The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 7

Monk returned to his lodgings cold, tired and faced with a dilemma. He had promised to tell Oonagh if he learned where Deirdra spent her money-or, more accurately, Alastair's money. Now that he knew the answer, every instinct and desire was to tell no one at all, most especially not Oonagh.

Of course her whole enterprise was quite mad, bereft of any connection with reality, but it was an absurd and glorious madness, and harmed no one at all. What if she did spend money on it? The Farralines had plenty of money, and better on a wild and innocuous folly like a flying machine than on gambling, a lover, or to deck herself in silks and jewels in order to look wealthier or more beautiful than her peers. Certainly she should continue.

He found himself striding out with his head high and a lift in his step, and he very nearly went straight past the establishment of Wm. Forster, Innkeeper, in his exhilaration.

In the morning, however, he realized he should have taken the opportunity to strike a better bargain with her. He could have asked her about the company books, and whether there was any basis for Hector's charge. And there was the matter of what he would say to Oonagh. She would never allow him simply to let the subject fade away. And if he were to avoid her, he would have to avoid the Farral-ine house, which was an impossibility.

Memory of that returned Hester to his thoughts sharply and with a pain that surprised him. At the forefront of his mind he had always considered Hester intelligent, and certainly a useful colleague, but a person about whom his feelings were very mixed. He respected her qualities, at any rate some of them, but he did not really like her. A great many of her mannerisms and attitudes irritated him enormously. Being in her company was like having a small cut on the hands, a paper cut, which was always in danger of being reopened. It was not really an injury, but it was a constant source of discomfort.

And now came the awareness that if he did not succeed in finding proof of who had really killed Mary Farraline, Hester would be gone. He would never see her or speak with her again, never see her square shoulders and proud, rather angular figure come walking towards him, ready to pick a quarrel or enthuse about some cause or other, order him around and express her opinions furiously and with total, blind conviction. If he was facing an impossible case, desperate and defeated, there would be no one who would fight beside him to the end, and beyond, even when reason told them both defeat was already a reality.

He was overwhelmed with a loneliness so deep, staring at the gray cobbles of the Grassmarket and the leaden sky between the heaped and jumbled roofs, the light was worse than the darkness had been, and unreasonably colder. The thought of a world without her was desolating, and the realization that it hurt him so profoundly choked him with anger.

He set out at a brisk walk towards Kings Stables Road, and eventually Ainslie Place. At the front of his mind, his reason for going was to speak to Hector Farraline and press him further to make some sense in the dark and extremely vague accusations he had been making about the company books. If they were indeed being falsified, it might be a motive for murder-if Mary had known, or was about to be told.

His excuse was to report to Oonagh that he was still investigating Deirdra but that so far all he had learned was that she was indeed a poor judge of how to obtain a bargain, and given to extravagance in her attire. If she pressed him for details he would find it difficult to reply, but he was too consumed with emotion for his mind to take heed of such things.

It was a brisk morning after the previous night's frost, but striding up the rise towards Princes Street, it was not at all unpleasant. He was not in any way familiar with Edinburgh, except the immediate vicinity of the Grassmarket now, but he had already developed a liking for the city. The old town was steep and narrow with high buildings, lots of alleys, closes and leg-aching flights of steps, sudden courtyards, and wynds, as they were called; especially eastward towards the Royal Mile, at the far end of which stood Holyrood Palace.

He arrived at Ainslie Place and McTeer let him in with his usual air of gloom and foreboding.

"Good morning to ye, Mr. Monk." He took Monk's hat and coat. "Looks like more rain, I'll be thinking."

Monk was in the mood for an argument.

"More?" he said with wide eyes. "It's quite dry outside. In fact, it's really very agreeable."

McTeer was not put off. "It'll no last," he said with a shake of his head. "Ye'll be to see Mrs. Mclvor, no doubt?"

"If I may? I should also like to see Major Farraline, if he is available?"

McTeer sighed. "I couldn't say if he is or no, until I inquire, sir. But I'll be about seein' for ye. If ye'll take a seat in the morning room in the meanwhile."

Monk accepted, and stood in the somber room with its half-drawn blinds and crepe ribbons with surprising apprehension. Now that it actually came to facing Oonagh and lying to her, it was even more difficult than he had expected.

The door opened and he swung around, his mouth dry. She was facing him with calm, measured intelligence. She was not really beautiful, but there was a power of character in her which demanded not only his attention but his admiration as well. Mere form and color bore so quickly, no matter how startling at first. Intelligence, strength of will, the ability to feel great passions and the courage to follow them through, these lasted. And above all he was drawn to the mystery of her, that part he did not understand and she would always hold aloof and apart. It flashed through his mind to wonder about Baud Mclvor. What sort of man was he that Mary had liked him? He had won Oonagh's hand in marriage, and yet had fallen in love with Eilish so profoundly he could not mask his feelings even in front of his wife. How could he be so shallow-and so cruel? Surely she had seen? Did she love him so much she forgave his weakness? Or did she love Eilish? The depths to her were immeasurable.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk." She interrupted his thoughts and jerked him into the present "Have you something to report?" Her words were no more than courteous, but her voice had a vibrancy to it She was asking a friend, not an employee.

If he hesitated he would betray himself. He was acutely conscious of the sharpness of the perception behind those clear, level eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mclvor," he replied. "Not a great deal, I am afraid, except that my investigation so far indicates that your sister-in-law is involved in nothing discreditable. I do not believe she gambles or keeps company with people of poor reputation or habits. I am sure she does not keep a lover, nor is there anyone putting pressure upon her for payment, either of old debts or to keep silent about some unfortunate act of the past." He smiled straight at her, not boldly, but quite casually. Liars could give themselves away by appearing overconfident. "In fact, it would seem she is simply an extravagant woman who has little idea of the value of money and no idea at all how to obtain a bargain, or even a reasonable purchase."

Somewhere beyond the door a maid giggled, and was instantly silent again.

She looked at him steadily, her eyes searching his. It was many years since he had faced anyone with such a penetrating gaze, one which he felt was able to perceive a person's character and read not only judgments but emotions as well, even to sense weaknesses and hungers.

Suddenly she smiled and the light filled her face.

"I'm so relieved, Mr. Monk."

Did she believe him, or was this a polite way of dismissing the subject for the time being?

"I am glad," he acknowledged, surprised how relieved he was that the intensity of the moment had passed.

"Thank you for telling me so rapidly." She walked farther into the room and automatically adjusted an ornament of dried flowers on the central table. It was a desiccated-looking piece and reminded him of funerals.

As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps his face, she pulled the corners of her mouth into a grimace. "It doesn't look well in here, does it? I think I shall have it removed. I would prefer fresh leaves to this, wouldn't you?"

It was unnerving to have one's thoughts so easily observed. It made him wonder if she had seen the lies he had told as well, and simply chose not to remark on them.

"I don't care for artificial flowers," he agreed, forcing himself to keep the smile on his face.

"You must have worked very hard," she went on quite casually.

For a moment he had no idea what she meant, then with a jolt he realized she was referring to his report on Deirdra again. Had he overstated his findings? How could he substantiate such answers if she were to ask him how he knew?

"You are quite sure of what you say?" she pressed. There was a flicker of amusement in her eyes-or was it perception?

There was nothing to do but be brazen. He made the same laughter reflect in his own face. It was not difficult.

"Yes, I am quite certain that I have no evidence that she is anything more than extravagant and unaware of the amount she needs to pay rather than can be persuaded to pay," he answered. "And there is much evidence that she is, in all ways that matter, a thoroughly respectable woman."

She was standing with her back to the window and the light made a halo of her hair.

"Hmm." She sighed a little. "All in so short a time, and yet it has taken you many days to search for evidence that will convict Miss Latterly..."

He should have foreseen that, and he had not. He thought quickly.

"Miss Latterly has taken a great deal of trouble to hide any such evidence, Mrs. Mclvor. Mrs. Farraline had nothing to hide. Murder hardly compares with a little extravagance in one's dressmaker, milliner, glover, hosier, bootmaker, haberdasher, furrier, jeweler or perfumier."

"Great heavens!" She laughed, turning to face him. "What an array of people! Yes, perhaps I begin to understand. Anyway, I am obliged to you, and also for having the courtesy to tell me so rapidly. How is your own investigation proceeding?"

"So far I can find nothing with which the defense could trap us," he said truthfully. "I should like very much to learn where she obtained the extra digitalis, but either it was not from an apothecary locally or, if it was, they prefer to remain silent about it."

"I suppose that would not be altogether surprising. The sale would make them, however innocently, party to the murder," she said, watching his face. "People do not like to compromise their reputations, especially if they are in business. It would not improve his trade."

"No." He pursed his lips. "Although I would like to have found him. The defense will point out that she had very little time in which she could have left the house. She was in a city she did not know-she cannot have gone far."

Oonagh drew breath as if to say something, then let it out in a sigh.

"Have you given up, Mr. Monk?" There was only the faintest shadow of challenge in her voice, and disappointment.

He too nearly spoke before thinking. It was on the edge of his tongue to deny it fiercely, then he realized how the emotion would betray him. Carefully he masked his feelings.

"Not yet," he said casually. "But I am close to it. I may soon have done all I can to assure the outcome."

"I hope you will call on us again before you leave Edinburgh?" There was nothing in her face. She needed no artifice and she knew it. Such a thing would be beneath her.

"Thank you, I should like to. You have been most courteous."

He excused himself, and in the empty hall, after she had returned to the nether part of the house, he ran lightly to the stairs and up them to search for Hector Farraline. If he waited for McTeer he would have to explain why he wished to see Hector, and would very likely be politely refused.

He knew the geography of the house from his earlier visits, when he had questioned the servants and been shown Mary's bedroom, the boudoir and the dressing room where the cases and the medicine cabinet had been.

He found Hector's room without difficulty and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately with eagerness which was explained when Hector's face fell, and Monk realized he had been expecting someone else, probably McTeer with a little refreshment. Monk had observed that the family did not restrict Hector his liquid sustenance, or seem to make any stringent efforts to keep him sober.

"Oh, the detective, again," Hector said disapprovingly.

"Not that ye've found out a damn thing all the time ye've been here! Some poor fool's paying ye money for naught."

Monk went in and closed the door behind him. In other circumstances he might have lost his temper at such language, but he was too intent upon what he might learn from Hector.

"I came looking to find evidence that the defense would put up to clear Miss Latterly," he answered with a candid glance at the older man. He still looked ill, red-eyed and pale-faced, his movement shambling.

"Why did she kill Mary?" Hector said wretchedly, crumpling into the large leather chair near the window. He did not bother to invite Monk to sit down. The room was very masculine; there were scores of books in an oak case against one wall, too far away for Monk to read the titles. A very fine watercolor painting of a Napoleonic hussar hung above the mantelpiece, and another of a soldier of the Royal Scots Greys was on the wall opposite. A little below it was a portrait of an officer in full Highland dress. He was a young man, handsome, with fine features, thick fair hair and wide level eyes. It was several minutes before Monk recognized it as Hector himself, probably thirty years ago. What on earth had happened to the man in that time to change him from what he had been to the pathetic wreck he was now? Surely it must have been more than simply an elder brother with more character, more intelligence and more courage? Were envy and defeat such virulent diseases?

"Why would a woman like that risk everything for a few pearls?" Hector demanded, his voice suddenly sharp with irritation. "It makes no sense, man. She'll be hanged... there'll be no mercy for her, ye know?"

"Yes," Monk said very quietly, his throat dry. "I do know. You said something the other day about the company books being falsified..."

"Oh, aye. So they are." Hector said it without the slightest hesitation, and almost without expression.

"By whom?"

Hector blinked. "By whom?" he repeated, as if the question were a curious thing to ask. "I've no idea. Maybe Kenneth. He's the bookkeeper-but he'd be a fool to do it. It'd be so obvious. But then he is a fool."

"Is he?"

Hector looked at him, realizing he was asking a question, not merely responding to a casual remark.

"Not over anything specific," he said slowly. "Just a general opinion."

Monk was certain he was lying, and equally certain he had no intention of telling anyone precisely what Kenneth had done to earn his contempt.

"How do you know?" he asked, sitting down on the smaller, more upright chair opposite him.

"What?" Hector looked composed. "I live in the same house with him, for heaven's sake. Have done for years. What's the matter with you, man?"

Monk was surprised with himself that he was so little irritated.

"I realize how you know he's a fool," he said calmly. "I don't know how you know the books have been meddled with."

"Oh, I see."

"Well, how do you know?"

Hector looked far away. "Something Mary said. Can't remember what, exactly. Annoyed about it though. Very."

Monk leaned forward sharply. "Did she say it was Kenneth? Think, man!"

"No she didn't," Hector replied, puckering his brow. "She was just annoyed."

"But she didn't send for the police?"

"No." He opened his eyes wide and looked at Monk with satisfaction. "That's why I thought it was Kenneth." He shrugged. "But Quinlan is a clever swine. Wouldn't put anything past him either. Upstart. All brains and ambition, greedy for power. Does everything sideways. Never knew why Oonagh was so nice with him. I wouldn't have let him marry Eilish. I'd have sent him on his way, for all that he was charming enough to begin with."

"Even if she loved him?" Monk asked quietly.

Hector said nothing, for several seconds staring out of the window.

"Aye, well, maybe if I thought that..."

"Didn't you?"

"Me?" Hector's fair eyebrows rose, wrinkling his brow. "What do I know about it? She doesn't tell me things like that." A look of grief came into his face, so intense and so sudden Monk was embarrassed to have seen it. It was a rare feeling for him, and surprisingly painful. For a moment he was confused, not knowing what to say or do.

But Hector was oblivious of him. The emotion was too consuming and too immediate for him to care what others thought of him.

"But I'd be surprised if he embezzled," he said suddenly. "He's a fly beggar, that one, far too clever to steal."

"What about Mr. Mclvor?"

"Baird?" Hector looked up again, his expression changed to one of amusement and pity. "Maybe. Never understood that one. Deep. Mary was fond of him, for all his moods. Used to say there was more good in him than we knew. Which'd no be hard, as far as I'm concerned."

"Has he been married to Oonagh long?"

Hector smiled and it altered his face startlingly. The years of self-abuse dropped away and Monk saw the shadow of the man in the Highland dress thirty years ago. The resemblance to the portrait of Hamish Farraline in the hall was stronger, and yet also in some ways less. The pride and the bearing were more alike, the dignity and self-assurance. But there was a humor in Hector that was absent in his older brother, and oddly, considering the man he was now, a sense of peace.

"Ye'll be thinking they're an odd pair," Hector said, regarding Monk knowingly. "So Ihey are. But I'm told Baird was very dashing when he first came here, very romantic. All dark, brooding looks and hidden passion. Should have been a Highlander, not an Englishman. Oonagh turned down a perfectly good Scots lawyer to take Baird on. Good family, too, the lawyer, very good."

"Mother-in-law?" Monk asked.

Hector's face was incredulous, as if he had seen a sudden flash of light.

"Oh aye! A mother-in-law, right enough. A fair dragon of a woman. Ye know, ye're no half as daft as I thought. That'd make sense, so it would. I can easy imagine Oonagh'd far rather stay here in this house with a man like Baird Mclvor than marry an Edinburgh man with a mother of any sort, let alone one like Catherine Stewart. Then she'd no a' bin mistress in her own house, nor kept her hand in the Farraline business as she does now."

"Does she? I thought it was Alastair who was head of the company?"

"Aye, he is, but it's her brains, and Quinlan's, devil take him."

Monk rose to his feet. He did not wish to be caught here by McTeer coming with refreshment for Hector, or Oonagh, as he crossed the hall so long after she had bidden him farewell.

"Thank you, Major Farraline. You have been most interesting. I think I shall take your advice and go and see if I can find out who has meddled with the books of Farralines. Good day to you."

Hector lifted a hand in a half salute, and sat back on his chair again, staring miserably out of the window.

Monk already knew quite a lot about the Farraline printing company, including where to find it, and consequently as soon as he had left Ainslie Place he took a cab along Princes Street into Leith Walk, the long road that led to the Firth of Forth and the dockyards of Leith. The distance from the end of Princes Street was about two miles altogether, and the printing house was halfway. He alighted, paid the driver, and went to look for Baird Mclvor.

The building itself was large, ugly and entirely functional. It immediately adjoined other industrial buildings on either side, the largest of which was, according to the legend on the doorway, a rope manufacturer. Inside was a single, vast, open space with the newest part cleared to form a sort of entrance, from which rose a wrought-iron staircase to a landing. There were several doors in sight, presumably offices for the managers of different divisions and for whatever bookkeepers and other clerks were necessary. The rest of the interior was given over to the printing itself, being filled with presses, typesetting equipment, racks of type and inks. Bales of paper were stored in enormous piles at the far end, along with cloth for binding, thread and yet further machinery. There was no bustle, but a steady hum of industry and regulated movement.

Monk asked the clerk who approached him if he might speak with Mr. Mclvor. He did not state his business, and the man must have assumed it had something to do with the company, because he did not inquire but led him up to the first fine hardwood door, knocked and opened it.

"A Mr. Monk to see you, Mr. Mclvor."

Monk thanked him and went in before Baird could have the opportunity to refuse. He barely glanced at the neat bookshelves, the bright gas lamp hissing on the wall, the odd pieces of blank paper on the desk (presumably there for Mclvor to judge their comparative quality), and the piles of books sitting on the floor. His attention was on Baird and the surprise and alarm on his face.

"Monk?" He half rose from his desk. "What do you want here?"

"Just a little of your time," Monk said without a smile. He had already concluded that he would learn nothing from Baird by simply asking him. He would have used subtlety had he the time, or the coolness of brain, but he had not. He must resort to force. "I have evidence which strongly suggests that the company books have been tampered with and money has been taken."

Baird blanched and anger filled his dark eyes, but before he could protest or deny, Monk went on. This time he smiled, but it was wolfish, a baring of the teeth, and offered no comfort at all.

"I understand the defense has employed a brilliant barrister." That was hope ahead of knowledge, but if it was not true now, he would do everything within his power to see that it became true. "We don't want them finding this and making some suggestions to the jury that it was the true motive for Mrs. Farraline's murder, in order to cause reasonable doubt that it was in fact this nurse."

Baird sat back in his chair and stared at him, comprehension filling his face and resentment dying away.

"No... no, of course not," he said grudgingly, but his eyes were still wary and Monk noticed that there was a very fine bead of sweat on his brow. It sharpened his attention and he determined to pursue it to the end.

"After all," he added, "if it were so, it might provide an excellent motive for murder. I imagine Mrs. Farraline would not have permitted such a crime to pass unpunished, even if privately rather than publicly?"

Baird hesitated, but the expression on his face was as much anger and grief as any overt fear. He was a more complex man than Monk had at first assumed-his rather contemptuous assessment of a man who would prefer Eilish to Oonagh.

"No," Baird conceded. "She would deal with embezzlement one way or another. I imagine, if it were a member of the family, she would do it herself. In fact, even if it were not, she would still choose not to make it public. Such things are not good for a company's reputation."

"Quite. But it would not be pleasant for the culprit."

"I imagine not. But what makes you think there is anything wrong with the books? Has Kenneth said something? Oh... is it Kenneth you suspect?"

"I don't suspect anyone in particular." Monk said it in such a way as to leave it open whether he was speaking the truth or deliberately being evasive. Fear was a most effective catalyst from which might come all manner of other revelations.

Baird considered for several minutes before continuing. Monk tried to judge whether it was guilt or the desire not to be unjust to someone else which held him. On balance he thought guilt; there was still that beading of sweat on his face, and his eyes, for all their straight, steady gaze, had an evasiveness about them.

"Well, I know of no way in which I can help you," Baird said at last. "I have little to do with the financial side of the business. I work with the paper and the binding. Quinlan works with the print itself. Kenneth does the accounting. When Alastair is here, he makes the major decisions: which clients to accept, new business, that sort of thing."

"And Mrs. Mclvor? I understand she is also concerned in the management. I have heard she is most gifted."

"Yes." His expression was beyond Monk's ability to read; it could have been pride, or resentment, or even humor. A dozen thoughts flashed across Baird's face, and were equally quickly gone. "Yes," he repeated. "She has a remarkable acumen. Alastair very often takes her advice, both in business decisions and technical ones. Or to be more accurate, it is Quinlan who takes her advice on matters of print style, typeface and so on."

"So Mr. Fyffe has nothing to do with the accounting?"

"Quinlan? No, nothing at all." He said it with regret, and then savage self-mockery the instant after.

Monk found himself more deeply confused about him. How could a man of such emotion, self-perception and sense of irony be in love with Eilish, who seemed to have nothing to offer except physical beauty? It was so shallow, so short-lived. Even the loveliest thing on earth grows tedious if there is no art of companionship, no laughter, wit, imagination, power to love in return, even at times to provoke, to criticize, to lift by struggle, quarrel and change.

The thought brought Hester back to his mind with sharpness like a shooting pain.

"Then I had better look into it," he said with a curtness totally unwarranted by the conversation.

Baird looked reluctant.

"That would be better than sending in auditors," Monk went on.

It was a threat, and Baird recognized it as such.

"Oh certainly," he said too quickly. "By all means. That would be expensive, and make people anxious that we have cause to think there is something wrong. Yes, you look into it by all means, Mr. Monk."

Monk smiled, or perhaps it was more of a grimace. So Baird was quite happy that Monk could find nothing wrong in the books, or if he did, it was not Baird who had put it there. And yet he was afraid. For what?

"Thank you," he accepted, and turned to go back out into the corridor again as Baird rose from his desk.

He spent all the rest of the day at the Farraline printing company, and found nothing whatever that furthered his cause. If the books had been tampered with, he had not the requisite skill to find the evidence of it. Tired, his head aching and his temper extremely short, he left at half past five and went back to his lodgings in the Grassmarket, to find a letter from Rathbone awaiting him. It was devoid of good news, simply informing him of his own progress, which was woefully little.

Monk spent over three hours of that evening standing in Ainslie Place, growing colder and more wretched, hoping Eilish would make another sortie to wherever it was she visited, somewhere beyond Kings Stables Road. But midnight came and went, and no one stirred from number seventeen.

The following night he took up the same position, by now sunk into an icy gloom. And at a little after midnight he was rewarded by seeing a shadowy figure emerge, cross the open area of the center, pass within ten feet of where he stood motionless, his body trembling with cold and excitement, and once again walk rapidly along Glenfinlas Street, past Charlotte Square towards the crossroads.

He moved after her, keeping thirty yards' distance between them except close to junctions where she might turn and he lose sight of her. And this time he also looked back over his shoulder at regular intervals. He had no intention of being struck from behind again, and ending up senseless on the ground, with Eilish vanished into who knew where?

The night was colder than last time, a rime of frost forming on the stones of the pavement and making the air tingle on his lips and in his lungs. He was glad enough to move quickly, although the speed and ease of her pace surprised him. He had not expected so languid and lazy a woman to have the stamina.

As before, she went past the Princes Street Gardens along Lothian Road and turned left along the Kings Stables Road, passing almost under the shadow of the castle, tonight its massive, rugged outline only a denser black against the cloudy, starless sky.

She crossed Spittal Street, making towards the Grassmar-ket. Surely she could not have a tryst with anyone who lived in such an area? It was full of tradesmen, innkeepers and transients like himself. And what about Baird Mclvor? If the emotion he had thought between them was in fact only one-sided, then he had been more profoundly misled than ever before.

No, that was not true. His ability to be misled by women, beautiful women, was almost boundless. He remembered with chagrin Hermione, and how he had believed her softness of word and deed to be compassion, and it had proved to be merely a profound desire to avoid anything that might cause her pain. She chose the easier path, in anything, because she had no hunger in her soul that would drive her beyond hurt in order to win what she wished for. There was no passion in her at all, no need either to give or to receive. She was afraid of life. How more grossly mistaken could he have been in anyone?

So was Eilish deceiving the gullible Baird every bit as much as her sharper, more critical husband? And Oonagh? Had she any idea what her beloved little sister was doing?

Had Mary known?

There were still people around the Grassmarket. The sparse gas lamps casting pools of yellow light showed them standing around or leaning idly, staring about them. An occasional burst of laughter, jerky and more than a little drunk, gave indication of their state. A woman in a ragged dress sauntered past and one of the men shouted at her. She called back in a dialect so broad Monk did not understand her words, although her meaning was plain enough.

Eilish took no notice, but she did not seem afraid and her pace was steady as she passed them and continued on.

Monk remembered to look behind him, but if there was anyone following, he did not know it. Certainly there were others about. One man, black-coated, was ambling along about thirty feet behind him, but there was nothing to indicate he was following Monk, and he did not take any notice when Monk stopped for several seconds before going on again. By now the man was almost up to him.

They were approaching the corner of Candlemaker Row where Deirdra had turned off, and then the towering, cavernous slums of Cowgate, and all the steps and wynds between Holyrood Road and Canongate. Eilish had walked almost a mile and a half, and showed no signs of slowing down, still less of having reached her destination. What was even stranger, she seemed to be completely familiar with the surroundings. Never once did she hesitate or check where she was.

She crossed the George IV Bridge, and behind her Monk glanced up towards the beautiful Victorian terrace with its classical facade, like the old town from which they had come. He had thought perhaps she would turn and go up there. It was the sort of place where a lover might live, although what manner of lover would expect, or even allow, a woman to come to him, let alone walk it alone, and at night?

At the far end, only a hundred yards away, was the Lawnmarket, and the home of the infamous Deacon Brodie, that portly, dandy figure who had been a pillar of Edinburgh's society by day, sixty years before, and a violent housebreaker by night. According to tavern gossip, which Monk had listened to readily in the hope of learning something about the Farralines, Deacon Brodie's infamy rested in the duplicity of a man who in daylight inspected and advised on the security of the very premises he robbed by night. He had lived in the utmost respectability, in the Lawnmarket, and kept not one mistress with an illegitimate family, but two. He had escaped capture when his accomplices were arrested, fleeing to Holland, only to be caught by a simple trick and returned to Edinburgh, where he was hanged with a jest on his lips in 1788.

But Eilish did not turn up towards the Lawnmarket; she continued on and plunged into the filthy cavernous gloom of Cowgate.

Monk followed resolutely after her.

Here the lamps were farther between and the pavement in places only eighteen inches wide. The cobbles of the street were rough and he had to go carefully to avoid turning his ankle. Huge tenements reared above him, four and five stories high, every room filled with a dozen or so people, crowded in without water or sanitation. He knew it from long familiarity with London. The smell was the same, dirt, weariness and all-pervasive human effluent.

Then suddenly the darkness was total and he fell into a violent sensation of pain, both before and behind.

When he woke up he was numb with cold, so stiff he had difficulty in making his arms and legs obey him, and his head ached so badly he hated to open his eyes. There was a small brown dog licking his face in friendly and hopeful curiosity. It was still dark, and Eilish was nowhere to be seen.

He climbed to his feet with difficulty, apologizing to the dog for having nothing he could give it, and set off on the short, bitter walk back to the Grassmarket.

However, he was all the more determined not to be beaten, least of all by a shallow and worthless woman like Eilish Fyffe. Whether her midnight trysts had any relevance to her mother's death or not, he was going to find out exactly where she went and why.

Accordingly the following night he waited for her, this time not in Ainslie Place but at the corner where the Kings Stables Road ran into the Grassmarket. At least he would save himself the walk. During the day he also purchased a stout walking stick and a very well constructed tall hat, which he jammed on his still-throbbing head.

During the day he had taken the precaution of walking the length of Cowgate so he would know every yard of it in the semidarkness of its sporadic gas lamps. In the shortening autumn light it had been a grim sight. The buildings were in ill repair, crumbling stonework, battered, half-obliterated signs, walls stained and weatherworn, gutters shallow and running with water and refuse. The narrow wynds leading off it up towards the High Street were crowded with people, carts, washing and piles of vegetables and rubbish.

Now as he stood in the doorway of an ironmonger's, waiting for Eilish, he could picture every yard of it in his mind, and he was determined not to be caught again.

It was twenty minutes past midnight when he saw her slender figure emerge from the Kings Stables Road and turn into the Grassmarket. She was going a little more slowly this time, perhaps because she was carrying a large parcel of some sort, which, to judge from her less graceful, more awkward gait, was quite heavy.

He waited until she was about fifteen yards past him, then he moved out of the doorway and walked after her, keeping close to the wall and swinging his stick casually, but with an extremely firm grip.

Eilish walked the length of the Grassmarket, crossed the George IV Bridge without looking right or left, and went into Cowgate. She gave no sign whatever of knowing that anyone was following her. Never once did she hesitate or glance backwards.

What on earth was she doing?

He closed the gap between them now that they were in the dim cavern of Cowgate. He must not lose sight of her. She might stop any minute and disappear into one of these high buildings and he would have great difficulty in finding her again. They were all at least four or five stories high, and inside would be like a rabbit warren, passages and stairs, half landings, room after room, all crowded with people.

And of course there were the stairways and alleys and wynds, any one of which she might have taken.

Why did she know no fear, a beautiful woman walking alone after midnight in such a place? The only conceivable answer was that she was perfectly aware of someone following her to protect her. Baird Mclvor? It seemed absurd. Why on earth meet here? It made no kind of sense. No stretch of the imagination, short of insanity in both of them, accounted for it as a lovers' tryst. There were any number of easier, safer and more romantic places far nearer home.

They passed South Bridge, and ahead of Eilish he saw a shadowy figure, body bent, a sack across its shoulders, hurry from a side alley and disappear into another, heading towards the Infirmary. With an involuntary shudder he remembered the grotesque crimes of Burke and Hare, as if he had seen a thirty-year ghost heading towards Surgeon's Hall with a newly murdered corpse on his back to present to the huge, one-eyed anatomist Dr. Knox.

He glanced backwards nervously, but there was no one unwarrantably close.

They were level with Blackfriars' Wynd and Cardinal Beaton's house on one corner with its jutting overhang and crumbling stone. His information earlier that day had told him it had been built in the early fifteen hundreds by the then-archbishop of Glasgow and chancellor of Scotland during the regency and the monarchy of King James V, before England and Scotland were united.

Next was the Old Mint, a dilapidated building with a walled-up doorway with the inscription over it be merciful unto me, o god. He knew from the daytime that there was also an advertisement for Allison the chimney sweep, and a little picture of two sweeps running, but he could not see it now.

Eilish continued on her way, and Monk gripped his stick more tightly. He disliked carrying it. The feeling of it in his hand brought back sickening memories of violence, confusion and fear, and above all overwhelming guilt. But the prickling in the back of his neck was a primal fear even greater, and against his conscience his hand closed more tightly. He turned every now and again to look behind him, but he saw only indeterminate shadows.

Then suddenly at St. Mary's Wynd she turned sharply left and he almost lost her. He ran forward and only just prevented himself from colliding with her as she stopped in front of a dark doorway, the parcel still in her hands.

She turned and looked at him, for an instant afraid, then as her eyes, used to the darkness, went beyond him she cried out.

"No!"

Monk swung around just in time to raise his stick and fend off the blow.

"No!" Eilish said again, her voice powerful with complete authority. "Robbie, put it down! There is no need..."

Reluctantly the man lowered the cudgel and stood waiting, still gripping it ready.

"You are very determined, Mr. Monk," Eilish said quietly. "You had better come in."

Monk hesitated. Out here in the street he had a fighting chance if he were attacked, inside he had no idea how many men there might be. In an area like Cowgate he could be disposed of without trace or necessity for explanation. Grisly visions of Burke and Hare came back like nightmares yet again.

Eilish's voice was full of laughter, although he could not see her face in the gloom.

"There is no need to be alarmed, Mr. Monk. It is not a den of thieves, it is simply a ragged school. I'm sorry you were struck when you followed me before. Some of my pupils are very jealous for my protection. They did not know who you were. Creeping along the Grassmarket behind me, you cut a very sinister figure."

"A ragged school?" He was stunned.

She mistook his amazement for ignorance.

"There are a lot of people in Edinburgh who can neither read nor write, Mr. Monk. Actually this is not a ragged school in the legal sense. We don't teach children. There are others doing that. We teach adults. Perhaps you didn't realize what a handicap it is to a man not to be able to read his own language? To be able to read is the doorway into the rest of the world. If you can read, you can make the acquaintance of the best minds of the present, no matter where they live, and all the past as well!" Her voice rose with enthusiasm. "You can listen to the philosophy of Plato, or you can go on adventures with Sir Walter Scott, see the past unfold before you, explore India or Egypt, you can-" She stopped abruptly, then continued in a lower tone. "You can read the newspapers and know what the politicians are saying, and form some judgment for yourself whether it is true or not. You can read the signs in the streets and shop windows, and on labels and medicine bottles."

"I understand, Mrs. Fyffe," he said quietly, but with a sincerity that was totally new to him where she was concemed. "And I know what ragged schools are. It is simply an explanation which had not occurred to me."

Then she laughed aloud. "How very candid of you. You thought I had some assignation? In Cowgate? Really, Mr. Monk! With whom, may I ask? Or you thought I was a master thief, perhaps, come to divide the spoils with my accomplices? A sort of female Deacon Brodie?"

"No..." It was a long time since a woman had embarrassed him in this way, but honesty compelled him to admit he deserved it.

"You had better come in, all the same." She turned back to the door. "Unless that is all you wanted to know? Had you better not prove me truthful?" There was mockery in her voice, and underneath the amusement it was charged with emotion.

He agreed, and followed her into the narrow corridors of the tenement. She climbed up rickety stairs, along another corridor, the man Robbie a few steps behind, his cudgel at his side. They mounted more stairs and finally came into a large room overlooking the street. It was clean, especially for such a place, and by now he was used to the general smell of such a region. There was no furniture at all except one frequently repaired wooden table, and on it was a pile of books and papers, several inkwells and a dozen or so quills, a penknife for recutting the nibs, and several sheets of blotting paper. Her students were a collection of some thirteen or fourteen men of all ages and conditions, but everyone dressed in clean clothes, although ragged enough to have earned the school its epithet. Their faces lit with enthusiasm when they saw her, then closed in sudden, dark suspicion as Monk came in behind her.

"It's all right," she assured them quickly. "Mr. Monk is a friend. He has come to help tonight."

Monk opened his mouth to protest that that was not so, then changed his mind and nodded agreement.

Soberly they all sat on the floor, mostly cross-legged, and balancing books on their knees, and papers on top of the books, with others on the floor between them, they slowly and painstakingly wrote their alphabets. Frequently they looked at Eilish for help and approval, and in total solemnity she gave it, offering a correction here, a word of praise there.

After two hours of writing, they moved to reading, their reward for labor. With many stumbles and a lot of encouragement, one by one, they lurched through a chapter of Ivanhoe. Their elation at the end of it, at twenty-five to four in the morning, as they thanked her, and Monk, was abundant reward for Monk's own weariness. Then they filed out for an hour's sleep before starting the long day's work.

When the last of them had gone, Eilish turned to Monk wordlessly.

"The books?" he asked, although he knew the answer and did not care in the slightest if it robbed Farraline & Company of its entire profits.

"Yes of course they are from Farralines," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "Baird gets them for me, but if you tell anyone, I shall deny it. I don't think there is any proof. But you wouldn't do that anyway. It has nothing to do with Mother's death, and won't either exonerate or condemn Miss Latterly."

"I didn't know Baird could get to the company accounts." That would explain why he had been so nervous.

"He can't," she agreed with amusement "I want books, not money. And I wouldn't steal money, even if I did need it. Baird prints extra books, or declares the print runs short. It has nothing to do with accounting."

That made sense.

"Your uncle Hector said someone had been falsifying the accounts."

"Did he?" She sounded only slightly surprised. "Well, maybe they have. It must be Kenneth, but I don't know why. Although Uncle Hector does drink an awful lot, and sometimes talks the most terrible nonsense. He remembers things I don't think ever happened, and confuses one time with another. I wouldn't take a lot of notice."

He was about to say that he had to, in order to guard the prosecution, but he was weary of lies, especially useless ones, and this was not the night for more of them. He had had to reverse all his judgments of Eilish. She was anything but shallow or lazy, and far from stupid. Of course she had to sleep half the morning; she gave up most of the night. And gave it to those who returned her no public or financial reward for it And yet she was obviously more than pleased with what she received. In this bare lamplit room she glowed with a deep joy. Now he knew why she walked with her head high and her step proud, where the secret smile came from and the thoughts that were removed from the family conversations.

And he knew why Baird Mclvor loved her above his own wife.

Actually he knew in that moment also that Hester would have liked her, even admired her.

"I'm not trying to prove that Miss Latterly killed your mother," he said impulsively. "I'm trying to prove that she did not."

She looked at him curiously. "For money? No. Do you love her?"

"No." Then instantly he wished he had not denied it so quickly. "Not in the way you mean," he added, feeling his face burn. "She is a great friend, a very deep friend. We have shared many experiences in the pursuit of justice in other cases. She..."

Eilish was smiling. Again there was a faint hint of mockery in her eyes.

"You don't need to explain, Mr. Monk. In fact, please don't. I don't believe you anyway. I know what it is to love when you really don't want to at all." Without warning the laughter vanished totally from her face and deep pain replaced it. Perhaps pain had been closer to the surface all the time. "It changes all your plans and alters everything. One moment you are playing on the shore, the next the tide has you, and struggle as you might, you cannot get back to the land again."

"You are speaking of your own feelings, Mrs. Fyffe. I am a friend of Miss Latterly. I don't feel in the least like that about her." He said all the words clearly and vehemently, and he knew from her face that she did not believe him. He was angry, and there was a curious choking in his throat. He felt absurdly disloyal. "It is perfectly possible to be friendly with someone without a feeling anything like the one you describe," he said again.

"Of course it is," she agreed, moving to the door. "I will walk with you as far as the Grassmarket, to see you are safe."

It was ludicrous. He was a powerful man, armed with a stick, and she was a slender woman, six inches shorter and built like a flower. She made him think of an iris in the sun. He laughed outright.

She led the way down the dim stairs back to the way out, talking to him over her shoulder as he followed.

"How many times have you been struck on the way, Mr. Monk?"

'Twice, but..."

"Was it painful?"

"Yes, but..."

Til see you home, Mr. Monk." There was only the faintest shadow of a smile on her lips.

He took a deep breath. "Thank you, Mrs. Fyffe."

In Newgate, Hester swung from moods of hard-fought-for hope, down to engulfing despair, and up the long incline back to hope again. The boredom and the sense of helplessness were the worst afflictions. Physical labor, however pointless, would have dulled the edges of pain, and she would have slept. As it was she lay awake in almost total darkness, shivering with cold, her imagination torturing her with infinite possibilities-and always returning to the same one, the short walk from the cell to the shed where the rope awaited her. She was not afraid of death itself, it was that she realized with icy pain that the belief she thought she had as to what lay after was simply not strong enough to stand in the face of reality. She was frightened as she had never been before. Even in the battlefield death would have been sudden, without warning or time to think. And after all she had not been alone. She had faced it with others, almost all of them suffering far more than she. Her mind had been filled with what she could do for them; it had left no room for thoughts of herself. Now she realized what a blessing that had been.

The wardresses continued to treat her with a coldness and unique scorn, but she became accustomed to it and the small irritant gave her something to fight against, as one digs nails into the palm of the hand when fighting a greater agony.

One particularly cold day the cell door opened and, after the briefest word from the wardress, her sister-in-law, Imogen, came in. Hester was surprised to see her; she had accepted Charles's word as final and had not expected him to relent. The darker the outlook became, the less likely was he to do so.

Imogen was fashionably dressed, as if going to pay afternoon calls on Society, her skirts broad-sweeping and flounced, her bodice tight and her sleeves elaborately decorated. Her bonnet was trimmed with flowers.

"I'm sorry," she said instantly, seeing Hester's face and glancing only momentarily at the bare cell. "I had to tell Charles I was going to call on the Misses Begbie. Please don't tell him I was here, if you don't mind. I-I would rather not face a quarrel just now." She looked both embarrassed and apologetic. "He-" She stopped.

"He commanded you not to come," Hester finished for her. "Don't worry, of course I shall not tell him." She wanted to thank Imogen for coming-she really was grateful-and yet the words stuck in her mouth. It all sounded artificial, when it should have been most real.

Imogen fished in her reticule and brought out sweet-smelling soap and a little bag of dried lavender so fragrant Hester could smell it even from two yards distance, and the femininity of it brought the tears uncontrollably to her eyes.

Imogen looked up quickly and her polite expression vanished and emotion flooded her face. Impulsively she dropped the soap and lavender and moved forward, taking Hester in her arms and holding her with a strength Hester would not have thought her to possess.

"We'll win!" she said fiercely. "You didn't kill that woman and we'll prove it. Mr. Monk may not be very nice, but he is wildly clever, and quite ruthless. Remember how he solved the Grey case when everyone thought it was impossible. And he is on your side, my dear. Don't ever give up hope."

Hester had managed to keep her composure with every other visitor she had had, even Callandra, difficult as that had been, but now she found it too much. The long denial would not last anymore. Clinging on, she wept in Imogen's arms until she was exhausted and a kind of peace of despair came over her. Imogen's words had been intended to comfort, but perversely they had focused her mind on the truth she had been struggling against all the time since she had first been moved here from the Coldbath Fields. All that Monk, or anyone else, could do might not be enough. Sometimes innocent people were hanged. Even if Monk or Rathbone were to prove the truth afterwards, it would be no comfort to her, and certainly no help.

But now instead of the struggle against it, against the fear and the injustice, there was something inside her close to acceptance. Perhaps it was only tiredness, but it was better than the desperate struggle. There was a sort of release in it.

Now she did not want to listen to talk of hope, because she had passed beyond it, but yet it would be cruel to tell Imogen so, and the new calm was too fragile to be trusted. Perhaps there was still something in her which clung to unreality? She did not want to put it into words.

Imogen stepped back and looked at her. She must have seen or sensed some change, because she said nothing more about it but bent and picked up the dropped soap and the lavender.

"I didn't ask if you could have them," she said matter-of-factly. "Maybe you should hide them?"

Hester sniffed and took out her handkerchief to blow her nose.

Imogen waited.

"Thank you," Hester said at last, reaching out to take them and push them down the front of her dress. The soap was a trifle uncomfortable, but even that had its own kind of satisfaction.

Imogen sat down on the cot, her skirts in a huge swirl around her, exactly as if she were visiting a lady of Society; although since Mr. Latterly Senior's disgrace, she did not do that anymore. The Misses Begbie were now the height of her aspirations.

"Do you ever see anyone else?" she asked with interest. "I mean other than that fearful woman who let me in. She is a woman, I suppose?"

Hester smiled in spite of herself. "Oh yes. If you saw the way she looks at Oliver Rathbone, you'd know she was."

"You don't mean it?" Imogen was incredulous, laughter touching her in spite of the place and the occasion. "She makes me think of Mrs. MacDuff, my cousin's governess. We used to rag her terribly. I blush when I think how cruel we were. Children can be devastatingly candid. Sometimes the truth is better not told. It may be in one's own heart one knows it, but one can behave so much better if one is not forced to keep looking at it."

Hester smiled wryly. "I think I am in exactly that situation, but I have very little else to take my attention."

"Have you heard from Mr. Monk?'

"No."

"Oh." Imogen looked surprised, and suddenly Hester felt as if Monk had let her down. Why had he not written? Surely he must know how much it would have meant to have received even a word of encouragement? Why was he so thoughtless? And that was a stupid question, because she knew the answer. There was little tenderness in his nature, and what there was was directed towards women like Imogen, gentle, sweet-natured, dependent women who complemented his own strengths, not women like Hester, whom he regarded at the best of times as a friend, like another man, and at the worst as opinionated, abrasive, dogmatic, and an offense to her own sex.

Loyalty and justice would demand that he search for the truth, but to expect or look for comfort as well was bound to end in hurt and in an inevitable sense of having been let down.

And that was precisely what she did feel.

Imogen was watching her closely. She read her as only another woman could.

"Are you in love with him?" she asked.

Hester was horrified. "No! Certainly not! I would not go so far as to say he is everything I despise in a man, but he is certainly a great deal. Of course he is clever, I would not take that from him for a moment, but he is on occasion both arrogant and cruel and I would not trust him to be gentle, or not to take advantage of weakness, for a minute."

Imogen smiled.

"My dear, I did not ask if you trusted or admired him, or even if you liked him. I asked if you were in love with him, which is quite a different matter."

"Well I am not. And I do like him... sometimes. And..." She took a deep breath. "And there are matters in which I would trust him absolutely. Matters of honor where justice is concerned, or courage. He would fight against any odds, and without counting the cost, to defend what he believed to be right."

Imogen looked at her with a strange mixture of amusement and pain.

"I think, my dear, you are painting him with your own virtues, but that is no harm. We all tend to do that..."

"I am not!"

"If you say so." Imogen dismissed the matter with disbelief. "What about Mr. Rathbone? I must say I rather like him. He is such a gentleman and yet I formed the opinion he is extremely clever."

"Of course he is." She had never doubted it, and as she spoke, memories of a startling moment of intimacy returned with a sweetness she was not sure now if she imagined or not. She would never in the world have kissed a man in such a way without meaning it intensely. But she did not know men in that way, and perhaps they were very different. All she had observed told her that they were. She was disinclined to attach any importance to it at all. She realized with a hollow ache how little she knew, and that now she would almost certainly die without ever having loved or been loved in return. Self-pity welled up inside her like a tide, and ashamed of it as she was, it still filled her.

"Hester," Imogen said gravely, "you are giving in. It is not like you to be pathetic, and when all this is over you are going to hate yourself for not having matched up to the moment."

"Brave words are all very well when you are talking to somebody else," Hester replied with a twisted smile. "It is a different matter when you are facing the reality of death. Then there isn't any afterwards."

Imogen looked very pale and there was distress plain in her eyes, but she did not flinch. "You mean your death would be somehow different from other people's? Different from the soldiers you nursed?"

"No... no, of course not. That would be arrogant and ridiculous." Being reminded of the soldiers brought back their agonized faces and broken bodies to her mind. She would die quickly, without being mutilated or wasted with fevers or dysentery. She should be ashamed of her cowardice. Many of them had been younger than she was now; they had tasted even less of life.

Imogen forced a smile, and their eyes met for a long, steady moment. There was no need for Hester to speak her thanks. She was still painfully afraid, still uncertain what lay after the hangman's shed and the sudden darkness, but she would face it with the same dignity she had seen in others, and be fit to belong to the vast company who had already taken that path, and done it with head high and eyes unblinking.

Imogen knew when to leave, and she did not mar what was achieved by staying and talking of trivialities. She hugged Hester quickly, then with a swirl of her skirts, went to the door and demanded to be let out. The wardress came, regarded Imogen with contempt in her scrubbed face with its screwed-back hair, and then as Imogen stared back at her without flinching or averting her eyes, the contempt died away and was replaced by something that held envy and a flicker of respect. She held the door open and Imogen sailed through it without a word.

The last visitor in Newgate was Oliver Rathbone. He found Hester much calmer than on the previous occasion. She faced him with none of the barely suppressed emotion of earlier times, and far from being comforted, he found himself alarmed.

"Hester! What has happened?" he demanded. The moment the cell door was closed and they were alone, he went straight to her and took her hands in his. "Has someone said or done something to distress you?"

"Why? Because I am not so afraid anymore?" she said with a ghost of a smile.

It was on his tongue to say that she had given up. The very lack of anguish in her face meant that she was no longer struggling between hope and despair. There was no possibility of knowledge that she would be exonerated.

At this late date that could not be. She must have accepted defeat. Not for an instant did it occur to him that she had in fact killed Mary Farraline, either intentionally or by accident. He was furious with her for surrendering. How could she, after all the battles they had fought together for other people, and won? She had known physical danger the equal of most soldiers in the field, long hours, hardship, privation, and come through it all with high heart and passionate spirit intact. She had faced her parents' ruin and death and survived it. How dare she crumble now?

And yet he was bitterly aware that she could lose. The courage required was that which goes on fighting when there is no cause to hope, a blind courage without reason, even in the face of reason. How could he expect that of anyone?

Except that to see her vilified and snuffed out, her spirit silenced, never to be able to speak with her again, was a prospect which filled him with a void which was intolerably painful. His own professional failure did not even cross his mind. It was only long afterwards that the realization occurred to him with amazement.

"I have had a great deal of time to think about it," she went on quietly, cutting across his thoughts. "All the fear in the world is not going to change anything, only rob me of what little I have." She laughed a little jerkily. "And perhaps I am just too tired for anything which requires so much energy of mind."

All sorts of words of encouragement hovered on his lips: that there was plenty of time yet in which they could still learn something damning to one of the Farraline family, at least enough to raise doubts in any juror's eyes; that Monk was brilliant and ruthless, and would never give up; that Callandra had hired the services of the finest criminal lawyer in Edinburgh, and Rathbone would be at his elbow throughout; even that prosecutors frequently tripped themselves with overconfidence or that witnesses lied, were afraid, condemned each other out of fear or spite or greed, that they recanted lies when faced with me majesty of the law in session, contradicted themselves and each other. And all of the words died before he spoke them. All the truth had already been thought and known between them. To put words to them yet again, now when it was too late, would only show that after all he had not understood.

"We leave the day after tomorrow," he said instead.

"For Edinburgh?"

"Yes. I cannot travel with you; they will not permit it. But I shall be on the same train, and with you in heart." It flashed across his mind that the words sounded sentimental, but he had said precisely what he meant. All his emotions would be with her, with the mounting shame and embarrassment, the physical discomfort, because he knew she would be in manacles and that the wardress would not leave her for an instant, even for the most intimate necessities. But immeasurably more than that, they both knew it might be the last journey she would make, out of England forever.

"They danced all night on the eve of Waterloo," he said suddenly for no reason, except that the British had won that epochal battle.

"Who did?" she said with a wry smile. "Wellington-or the Emperor of the French?"

He smiled back. "Wellington, of course. Remember you are British!"

"The charge of the Light Brigade?" she countered.

He held her hands very hard. "No, my dear, never under my command. I have been desperate at times, but never foolhardy. If we must have that miserable war, then the Thin Red Line." He knew they were both familiar with those incredible hours when the Highland infantry had withstood charge after charge of the Russian cavalry. At times they had been only one man deep, and as each man had fallen another had replaced him. All through the dreadful slaughter-the line had not broken, and in the end it was the enemy who had retreated. Hester would have nursed men injured in that stand, perhaps she had even seen it from the heights.

"All right," she said with a catch in her voice. "The Heavy Brigade-win or lose."