a very ugly thought, but inescapable.

"Yes."

"Could the apothecary have made up a wrong medicine altogether?" He struggled for a more acceptable answer.

"No-I don't think so. That was not the first one to be taken. If the whole lot had been wrong, the first one would have killed her. And who put the brooch in my bag? That certainly wasn't the apothecary."

"The lady's maid?"

"That would be impossible to do by mistake. All her jewelry was together in her own traveling case, which was put in her bag for overnight. This one piece was loose in my bag, which was nothing like hers anyway, and the two were never together until we were on board the train."

His face pinched with unhappiness. "Then I suppose someone meant to kill her.,. and to blame you." He bit his lip, his eyes narrowing and his brows drawing down. "Hester, for God's sake, why couldn't you be content to work at some more respectable occupation? You are always getting involved in crimes and disasters of one sort or another. First the Grey case, then the Moidores, and the Carlyons, and that appalling business at the hospital. What is the matter with you? Is it that man Monk who is involving you in all this?"

The suggestion caught her on the raw, mostly her pride, and the idea that somehow Monk, or her affection for him, ruled her life.

"No it is not," she said tartly. "Nursing is a vocation that is bound to be involved with death, now and again. People do die, Charles, most especially those who are ill to begin with."

He looked confused. "But if Mrs. Farraline was so ill, why did they assume she was murdered? That seems most unreasonable to me."

"She wasn't ill!" Hester said furiously. She was caught in a trap of her own making, and she knew it. "She was just elderly, and had a slight condition of the heart. She could have lived for years."

"You can't have it both ways, Hester. Either her death was normal, and to be expected, or it wasn't! Sometimes women are most illogical." He smiled very slightly. It was not unkind, not even critical, merely patient.

It was like a spark to tinder.

"Rubbish!" she shouted. "Don't you dare stand there and call me 'most women.' Anyway, most women are no more illogical than most men. We are just different, that's all. We take less account of your so-called facts and more of people's feelings. And we are more often right. And we are certainly a great deal more practical. You are all theories, half of which don't work because there was something wrong in them, or something you didn't know which makes nonsense of the rest." She stopped abruptly, out of breath and conscious of the pitch and volume of her voice, and now suddenly aware that she was quarreling with the one person in the entire building, perhaps in the whole city, who was truly on her side, and who was finding nothing but grief from the whole affair. Perhaps she should apologize, pompous and quite mistaken as he was?

He preempted her by making the matter even worse.

"So who did kill Mrs. Farraline?" he asked with devastating practicality. "And why? Was it money? She was obviously far too old for any sort of romantic involvement."

"People don't stop being in love just because they are over thirty," she snapped.

He stared at her. "I have never heard of a woman over sixty being the victim of a crime of passion," he said, his voice rising slightly with disbelief.

"I didn't say it was a crime of passion."

"You are really being very trying, my dear. Why don't you at least sit down, so we can talk a little more comfortably?" He indicated the cot, where they could sit side by side, and suited his own actions to his words. "Is there anything I may bring you to ease your situation at all? If they will allow it, I will certainly do so. I did bring some clean linen from your lodgings, but they took it from me on my way in. No doubt they will give it to you in due course."

"Yes please. You could ask Imogen to find me some toilet soap. This carbolic takes the skin off my face. It's fearful stuff."

"Of course." He winced in sympathy. "I am sure she will be pleased to. I shall bring it as soon as I am able."

"Could Imogen not bring it? I should like to see her." Even as she said it she knew it was foolish, and only inviting hurt.

A shadow crossed his eyes, and there was the faint beginning of a flush to his cheeks, as if he were aware of something wrong, but not certain what, or why.

"I am sorry, Hester, but I could not allow Imogen to come to this place. It would distress her fearfully. She would never be able to forget it, it would come back to her mind again and again. She would have nightmares. It is my duty to protect her from all that I can. I wish it could be more." He looked hurt as he said it, as if the pain were within his own mind and body.

"Yes, it is a nightmare," she said chokingly. "I dream about it too. Only when I wake up I'm not lying in my own bed in a safe home, with someone to look after me and protect me from reality. I'm still here, with the long, cold day in front of me, and another tomorrow, and the day after."

His face closed over, as if he could not bear to grasp the knowledge.

"I know that, Hester. But that is not Imogen's fault, nor mine. You chose your path. I did everything I could to dissuade you. I never ceased to try to convince you to marry, when you had offers, or could have had if you had given a little encouragement. But you would not listen. No, I'm afraid it is too late. Even if this matter is resolved as I pray it will be, and you are exonerated of all fault, you are unlikely to find any man offering you an honorable marriage, unless there is some widower who wishes for a decent woman to-"

"I don't want some widower to keep house for," she said, the tears thick in her voice. "I'd rather be paid as a housekeeper-and have my dignity, and the freedom to leave-than married as one, with the pretense that there was some kind of love in it, when he only wanted a servant he didn't have to pay and I only wanted a roof over my head and food on my plate."

Charles stood up, his face pale and tight.

"A great many marriages are merely convenient and practical to begin with. Often a mutual respect comes later. There is no loss of dignity in that." His smile brightened his eyes and touched his lips. "For a woman, and you say women are so practical, you are the most romantic and totally impractical creature I ever knew."

She stood up as well. Too full of emotion to answer.

"I shall bring you some soap next time I come. Please... please do not lose hope." He said the words awkwardly, as if they were a matter of duty rather than anything he could mean. "Mr. Rathbone is the best possible-"

She cut him off. "I know!" She could not bear the rehearsed insincerity of it. "Thank you for coming."

He made a move forward, as if to kiss her cheek, but she backed away from him sharply. He looked surprised for an instant, but accepted the rebuff with something like relief that at last he was excused and could escape, both from the encounter and from the place.

"I'll... I'll see you... soon," he replied, turning to go to the door and bang on it for the wardress to release him.

It was the following day before she had another visitor, and this time it was Oliver Rathbone. She was too miserable to feel any lift of spirits seeing him, and the perception of her mood was instant in his face. And then after formal greetings had been exchanged, with a leaden heart, she realized it was also a reflection of his own feelings.

"What's wrong?" she demanded shakily. She had not thought she was capable of any further emotion, but she was suddenly sickeningly afraid. "What's happened?"

They were standing face-to-face in the whitewashed room with its table and wooden chairs. He took hold of both her hands. It was not a calculated move, but instinctive, and its gentleness only added to her fear. Her mouth was dry and she took a breath to ask again what was wrong, but her voice would not come.

"They have ordered that you are tried in Scotland," he said very quietly. "In Edinburgh. I have no grounds on which to fight it. It appears to them that the poison was administered on Scottish soil, and since we contend it was actually prepared in the Farraline house, and had nothing to do with you, then it was beyond question a Scottish crime. I'm so sorry."

She did not understand. Why was that so crippling a blow? He looked devastated, and there seemed no reason.

He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, dark, dark brown and filled with misery.

"You will be tried under Scottish law," he explained. "I am English. I cannot represent you."

At last she understood. It hit her like a physical blow to the body. In a single move the only help she could hope for had been removed from her. She was absolutely alone. She was too stunned to speak, even to cry.

He was gripping her hand so hard the pressure of his fingers hurt. The slight pain of it was her only link with reality. It was almost a relief.

"We will find the best Scottish lawyer we can," he was saying. His voice seemed far away. "Callandra will remunerate him of course. And don't argue about that. Such things can come later. Naturally I will come up to Edinburgh and advise him in every way I know how. But he will have to speak, even if some of the words are mine."

She wanted to ask him if there was not some way in which he could still conduct the case. She had seen his skill, the power of his brain, his charm and serpentine subtlety to delude, to seem harmless, and then to strike mortally. It had been the one thread of hope she had clung to. But she knew he would not have told her had there been any chance whatever that he could still do it. He would have tried every avenue already, and failed. It was childish, and pointless, to rail against the inevitable. Best to accept it and hoard one's strength for whatever battles were still to be fought.

"I see..."

He could think of nothing to say. Wordlessly he moved a step forward and took her in his arms, holding her tightly, standing perfectly still, not even stroking her hair or touching her cheek, just holding her.

It was three more largely fruitless days before Monk returned to Ainslie Place to dine. He had spent the intervening time learning more about the reputation of the Farralines, which was interesting, but as far as clearing Hester was concerned, quite useless. They were well respected, both in business and in their private lives. No one had any criticism of them apart from the small jibes that fairly obviously sprang from envy. Apparently Hamish had founded the printing company when he retired from the army and returned to Edinburgh a short time after the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Hector had played no part in that, and still did not. He lived, as far as anyone knew, on his army pension, having remained in the service until he was well past middle age. He had visited his father's family frequently and was always made welcome, and now lived there entirely, in a luxury far beyond anything he could have afforded himself. He drank too much, a great deal too much, and so far as anyone knew, contributed nothing either to the family or the community, but apart from that he was agreeable enough, and caused no one else any trouble. If his family were prepared to put up with him, that was their affair. Every family seemed to have its black sheep, and if there were any disgrace attached to him, it was not known outside the four walls of the Farraline house.

Hamish had been an entirely different matter. He had been hardworking, inventive, daring in business and obviously extremely successful. The company made a magnificent profit, and had grown from very small beginnings into one of the finest printers in Edinburgh, if not in Scotland. It did not employ a large number of people, preferring quality to quantity, but its reputation was without stain.

Hamish himself had been a gentleman, but not in the least pompous. Maybe he had sown a few wild oats here and there, but that was usual enough. He had been discreet. He had never embarrassed his family and there was no scandal attached to his name. He had died eight years ago, after declining health for some time. Towards the end he had left the house very little. Possibly he had suffered a series of strokes; certainly his movement had been impaired. It was not an uncommon occurrence. Very sad to lose such a fine man.

Not that his son was not an excellent man also. Less able in business, and not unwilling to turn over the management of the company largely to his brother-in-law Baird Mclvor.

Mclvor was a foreigner, mind: English, but not a bad man for all that. A bit moody now and then, but veiy capable, and was honest as you like. Mr. Alastair was the Procurator Fiscal, and that could hardly leave him time for affairs of business as well. And a fine Fiscal he was, too, an ornament to the community. A trifle pompous for some tastes, but then a Fiscal should be of a serious mind. If the law was not a grave matter, what was?

Did he sow a few wild oats as well? No one had heard tell of it. He hardly seemed the type of man to do that. No scandal attached to his name at all.

Well, there was the Galbraith case, but that scandal was around Mr. Galbraith, not the Fiscal.

Monk asked about the Galbraith case, although he thought he already knew.

He was told largely what he had heard before: Galbraith had been charged with fraud; a very large sum of money was involved. Everyone felt sure there would be a conviction when the matter came to trial, then the Fiscal had declared that there was insufficient evidence to bring the case before the court, so Galbraith had escaped prison-but not disgrace, at least not in the public opinion. Hardly the Fis-cal's fault.

And Mary Farraline?

Now there was a lady indeed! Every attribute one could admire, dignity, unfailingly courteous to all, no arrogance about her, civil to everyone, rich and poor. That was the mark of quality, was it not? Always elegant, never ostentatious.

Her personal reputation?

Don't be absurd. One would not even think of such a question in regard to Mrs. Farraline. Charming, but never overfriendly with anyone at all. Devoted to her family. Well yes, she had been a fine-looking woman in her youth, and naturally there would have been admirers. She was not without humor and enjoyment of life, but that was quite a different thing from suggesting improper behavior or the breath of scandal.

Of course. And the present generation?

Well enough, but not of her quality, except perhaps Miss Oonagh. Now there was another lady. Like her mother, she was, quiet, strong, intensely loyal to family... and clever too. Some said it was as much her brains that ran the company as her husband's. That could be true. But if it was, it was no one else's affair.

Monk arrived at Ainslie Place armed with a great deal more knowledge of the family's status in society and their good reputation, but nothing that he could see in any way would gain him the least idea of who killed Mary Farraline, let alone proof of it.

He was received civilly by McTeer, who now regarded him with discreet interest, albeit still total disapproval. As on previous occasions he was shown into the withdrawing room, where most of the family was assembled. Only Alastair seemed to be missing.

Oonagh came forward to greet him, a half smile on her lips.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk." She met his eyes with a level look, far too candid and intelligent to be flattering in the usual sense, but he found the fact that she was interested enough not to be merely polite of more value than another woman's flirtation would have been. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, and finding Edinburgh a most remarkable city," he replied, meeting her look with an equal mixture of ardor in his eyes and conventions on his lips.

She turned to the others, and he followed her, exchanging polite acknowledgments, words on health and the weather and the other trivialities people use when they have nothing of importance to say.

Hector Farraline was present this evening. He looked appalling. His face was so pale the freckles across his cheeks stood out and his eyes were red-rimmed. Monk guessed he must be taking a bottle of whiskey a day to be looking so ill. At this rate it would only be a short time before he drank himself to death. He was sitting slightly splayed out on the largest sofa. He regarded Monk with puzzled interest, as if he were measuring up his role in events.

Monk saw Deirdra with the same pleasure as before. She really was a most individual woman, but not even her dearest friend could have said her gown was highly fashionable. Monk accepted that she was apparently extravagant with dress, but his own immaculate taste knew a good gown when he saw one, and hers was certainly not. The fabric was excellent and there was carefully stitched jet beadwork on the bodice, but the skirt was poorly proportioned. The lowest tier was too short, which on a small woman was all the more unfortunate. The sleeves seemed to have been lifted at the shoulder, and caused something of a pleat where there should not have been one.

But none of these things were of any importance. They showed individuality and made her seem curiously vulnerable, a quality which always appealed to him.

He accepted the wine offered, and stood a little closer to the fire.

"Have you occupied your time successfully?" Quinlan inquired, looking at him over the top of his own glass. It was impossible to tell if his question was ironic or not.

Monk could think of nothing to reply that would elicit a useful response. He was beginning to feel desperate. Time was running short and so far he had heard nothing at all of use to Hester. How much had he to lose by more dangerous tactics?

"I know a great deal more about your family," he said with a smile of amusement rather than warmth. "Some of it facts, some opinion, much of it of interest one way or another." That was a lie, but he could not afford the truth.

"About us?" Baird said quickly. "I thought you were investigating Miss Latterly?"

"I'm investigating the entire circumstance. But certainly, if you recall, I said that I knew a great deal more, not that I had pursued the knowledge as my primary goal."

"The difference seems academic." Quinlan for once sided with Baird. "And what is interesting about it? Did they tell you I married the beautiful Eilish Farraline almost out of the arms of her previous suitor? A young man of good breeding and no money, of whom her family disapproved."

Baird's face darkened, but he bit his tongue rather than respond.

Eilish looked momentarily unhappy, glanced at Baird, but he was looking away from her, then at Quinlan with dislike.

"How fortunate that they approved of you," Monk said expressionlessly. "Was that personal charm, an influential family, or merely wealth?"

Oonagh drew her breath in sharply, but there was amusement glittering in her eyes, and an appreciation of Monk which he could not fail to see was growing increasingly personal. He felt an acute satisfaction in it; in fact, were he honest he would have acknowledged it as pleasure.

"You would have to have asked Mother-in-law," Deirdra said at last. "I imagine she was the person whose approval mattered. Of course in many ways Alastair... but he would be guided in such things. I don't know why he did not care for the other young man. He seemed perfectly agreeable to me."

" 'Perfectly agreeable' is neither here nor there," Kenneth said with a touch of bitterness. "Not even money is everything, unless it is thousands. It is all respectability-isn't it, Oonagh?"

Oonagh looked at him with patience and acute perception.

"Well, it certainly isn't beauty, wit or the ability to enjoy yourself-still less to give enjoyment to others, my dear. Women like that have their place, but it is not at the altar."

"For heaven's sake, please don't tell us where it is," Quinlan said quickly, looking at Kenneth. "The answer is only too obvious."

"Well, I am still none the wiser," Baird said, staring at Quinlan. "You have no fortune, your family has never been mentioned, and personal charm is not even worth considering."

Oonagh looked at him with an unreadable expression. "We Farralines do not need money or family allegiances. We marry where we wish to. Quinlan has his qualities, and as long as they please Eilish, and we gave our approval, that is all that matters." She smiled at Eilish. "Isn't it, dear?"

Eilish hesitated; a curious play of emotions fought in her expression, then finally it softened with something like apology and she smiled back. "Yes, of course it is. I loathed you at the time for agreeing with Mother. In fact, I thought you were largely to blame. But now I can see I would never have been happy with Robert Crawford." She glanced at Baird, and away again. "He was certainly not the right person for me."

A flush of color spread up Baud's cheeks, and he looked away.

"Romantic love," Hector said, more to himself than apparently to anyone else. "What a dream... what a beautiful dream." There was reminiscence in his tone and his eyes were not focused on anything.

They all studiously ignored him.

"Does anyone know what time we may expect Alastair?" Kenneth asked, looking from Deirdra to Oonagh. "Are we going to have to wait dinner for him... again?"

"If he is late," Oonagh replied coolly, "it will be for an excellent reason, not because he is inconsiderate or has some social entertainment he prefers."

Like a small boy Kenneth pulled a face, but he said nothing. Monk formed the distinct impression he did not dare to, dearly as he would have liked.

Conversation struggled on for another ten or fifteen minutes. Monk found himself talking with Deirdra, mostly by design, not to obtain Oonagh's information but because he enjoyed her company. She was an intelligent woman, and seemed to be devoid of the sort of artifice he disliked. He watched Eilish out of the corner of his eye, but her luminous beauty did not appeal to him. He preferred character and wit. Sheer beauty lent an aura of invulnerability, and was peculiarly unattractive to him.

"Have you really found out anything about poor Mother-in-law's death, Mr. Monk?" Deirdra asked gravely. "I do hope the affair is not going to drag on and cause more and more distress?" The lift in her voice made it a question and her dark eyes were full of anxiety.

She deserved the truth-although he would not have hesitated to lie even to her, had he thought it would serve its purpose.

"I am afraid I can think of no way in which it will be resolved easily," he replied. "Criminal trials are always unpleasant. No one is going"-he forced himself to say it-"to be hanged without doing everything they know how to avoid it"

Suddenly and ridiculously he was overwhelmed with a blinding hatred for them all, standing in this warm room waiting to be called in to dinner. One of them had murdered Mary Farraline and was going to allow the law to murder Hester in his or her place. "And no doubt a good defense lawyer will try to spread blame and suspicion somewhere else," he added between his clenched teeth. "Of course it will be unpleasant. She is fighting for her life. She is a brave woman who has faced loneliness, privation and physical danger before. She won't surrender. She will have to be beaten."

Deirdra was staring at him, her face drawn, her eyes wide.

"You speak as if you knew her well," she said in little more than a whisper.

Monk checked himself instantly, like a runner tripping and regaining his balance.

"It is my business to, Mrs. Farraline. I can hardly defend the prosecution's interest if I am unfamiliar with the enemy."

"Oh... no, I suppose not. I had not thought of that." She frowned. "I had not thought very much about it at all. Alastair would have known better. I expect you have talked with him." It was an assumption rather than a question. She looked a trifle crestfallen. "You should really speak with Oonagh. She is most observant of people. She always seems to know what a person really means, rather than what they say. I have noticed it often. She is most gifted at reading character." She smiled. "It is really rather a comforting quality, to feel someone understands you so well."

"Except in Miss Latterly's case," Monk said with more sarcasm than he had meant to show.

She caught his tone and looked at him with a mixture of perception and defense.

He found himself annoyed, both for having been rude to her and for having betrayed himself.

"You must not blame her for that," she said quickly. "She was so busy caring for poor Mother-in-law. It was she whom Mother confided in. She seemed to be most concerned about Griselda." A slight frown puckered her brows. "I had not thought there was anything really wrong. She always was rather a worrier. But perhaps it was something more serious? A first confinement can be difficult. So can any, for that matter, of course. But I know Griselda wrote several times a week, until eventually even Oonagh agreed that it really was necessary that Mother should travel down to London to reassure her. Now, poor soul, she will never know what Mother would have told her."

"Can Mrs. Mclvor not write to her in such a way as to help?" he suggested.

"Oh I am sure she has done," Deirdra said with certainty. "I wish I could help myself, but I have no idea what was the subject of her anxiety. I think it was some family medical history over which Mother-in-law could have set her mind at ease."

"Then I am sure Mrs. Mclvor will have done so."

"Of course." She smiled a sudden warmth.

"Oonagh will help if anyone can. I daresay Mother confided in her anyway. She will know precisely what to say to make Griselda feel better."

Further conversation was cut off by the arrival of Alas-tair, looking tired and a trifle harassed. He spoke first to Oonagh, exchanging only a word or two, but then he acknowledged his wife and apologized to Monk for being late. The moment after, the gong sounded and they went into the dining room.

They were into the second course when the embarrassment began. Hector had been sitting in relative silence, only making the occasional monosyllabic reply, until suddenly he looked across at Alastair, frowning at him and focusing his eyes with difficulty.

"I suppose it's that case again," he said with disgust "You should leave it alone. You lost. That's the end of it."

"No, Uncle Hector," Alastair said wearily. "I was meeting with the sheriff over something quite new."

Hector grunted and looked unconvinced, but it might have been that he was too drunk to have understood.

"It was a bad case, that. You ought to have won. I'm not surprised you still think about it."

Oonagh filled her glass with wine from the decanter on the table and passed it across to Hector. He took it with a glance at her but he did not drink it straightaway.

"Alastair does not win or lose cases, Uncle Hector," she said gently. "He decides whether there is sufficient evidence to prosecute or not. If there isn't, there would be no point in bringing it to court. It would only waste public money."

"And subject the person, most probably innocent, to a harrowing ordeal and public shame," Monk added rather abruptly.

Oonagh flashed him a look of quick surprise. "Certainly, and that also."

Hector looked at Monk as if he had only just remembered his presence.

"Oh yes... you're the detective, aren't you. Come to make sure of the case against that nurse. Pity." He looked at Monk with acute disfavor. "I liked her. Nice girl. Courage. Takes a lot of courage for a woman to go out to a place like the Crimea, you know, and look after the wounded." There was distinct hostility in his face. "You'd better be sure, young man. You'd better be damned sure you've got the right person."

"I shall be," Monk said grimly. "I am more dedicated to that than you can possibly know."

Hector stared at him, then at last almost reluctantly began to drink Oonagh's wine.

"There isn't any doubt, Uncle Hector," Quinlan said irritably. "If you were a little closer to sober you'd know that."

"Would I!" Hector was annoyed. He put down the glass, very nearly spilling it. It was only saved by Eilish, on the other side, reaching forward and pulling a spoon handle out of the way. "Why would I?" Hector demanded, ignoring Eilish. "Why would I know that, Quinlan?"

"Well, apart from the fact that if it was not her then it was one of us," Quinlan said, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile, "she was the only one who had any reason. The brooch was found in her case."

"Books," Hector said with satisfaction.

"Books?" Quinlan was derisive. "What are you talking about? What books?"

A flash of temper crossed Hector's face, but he changed his mind about letting go of it. "Company books," he said with a smile. "Ledgers."

There was a moment's silence. Kenneth put down his knife and fork.

"Miss Latterly didn't know anything about our company books, Uncle Hector," Oonagh said quietly. "She only arrived in Edinburgh that morning."

"Of course she didn't," Hector agreed crossly. "But we do."

"Naturally we do," Quinlan agreed. Monk thought he only just avoided adding "you fool."

"And one of us knows whether they are right or wrong," Hector went on doggedly.

Kenneth's face was pink. "I do, Uncle Hector. It is my job to keep them. And they are right... to the farthing."

"Of course they are," Oonagh said frankly, looking first at Kenneth, then at Hector. "We all know you are distressed over Mother's death, but you are beginning to speak irresponsibly, Uncle Hector. That does not do any of us justice. It would be a good idea if you were to stop discussing that subject before you say something we shall all regret." Her eyes were very steady on his. "Mother would not have wished us to quarrel with each other, or make hurtful remarks like that."

Hector looked numbed, as if for a moment he had forgotten Mary's death, and then suddenly the whole weight of grief struck him again. The color fled from his face and he seemed about to collapse.

Eilish leaned towards him to give him physical support, which seemed necessary to keep him upright in his chair, and immediately Baird rose and came around to him, half lifting him up.

"Come on, Uncle Hector. Let me take you to your room. I think you had better lie down for a while."

A look of fury crossed over Quinlan's face as Eilish and Baird between them helped Hector to his feet and led him, shambling erratically, out of the room. They could hear their footsteps lurching across the hall, and Eilish's voice in encouragement, and then Baud's deeper tones.

"I'm so sorry," Oonagh apologized, looking at Monk. "I am afraid poor Uncle Hector is not as well as we would wish. This has all struck him very hard." She smiled gently, tacitly seeking Monk's understanding. "I am afraid he sometimes gets confused."

" 'Not as well,' " Quinlan said viciously. "He's blind drunk, the old ass!"

Alastair shot him a look of warning, but refrained from saying anything.

Deirdia rang the bell for the servants to clear away the dishes and bring the next course.

They were finished with dinner and back in the withdrawing room before Oonagh found her opportunity to speak privately with Monk. They were all in the room, but so discreetly that it seemed unnoticed by anyone else, she led him farther and farther from the others until they were standing in front of the large window, now closed against the rapidly chilling night, and out of earshot of anyone. He was suddenly aware of the perfume of her.

"How is your errand progressing, Mr. Monk?" she said softly.

"I have learned little that might not have been expected," he replied guardedly.

"About us?"

There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not a woman to whom he would lie, or wished to over this.

"Naturally."

"Have you discovered where Deirdra spends so much money, Mr. Monk?"

"Not yet."

She pulled a small, rueful face, full of apology, and something else beyond it, deep within her which he could not read.

"She manages to go through enormous amounts, quite unexplained by the running of this house, which has been largely in my mother's hands until her death, and of course mine." She frowned. "Deirdra says she spends it on clothes, but she is exceptionally extravagant, even for a woman of fashion and some social position to maintain." She took a deep breath and looked at Monk very squarely. "It is causing my brother Alastair some concern. If... if you should find out, in the course of your investigations, we would be most grateful to learn." The ghost of a smile curved her lips. "We would express that gratitude in whatever manner was appropriate. I do not wish to insult you."

"Thank you," he said frankly. He was obliged to admit, his pride could be quite easily offended. "If I should learn the answer to that, which I may do, I will inform you directly I am certain."

She smiled, in a moment's candid understanding, and a moment later fell back into ordinary, meaningless chatter.

He took his leave shortly before a quarter to eleven, and was in the hall waiting for McTeer to emerge through the green baize door when Hector Farraline came lurching down the stairs and slid the last half dozen steps to land clinging to the newel post, his face wearing an expression of intense concentration.

"Are you going to find out who killed Mary?" he said in a whisper, surprisingly quiet for one so inebriated.

"Yes," Monk replied simply. He did not think rational argument or explanation would serve any purpose, only prolong an encounter which was going to be at least trying.

"She was the best woman I ever knew." Hector blinked and his eyes filled with a terrible sadness. "You should have seen her when she was young. She was never beautiful, like Eilish, but she had the same sort of quality about her, a light inside, a sort of fire." He gazed across the hall past Monk, and for a moment his glance caught the huge portrait of his brother, which until now Monk had noticed only vaguely. The old man's Up curled and his face filled with a vortex of emotions, love, hate, envy, loathing, regret, longing for things past, even pity.

"He was a bastard, you know-at times," he said in little more than a whisper, but his voice shook with intensity. "The handsome Hamish, my elder brother, the colonel. I was only a major, you know? But I was a better soldier than he ever was! Cut a fine figure. Knew how to speak to the ladies. They adored him."

He slid down to sit on the lowest step. "But Mary was always the best. She used to walk with her back so straight, and her head so high. She had wit, Mary. Make you laugh till you wept... at the damnedest things." He looked regrettably close to weeping now, and impatient as he was, Monk felt a twinge of pity for him. He was an old man, living on the bounty of a younger generation who had nothing but contempt for him, and a sense of duty. The fact that he probably deserved nothing more would be no comfort at all.

"He was wrong," Hector said suddenly, swiveling around to look straight at the portrait again. "Very wrong. He shouldn't have done that to her, of all people."

Monk was not interested. Hamish Farraline had been dead over eight years. There could be no connection with Mary's death, and that was all that mattered now. Impatience was gnawing inside him. He moved away.

"Watch for Mclvor," Hector called after him.

Monk turned back.

"Why?"

"She liked him," Hector said simply, his eyes wide. "You could always tell when Mary liked someone."

"Indeed."

He could not be bothered to wait for McTeer. The old fool was probably asleep in his pantry. He took his own coat off the hall stand and made for the front door just as Alastair came out of the withdrawing room, apologizing for McTeer's absence.

Monk said good-night again, nodded towards Hector on the stairs, and went out of the front door. He had refused the offer of assistance to call a cab, and had set out to walk southwards when he saw an unmistakable figure pass beneath the lamplight so rapidly he almost missed her. But no one else could have quite that ethereal grace, or that flame of hair. Most of her head was covered by the hood of her cape, but as she turned towards the light her brow was pale and the copper red clear above it.

Where on earth was Eilish Fyffe going alone, and on foot, at eleven o'clock at night?

He waited until she was well past him, across the grass of the circle to the far side of Ainslie Place, where she was about to disappear either east into St. Combe Street or south into Glenfinlas Street. Then he ran quickly and soundlessly after her, arriving at the corner just in time to see her pass under the lamp at the beginning of Charlotte Square.

Had she an assignation? It seemed not only the obvious conclusion but the only one. Why else would she be out alone, and obviously wishing not to be seen?

She was moving rapidly past the square. It was only two very short blocks before it ended in a big junction with Princes Street and Lothian Road, Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street. Where on earth was she going? He had never cared much for her, but now his opinion took a rapid and decisive turn for the worse.

She crossed the junction without a glance either way, still less behind her, and continued at a fast walk along Lothian Road. To their left were the Princes Street Gardens, and looming over them, brooding and medieval, the huge mass of the mound with the castle clinging to its top.

Monk kept an even hundred yards behind her, and was almost taken by surprise when she turned left and disappeared into Kings Stables Road. He was familiar with the way. It was his own route home, were he to walk. Not long and it would lead into the Grassmarket, and then Cowgate. Surely she could not be going that way? What would these dark, crowded buildings and narrow alleys possibly hold for a lady like Eilish?

His mind was still turning over the contradictions and impossibilities of it when suddenly he was engulfed in sharp, numbing pain and a black hole opened up in front of him.

He regained his senses, still on the pavement, propped up against the wall, his head aching abominably, his body cold and his temper volcanic. Eilish was nowhere to be seen.

The following day he returned to Ainslie Place in a vicious and desperate frame of mind, and set up vigil as soon as it was dark.

However it was not Eilish he saw, but a scruffy-looking man in soiled and very worn clothes approaching number seventeen nervously, looking from right to left as if he feared observation.

Monk moved farther back into the shadows, then remained absolutely motionless.

The man passed under a streetlamp and for a moment his face was visible. It was the same man Monk had seen several days before, not with Eilish, but with Deirdra. The man fished out a watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and put it back.

Curious. He did not look like a man who would be able to read a watch, far less own one.

Several minutes passed by. The man fidgeted in acute discomfort. Monk stood without moving even the angle of his head. Along the footpath the lamps made little pools of light. Between was a no-man's-land of gathering mist and shadows. It was growing colder. Monk was beginning to feel it in his motionless state. It ate into his bones and crept up through the soles of his feet.

Then suddenly she was there. She must have come around through the areaway gate, into the street from the side-not Eilish, but the small, urgent figure of Deirdra. She did not even glance down the street or to the grass center of the Place, but went straight to the man. They stood close together for several minutes, heads bent, talking in voices so low that from where he stood Monk could not even hear a murmur.

Then suddenly Deirdra shook her head vigorously, the man touched her arm in a gentle reassuring gesture, and she turned and went back inside the house. He departed the way he had come.

Monk waited until long after midnight, growing colder and colder, but no one else came or went in the Farraline house. He could have kicked himself for not having followed the man.

Two more cold and increasingly desperate days followed in which Monk learned nothing useful, indeed nothing that common sense could not have deduced for him. He wrote at some length to Rathbone, detailing everything he had learned so far, and when he returned to his lodgings about noon on the third day there were two letters for him, one from Rathbone outlining the general provisions of Mary Farraline's will. She had left her very considerable property, both real and personal, more or less equally among the children. Alastair had already inherited the house and most of the business on the death of his father. The second letter was from Oonagh, inviting him to attend a large civic dinner that evening and apologizing for the invitation's being so extremely late.

Monk accepted. He had nothing left to lose. Time was treading hard on his heels, and fruitless nights spent watching the Farraline house had yielded nothing. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish had appeared again.

He dressed very carefully, but his mind was too absorbed in rehearsing every piece of information he had to be nervous as to his elegance or social acceptability. How could Hester have been idiotic enough to get herself into this appalling situation? The few impressions she had given him were useless. What if Deirdra and Eilish were both conducting clandestine affairs with men from the heart of the slums? What if Mary knew? It made no sense to murder her because of it. If she had not made it public already, then she was not going to. A family quarrel, no matter how fierce, was not cause for murder by anyone but a lunatic.

If Eilish had been the victim, that would be readily explainable. Either Quinlan or Baird Mclvor might have excellent cause. Or even Oonagh, if Baird was really in love with her.

But that made little sense either. It could hardly be Baird she was creeping along Kings Stables Road at night to see.

He arrived at the huge hall in which the dinner was to be held with his letter from Oonagh in his hand, ready to show to any doorman who might question his right to be there, but his assurance must have been sufficient and no one accosted him.

It was a dazzling occasion. Chandeliers blazed from every ceiling. He could imagine them being lowered and footmen with tapers spending hours lighting them before winding them back up again. Every niche in the gorgeous ceilings seemed to be ablaze. Fiddlers played a nameless accompaniment while guests milled around nodding and smiling and hoping to be recognized by all the right people. Servants mixed discreetly offering refreshments, and a resplendent liveried doorman announced the arrival of those whom Society considered important.

It was easy to see Eilish. Even in black she seemed to radiate a warmth and a light. Her hair was a more gorgeous ornament than the tiaras of duchesses, and her pale skin against the black of her gown seemed luminous.

From the gallery where Monk was standing he soon observed Alastair's pale head, and the moment after, Oonagh. Even from above, where he could see only an angle of her face, she carried with her an aura of calm and a sense of both power and intelligence.

Had Mary been like that? That was what the drink-sodden Hector had suggested. Why would anyone murder such a woman? Greed for the power she exercised, or the purse strings? Jealousy because she had the innate qualities which would always make her the natural leader? Fear, because she knew something which was intolerable to someone else, that threatened their happiness, even their continued safety?

But what? What could Mary have known? Did Oonagh know it now, albeit without being aware of its danger to her?

Mercifully Hector was absent, and so, as far as Monk could see, was Kenneth. There was nothing to be gained remaining alone. Reluctantly, more tense than he could account for, he straightened up and went down the steps into the throng.

At dinner he was seated next to a large woman in a burgundy and black dress with skirts so huge no one could get within a yard and a half of her. Not that Monk wished to. He would like to have been spared the obligation of conversation also, but that was more than he was granted.

Deirdra was sitting opposite at the farther side of the table, and several times he caught her eye and smiled. He was beginning to think it was a waste of his time, although he knew at least one reason why Oonagh had invited him. She wished to know if he had progressed in discovering where Deirdra spent her money. Did she already know, and was she only looking for him to provide proof so she could confront Deirdra, and perhaps precipitate the quarrel Mary had been killed in order to avoid?

Looking across the table at Deirdra's warm, intelligent, stubborn face, he did not believe it She might be what some people would refer to as immoral, apparently she was extravagant, but he did not believe she had murdered Mary Farraline, certainly not over something as easily curbed as extravagance.

But he had been wrong before, especially where women were concerned.

No-that was unfair. He had been wrong as to their strength, their loyalty, even their ability to feel passion or conviction-but not their criminality. Why did he doubt himself so deeply?

Because he was failing Hester. Even as he sat there eating a sumptuous meal amid the clatter of cutlery, the chink of glasses, the blaze of lights and murmur of voices, the rustle of silks and creak of stays, Hester was in Newgate Prison awaiting trial, after which, if she were found guilty, they would hang her.

He felt a failure because he was failing.

"... most becoming gown, Mrs. Farraline," someone was saying to Deirdra. "Most unusual."

"Thank you," Deirdra acknowledged, but without the pleasure Monk would have expected her to show at such a compliment.

"Charming," the large lady next to him added with a downward turn of her ungenerous mouth. "Quite charming. I am very fond of those lines, and jet beading is so elegant, I always think. I had one very like it myself, very like it indeed. Cut a little differently around the shoulder, as I recall, but the design of the stitching was just the same."

One gentleman looked at her with surprise. It was an odd thing to remark, and not altogether polite.

"Last year," the large lady added with finality.

On a wild impulse, a flicker of thought, Monk asked an inexcusable question.

"Do you still have it, ma'am?"

She gave an inexcusable answer.

"No... I disposed of it."

"How wise," Monk retorted with sudden viciousness. "That gown"-he glanced at her ample figure-"is more becoming to your... station." He had so nearly said "age"; everyone else had, in their minds, said it for him.

The woman turned puce, but said nothing. Deirdra also blushed a light shade of pink, and Monk knew in that moment, although he could not yet prove it, that whatever Deirdra spent her money on, it was not gowns, as she had claimed. She bought hers secondhand, and presumably had a discreet dressmaker alter them to fit her and change them just enough that they were no longer completely identifiable.

She stared at him across the salmon mousse and cucumber and the remains of the sorbet, her eyes pleading.

He smiled and shook his head fractionally, which was ridiculous. He had no reason to keep her secret.

When he encountered Oonagh later, he met her eyes and told her he was investigating the matter but as yet had found no conclusive evidence. The lie troubled him not in the slightest.

In the morning post there was a letter from Callandra. Monk tore it open and read:

My dear William,

I am afraid the news from here is all of the very worst. I have visited Hester as often as I am permitted. She has great courage, but I can see that the strain is telling on her profoundly. I had foolishly imagined that her time in the Scutari hospital would have inured her to at least some of the hardships that Newgate would offer. Of course it is wildly different. The physical portion is relatively negligible. It is the mental suffering, the endless tedium of day after day with nothing to do but let her imagination conjure the worst. Fear is more debilitating than almost anything else.

In Scutari she was endlessly needed, respected, even loved. Here she is idle and the object of hatred and contempt from warders who have no doubt of her guilt.

I hear from Oliver that you have made no significant progress in learning who else may have killed Mary Farraline. I wish I could offer some assistance. I have asked Hester over and over for every memory or impression she might have, but nothing has come to mind which she has not already told you.

I am afraid the worst news of all is something we should have foreseen, but I regret we did not. Not that we could have helped it, even had we known from the outset. Since the crime was committed while the train was in Scotland, whoever is guilty, they have demanded that Hester be tried in Edinburgh. We have no grounds whatever upon which to contest it. She will be returned to stand trial in Edinburgh High Court, and Oliver will not be able to do anything more than offer his personal assistance. Since he is qualified only to practice English Law, he cannot appear for her.

Of course I shall make provision for the best Scottish lawyer I can find, but I confess I feel deeply distressed that Oliver cannot do it. He has the unparalleled advantage that he believes entirely in her innocence.

Still, we must not lose courage. The battle is not yet over, and as long as it is not, we have not lost-nor shall we.

My dear William, spare nothing to learn the truth, neither time nor money are of the least importance. Write to me for anything at all you might need.

Yours faithfully,

Callandra Daviot

He stood in the bitter autumn sunlight with the white paper a blur in front of him; his body was shaking. Rathbone could not defend her. He had never even thought of that- but now that Callandra wrote it, it seemed so obvious. He had not realized until now just how much he had been counting on Rathbone's skill, how the lawyer's past victories had weighed unconsciously on his mind, making him hope the impossible. Now, with one blow, that was ended.

It was minutes before his mind cleared. A dray stopped in the street outside. The cellarman shouted and the driver swore. The sound of the horses stamping on the cobbles and the rattle of wheels came up clearly through the window ajar.

Someone in the Farraline house had tampered with Mary's medicine, with the knowledge it would kill her. Someone had put her pearl brooch in Hester's bag. Greed? Fear? Revenge? Some motive not yet guessed at?

Where did Eilish go down the Kings Stables Road? Who was the rough, uncouth man who waited for Deirdra, and whom she met with such intense and secret conversation before running back into the house? A lover? Surely not, not in such clothes. A blackmailer? More probable. Over what? Her extravagance. Did she gamble, pay off old debts, keep a lover, a relative, an illegitimate child? Or was the extravagance simply to pay off a blackmailer? One thing, it was not to buy fashionable dresses. She had unquestionably lied about that.

It was an ugly resolution, but he decided he must follow her, or the man, and find the truth of it, whatever it was. And he must follow Eilish too. If it was a love affair with her sister's husband, or with anyone else, that also must be known, and beyond doubt.

The first night was totally fruitless. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish appeared. But the second night at a little after midnight the man in the torn coat came again, and after lingering furtively beyond the arc of light from the streetlamp, and again looking at his watch, Deirdra appeared, creeping like a shadow out of the side gate. After a brief, intense exchange, but no overt gesture of affection, they turned away from the house and, side by side, walked rapidly across the grass and down Glenfmlas Street south, exactly the same way Eilish had gone.

This time Monk kept well behind them, which was not difficult because they moved extremely rapidly. For a small woman, Deirdra had a remarkable stride, and did not seem to tire, almost as if something lay ahead of her which filled her with energy and enthusiasm. Monk also stopped and turned around several times to make sure he was not being followed. He still remembered with pain his previous foray along here after Eilish.

He could see no one, apart from two youths going in the opposite direction, a black dog scavenging in the gutter, and a drunk propped against the wall and beginning to slide down.

There was a light wind with a smell of grime and damp on it, and overhead thin clouds darkened the three-quarter moon. Between the pools of the streetlamps the spaces melted into impenetrable shadow. The great mound of the castle towering above them and to the left showed a jagged, now-familiar line against the paler sky.

Deirdra and the man turned left into the Grassmarket. The pavement was narrower here and the five-story buildings made the street seem like the bottom of a deep ravine. There was little sound but that of footsteps, muffled by damp and echo, and the occasional shout, bang of a door or gate, and now and again horses' hooves as some late traveler passed.

The Grassmarket was only a few hundred yards long, then it turned into Cowgate until it crossed South Bridge, running parallel to Canongate, and turned into Holyrood Road. To the right lay the Pieasance and Dumbiedykes, to the left the High Street, the Royal Mile, and eventually Holyrood Palace. In between was an endless maze of alleys and yards, passages between buildings, steps up and steps down, a thousand nooks and doorways.

Monk increased his pace. Where on earth was Deirdra going? Her pace had not slackened at all, nor had she glanced behind her.

Ahead of him Deirdra and the man crossed the road and abruptly disappeared.

Monk swore and ran forward, tripping over a cobble and all but losing his balance. A dog sleeping in a doorway stirred, growled, and then lowered its head again.

Candlemaker Row. He swung around the corner and was just in time to see Deirdra and the man as they passed the beginning of the graveyard to the right, stop, hesitate barely a moment, then go into one of the vast, shadowy buildings to the left.

Monk ran after them, reaching the spot only minutes after they had gone. At first he could see no entrance. The street walls and high wooden gates were a seamless barrier against intrusion.

But they had been here, and now they were not. Something had yielded to their touch. Step by step he moved along, pushing gently, until under his weight one wooden gate swung open just enough to allow him to squeeze inside and to find himself in a cobbled yard facing a building something like a bam. Yellow gaslight streamed from the cracks around an ill-fitting door which would have let through a horse and dray, were it open.

He moved forward gingerly, feeling every step before putting his weight down. He did not want to brush against something and set off an alarm. He had no idea where he was, or what manner of place to expect, or even who else might be inside.

He reached the door in silence and peered in through the wide crack. The sight that met his eyes was so extraordinary, so wildly fanciful and absurd, he stared at it for several minutes before his brain accepted its reality. It was a huge shed, big enough to have built a boat in, except that the structure that crouched in the center of the floor was surely never intended to sail. It had no keel and no possible place for masts. It would have resembled a running chicken, but it had no legs. Its body was large enough for a full-grown man to sit inside, and the wings were outspread as if it fully intended to take off and fly. It seemed to be constructed primarily of wood and canvas. There was some kind of machinery where the heart would have been, were it a real bird.

But more incredible, if anything could be, was Deirdra Farraline, dressed in old clothes, a leather apron over her gown, thick leather gloves over her small, strong hands, her hair scraped back out of her eyes. She was bent forward earnestly laboring over the contraption, tightening screws with delicate, intense efficiency. The man who had come for her was now stripped to his shirtsleeves and was pushing and heaving at another piece of structure which he seemed to be intending to attach to the rear of the bird, by which to extend its tail by some eight or nine feet.

Monk had little enough to lose. He pushed the door open far enough for him to squeeze through and get inside. Neither of the two workers noticed him, so engrossed were they in their labors. Deirdra bent her head, her tongue between her teeth, her brow drawn down in the power of her thought. Monk watched her hands. She was quick and very certain. She knew exactly what she was doing, which tool she wanted and how to use it. The man was patient, and skilled also, but he appeared to be working under her direction.

It was fully five minutes before Deirdra looked up and saw Monk standing in the doorway. She froze.

"Good evening, Mrs. Farraline," he said quietly, moving forward. "Pardon my technical ignorance, but what are you making?" His voice was so normal, so devoid of any criticism or doubt, he might have been discussing the weather at some polite social function.

She stared at him, her dark eyes searching his face for ridicule, anger, contempt, any of the emotions she expected, and finding none of them.

"A flying machine," she said at last.

It was a remark so preposterous no explanation seemed adequate, or even worth attempting. Her companion stood with a spanner in his hand, waiting to see whether she needed support, protection or silence on his part. He was quite clearly embarrassed, but Monk judged it was for her reputation, not his own, and certainly not for their project.

All kinds of questions raced through Monk's head, none of them relevant to Hester's dilemma.

"It must be expensive," he said aloud.

She looked startled. Her eyes widened. She had been ready to counter with defense of the possibility of flying, the necessity to try, the previous ideas and drawings of da Vinci or of Roger Bacon, but the cost was the last thing she had imagined he would mention.

"Yes," she said at last. "Yes, of course it is."

"More expensive than a few fashionable dresses," he went on.

That brought a rush of color to her cheeks as she realized his thoughts.

"It is all my own money," she protested. "I've saved by buying secondhand clothes and having them made over. I never took anything from the family. I know someone has falsified the company books, but I never had a farthing from them. I swear it! And Mary knew what I was doing," she rushed on. "I can't prove it, but she did. She thought it was quite mad, but she enjoyed it. She thought it was a wonderful piece of insanity."

"And your husband?"

"Alastair?" she said incredulously. "Good heavens, no. No." She came towards him, her face puckered with anxiety. "Please, you must not tell him! He would not understand. He is a good man in so many ways, but he has no imagination, and no sense of... of..."

"Humor?" he suggested.

A flash of temper lit her face, then after a second softened into amusement.

"No, Mr. Monk, not humor either. And you may laugh, but one day it will fly. You don't understand now, but one day you will."

"I understand dedication," he said with a twisted smile. "Even obsession. I understand the desire to do something which is so powerful that all other desires are sacrificed to it."

The man moved forward a step, the spanner held firmly in his hand, but at least for the moment he judged Monk constituted no danger to her, and he remained silent.

"I swear I did not harm Mary, Mr. Monk, nor do I know who did." Deirdra took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Nothing," Monk replied, amazed at his own answer. He had spoken before he had weighed the matter; his reply was instinctive and emotional. "Providing you give me all the help you can to learn who did kill Mrs. Farraline."

She looked at him with dawning perception in her eyes, and as far as he could judge, not so much anger as amazement.

"You are not here for the prosecution, are you?"

"No. I have known Hester Latterly for a long time, and I will never believe she poisoned a patient. She might kill someone in outrage, in self-defense, but never for gain."

The color drained out of her face; her eyes shadowed.

"I see. That means one of us did... doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to help you find out who it is?"

He hesitated, on the edge of reminding her that it was the price of his silence, then decided it would be wiser not to. She already understood as much.

"Don't you want to know?" he asked instead.

She waited only a moment.

"Yes."

He held out his hand, and she took it in her leather-gloved one and clasped it in silent agreement.