The Sins of the Wolf

chapter 8
Rathbone had written to Monk telling him which train he would take, without mentioning that it would be the same one on which Hester would be brought. Therefore when they pulled into Edinburgh's Waverley Station on a gray morning he was fully expecting to see Monk on the platform. A small part of him even hoped he would have some news, however slight, something which would provide a new thread to follow. Time was desperately short, and all he had so far were a few possible motives for other people, which a competent prosecutor would thrust aside as malicious and born of despair. They might or might not be malicious, but the despair was certainly there. He alighted onto the platform carrying his case and made his way towards the gates, oblivious of the people bumping against him.

He was not looking forward to meeting the Scottish lawyer, James Argyll. His reputation was formidable. Even in London his name was mentioned with admiration. Heaven knew what Callandra was paying him. He was not in the least likely to take any advice from Rathbone, and Rathbone had no idea whether he believed Hester innocent or was merely willing to take on what would undoubtedly be a celebrated case, for the sake of the victim, if not the accused. He was an Edinburgh man. He might have known the Farralines, certainly by repute if not in person. How hard would he try? How undivided would his loyalty be, or his dedication to victory?

"Rathbone? Rathbone, where the devil are you going?"

Rathbone swung around and came face-to-face with Monk, dressed immaculately and looking grim and angry. He knew without asking that there was no good news.

"To meet Mr. James Argyll," Rathbone said tartly. "He seems to be our only hope." He raised his eyebrows, opening his eyes wide. "Unless you have uncovered something you have not yet told me?" He was being sarcastic, and they both knew it Without words Monk had understood as well as he that neither of them had any practical ideas to follow, and the same desperation choked in each of them, the same sense of panic rose and made them breathless. They each felt towards the other the desire to hurt, to find fault. It was one of the many masks of fear. Behind them on the platform there was a commotion as people were pushing each other and craning to look, not forwards as might be expected, but back towards the rear of the platform where the guard's van stood.

"Oh God!" Rathbone said wretchedly.

"What?' Monk demanded, his face white.

"Hester..."

"What? Where?"

"In the guard's van. They've brought her up."

Monk looked as if he were about to strike him.

"It's the way they always do it," Rathbone said between his teeth. "You must know that Come on. There's no point in standing here gaping with the rest of the crowd. We can't help her."

Monk hesitated, loath simply to leave. The shouting and the catcalls were getting worse.

Rathbone looked up the platform towards the exit, then back down its length where a crowd was gathering. He was in an agony of indecision.

"Train murderess on trial!" a newsboy called out. "Read all about it here! Here, sir, ye want one? Penny, sir..."

There was a constable wending his way alone towards them, shouldering people aside.

"Now then, now then! On about your business. There's nothing to see. Just some poor woman come to stand trial. It'll all come out then. On your way, please! Come on, move along there."

Rathbone made up his mind, turning and starting off again towards the way out.

"When does the trial start?" Monk asked, matching him stride for stride, and at last the other passengers also scrambling with loss of dignity, and corresponding loss of temper.

"Impudent beggar!" an elderly man said furiously, but neither Monk nor Rathbone heard him. "Watch where you're going, sir! I really don't know... as if the police weren't enough. One can hardly travel decently anymore..."

"What are you basing the defense on?" Monk demanded as he and Rathbone strode through the gate and out towards the street. "That way." He indicated the steps up to Princes Street.

"I'm not," Rathbone said bitterly. "It's all up to Argyll."

Monk knew what the letter had said, and all the reasons, but it did nothing to ease his fear.

"For God's sake, doesn't Hester have anything to say about it?" he demanded as they burst out into Princes Street, nearly knocking over a pretty woman with a child in tow.

"I beg your pardon," Rathbone said abruptly to her. "Not a great deal, I imagine. I haven't met the man yet, I have only corresponded with him, and that was kept to the formalities. I have no idea whether he even believes she is innocent."

"You bloody incompetent!" Monk exploded, swinging around to face him. "You mean you have hired a lawyer to defend her without even knowing if he believes in her?" He grasped Rathbone by the lapels, his face twisted with fury.

Rathbone slapped him away with surprising violence. "I did not hire him, you ignoramus! Lady Callandra Daviot hired him. And belief in her innocence is a very pleasant thing to have, but in our parlous state it is a luxury we may not be able to afford. For a start, such a thing may not exist-in Edinburgh."

Monk opened his mouth to retaliate, then realized the truth of the remark and let it go.

Rathbone smoothed down his lapels.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Monk said acidly. "Let us go and see this man Argyll, and find out if he is any good."

"There is no point in being a crack shot if you have no ammunition," Rathbone said bitterly, turning to face the way they had been going and resuming his journey. He knew Argyll's address was in Princes Street itself, and had been advised it was easy walking distance from the station. "If you have no idea who did kill Mary Farraline, at least tell me who could have, and why. I presume you have something since you last wrote. It is three days."

Monk's face was tight and very pale as he fell in step with Rathbone again. For several moments they walked in silence, then finally he spoke, his voice rasping.

"I've been over the apothecaries again. I can't find the source of the digitalis, for Hester or anyone else..."

"So you wrote."

"Apparently there was a digitalis poisoning a few months ago here in Edinburgh. It received some attention. It may have given our killer the idea."

Rathbone's eyes widened. "That's interesting. Not much, but you are right, it may have prompted the idea. What else?"

"Our best chance still seems the bookkeeper. Kenneth Farraline has a mistress..."

"Not unusual," Rathbone said dryly. "And hardly a crime. What of it?"

Monk kept his temper with momentary difficulty. "She's expensive, and he is the company bookkeeper. Old Hector Farraline says the books were tampered with..."

Rathbone stopped and swung around.

"Why in God's name didn't you tell me that before?"

"Because it happened some time ago, and Mary already knew about it."

Rathbone swore.

"Very helpful," Monk said acidly.

Rathbone glared at him.

Monk continued walking. "The weakest point in this case seems to be the questions of timing. Hester could not have purchased the digitalis here in Edinburgh-at least it is almost impossible. And she could not have seen the pearl brooch until she was already in the train on the way back. She could only have done it if she had brought the digitalis with her from London, which is absurd."

"Of course it's absurd," Rathbone said between his teeth. "But I've seen people hanged on evidence as poor-when public hatred is deep enough. Haven't you sense, man?"

Monk swung around to face him. "Then you'll have to change the public mood, won't you." It was not a question but a demand. "That's what you're paid for. Make them see Hester as a heroine, a woman who gave up her own family and happiness to minister to the sick and injured. Make them see her in Scutari, passing all night along the rows of wounded with a lamp in her hand, mopping brows, comforting the dying, praying-anything you like. Let them see her braving shot and shell to reach the wounded without thought for herself... then returning home to fight the medical establishment for better conditions here... and losing her post for her impertinence, so she has to nurse privately, moving from post to post."

"Is that how you see Hester?" Rathbone asked, standing still in the middle of the footpath opposite him, his eyes wide, his lips almost in a smile.

"No, of course not!" Monk said. "She's an opinionated, self-willed woman doing precisely what she wants to do. But that is not the point." There was a faint color in his face as he said it, and it occurred to Rathbone that there was more truth in what Monk had said than he was prepared to admit. And Rathbone also realized with a shiver of surprise that he would not have found it difficult to put forward that picture of Hester himself.

"I can't," he said bitterly. "You seem to have forgotten that this is Scotland."

Monk swore viciously, and with several words Rathbone had not heard before.

"Oh very helpful," Rathbone said, mimicking his earlier tone exactly. "But I shall do all I can to see that Argyll uses that to the best advantage. I have achieved one thing." He tried to sound casual, and not too smug.

"Oh good-do tell me," Monk said sarcastically. "If there is something, I should like to know it!"

"Then hold your tongue long enough and I will!" They were walking again and Rathbone quickened his pace. "Florence Nightingale herself will come and testify as a character witness."

"That's marvelous!" Monk shouted with such exuberance two passersby pulled faces and shook their heads, supposing him intoxicated. "That's brilliant of you... it's..."

"Thank you. We have established that physically any member of the household could have killed Mary Farraline. What about motive?"

The elation vanished from Monk's face. "I thought I had two____________________"

"You didn't tell me!"

"They disappeared on examination."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly. Alastair's wife is extravagant, and goes out at night to meet a scruffy-looking individual dressed in working clothes and carrying a pocket watch."

Rathbone stopped in disbelief. "And that's not a motive?"

Monk snorted. "She's building a flying machine."

"I beg your pardon?"

"She is building a large machine, big enough to carry a passenger, which she hopes will fly," Monk elaborated. "In an old warehouse in the slum quarter. All right, she's eccentric..."

"Eccentric? Is that what you call it? I would have said insane."

"Most inventors are a trifle strange."

"A trifle? A flying machine?" Rathbone pulled a face. "Come on, man, she'll be locked up if anyone finds out."

"Probably that is why she does it in secret, and at midnight," Monk agreed, beginning to walk again. "But from what I've heard of Mary Farraline, she'd have been entertained by it. She certainly wouldn't have had her committed."

Rathbone said nothing.

"The other one is the middle daughter, Eilish," Monk resumed. "She also goes out at night, secretly, but alone. I followed her." He omitted mentioning that twice he had been knocked senseless for his pains. "And I found where she goes: down in Cowgate, which is a slum tenement area."

"Not another fantastical machine?" Rathbone said wryly.

"No, something far more elementary," Monk replied with a tone of surprise in his voice. "She is conducting her own ragged school for adults."

Rathbone frowned. "Why in the middle of the night? That seems a highly honorable thing to do!"

"Because presumably her pupils are at their labors during the day," Monk said waspishly. "Added to which, she has coerced her brother-in-law, who is in love with her, into giving her books from the family company for her pupils' use."

"You mean pilfering?" Rathbone chose to ignore the sarcasm.

"If you like. But again, I'm damned sure Mary would have approved heartily had she known. And she might have."

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "You didn't think to ask?"

"Ask whom?" Monk inquired. "Eilish would have said yes, if it mattered and she hadn't... The only other person to ask would have been Mary."

"And is that all?"

"The only other thing is the company books."

"We've no evidence to raise it," Rathbone pointed out. "You said Hector Farraline is as tight as a newt most of the time. His drunken ramblings, even if he's right, won't be enough to demand an audit. Is he fit to put in the witness-boxT'

"God knows."

They had stopped, having reached the building where James Argyll had his offices.

"I'm coming in," Monk stated.

"I really don't think..." Rathbone began, but Monk had marched ahead of him through the doors and up the stairs and there was nothing for him to do but follow.

The office was quite small, and not nearly as imposing as Rathbone had expected, being lined with shabby books on three sides, the fourth having a small fireplace with a hotly burning fire and paneled in wood of some African origin.

But the man himself was an entirely different matter. He was tall with powerful shoulders and muscular body, but it was his face which commanded attention. In his youth he must have been very dark, what was referred to as a black Celt, with fine eyes and olive complexion. Now what was left of his hair was grizzled gray, and his deeply lined face was full of humor and intelligence. When he smiled he had marvelous teeth.

"You must be Mr. Oliver Rathbone," he said, looking past Monk. His voice was deep and his accent was savored with relish, as if he were proud of being a Scot. He held out his hand. "James Argyll at your service, sir. I feel we have a great challenge in front of us. I have your letter stating that Miss Florence Nightingale is prepared to travel to Edinburgh to appear as a character witness for the defense. Excellent, excellent." He waved to one of the leather chairs and Monk sat in it. Without being asked, Rathbone took the other, and Argyll resumed his own seat.

"Did you have an agreeable journey?" he asked, looking at Rathbone.

"We have no time for chatter," Monk cut across him. "All we have to fight with are Miss Latterly's reputation and what we can make of Miss Nightingale. I presume you are well acquainted with her role in the war and how she is greatly regarded? If you were not before, you should be now."

"I am, Mr. Monk," Argyll said with unconcealed amusement. "And I am also aware that so far, it is all we have with which to fight. I presume you have still uncovered nothing factually relevant within the Farraline household? We will naturally consider the possible value of innuendo and suggestion, but as you will be aware by now, if you were not before, the family is well thought of in Edinburgh. Mrs. Mary Farraline was a woman of remarkable character, and Mr. Alastair is the Procurator Fiscal, a position close to that of your own Crown Prosecutor."

Monk took the irony and knew it was well deserved.

"You are saying that to make an unsubstantiated attack would count against us?"

"Yes, without question."

"Can we get the company books audited?" Monk leaned forward.

"I doubt it, unless you have evidence of embezzlement, and that it is likely to be connected with Mrs. Farraline's murder. Have you?"

"No... one can hardly count old Hector's ramblings."

Argyll's expression sharpened. 'Tell me more about old Hector, Mr. Monk."

In precise detail and without interruption, Monk recounted what Hector had said to him.

Argyll listened intently.

"Will you put him in the box?" Monk finished.

"Aye... I think I may," Argyll said thoughtfully. "If I can manage to do it without warning."

"Then he may be too drunk to be any use," Rathbone protested, sitting upright.

"And if I warn the family, they may make sure he is too drunk to stand up at all," Argyll pointed out. "No, surprise is our only weapon. Not good, I grant you, but all we have."

"What will you do?" Rathbone asked. "Elicit something which will necessitate your calling him as if by chance?"

Argyll's mobile mouth curved upward in appreciation. "Precisely. And I gather you have also obtained another Crimean colleague to appear for Miss Latterly?"

"Yes. A doctor who will speak very highly of her."

Monk stood up impatiently and swung away from the chair to pace the floor.

"None of that is any use if we cannot suggest who else killed Mrs. Farraline. She didn't die by accident, nor did she kill herself. Someone gave her a lethal dose, and someone put that pearl brooch in Hester's baggage, certainly to implicate her. You can't create doubt it was Hester unless you can point to someone else."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Monk," Argyll said quietly. 'That is where we still look to you. I think we may safely assume it was one of the family. You have effectively ruled out the servants, so Mr. Rathbone has told me."

"Yes, they can all account for their time in each other's company," Monk agreed. "And more importantly, there seems no earthly reason for any of them to have harmed her." He drove his hands into his pockets savagely. "It was one of the family, but I have no more idea now of which one than I had when I stepped off the train, except I don't believe it was Eilish. I think our best chance is Kenneth. He has a mistress the family doesn't approve of, and he is the company bookkeeper. He is also one of the weaker ones. You ought to be able to rattle him in the witness-box, if you are any good at your job."

Rathbone winced at Monk's abruptness, but he shared his emotion. He would tie Kenneth into a knot he'd never undo, if only he had the chance. Damn the differences between English and Scots law. Frustration churned inside him so violently he found it hard to keep still. He did not blame Monk for his restlessness or his manner.

Argyll leaned back in his chair, resting his fingertips together and staring at Monk without anger. "I'll be better at it, Mr. Monk, if you can find me cause to have those company books examined. I think young Mr. Kenneth may very well have embezzled a bawbee here and there to keep his mistress... but we'll need more than a suggestion if we are to say that to the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh."

"I'll get it for you," Monk said grimly.

Argyll raised his black eyebrows. "Legally, if you please. It will be no use to us otherwise."

"I know that," Monk said between his teeth. "There won't be a mark on him, nor will he have cause for a complaint of any sort. Just do your part."

Rathbone winced again.

Monk shot another glance at Argyll, then without speaking again opened the door and went out.

Hester had passed the journey from London to Edinburgh in the guard's van, in a state which was certainly not sleep, or anything like the rest that sleep should bring, and yet it had all the qualities of a dream. There was no sense of direction, she could as easily have been traveling south as north, and this time there was no footwarmer. She was manacled to the wardress, who sat rigid with anxiety, her face set like iron. Every time Hester closed her eyes she expected to see Mary Farraline when she opened them again, and hear her soft, cultured Highland voice with the Edinburgh intonation recounting some memory from the past, filled with humor and enjoyment.

She was the last to disembark from the train, and by the time she and the wardress stepped out onto the platform, most of the other passengers were moving towards the gates up into the street.

The police escort was there, four large constables holding truncheons and looking nervously from left to right.

"Come on, Latterly," the wardress said sharply, yanking at Hester's manacled hands. "No dithering around, now!"

"I'm not going to escape!" Hester said with wry contempt.

The wardress gave her a filthy look, and it was several seconds before Hester realized why. Then as the constables closed in around her, and there was an angry shout from a few yards away, suddenly she understood. They were here not to prevent her escape but to protect her.

A woman screamed.

"Murderess!" someone yelled hoarsely.

"Hang 'er!" another shouted out, and a surge of bodies buffeted the constables and they lurched forward, unwittingly almost knocking Hester off her feet.

A dozen yards away a newsboy was calling out about the trial.

"Burn her!" a voice shouted quite clearly and chillingly, a woman's voice, shrill with hatred. "Burn the witch! Put her to the fires!"

Hester felt herself chilled as if by ice. It was terrifying to feel such a passion thick in the air, it was a kind of madness. There was no reasoning with it, no logic, no pity. She had not even been tried yet.

A missile flew past her cheek and clattered against the carriage door.

"Now then, now then!" another constable's voice said with rising panic barely suppressed. "Move along. You got no business here. Move along or I'll have to take you in charge for disturbing the peace. You let the courts do their job. Time enough then for hanging. Move along..."

"Don't stare there, stupid!" The wardress tugged at Hester again, bruising her wrists where the manacles dug into her.

"Come on, miss, we can't stand about here," the largest constable said, more gently. "We got to keep you safe."

Hurriedly and awkwardly, still pushed and heaved by the crowd, now sullen, they made their way off the platform and up to the street.

They were driven in a closed van straight to the prison, where more wardresses awaited her, their faces hard, eyes angry.

She said nothing, asked no questions, and passed into the cell in silence, her head high, her thoughts islanded from them. She remained there until the middle of the afternoon, when she was escorted to another small room, bare but for a wooden table and two hard wooden chairs.

There was a man already there, tall and broad-shouldered, and to judge from his gray hair and beard and from the lines around his mouth, he was nearer sixty than fifty, but there was a quality of intense vitality in him which dominated the room, even though he remained motionless.

"Good afternoon, Miss Latterly," he said with courtesy, the irony of which reflected in his dark eyes. "I am James Argyll. Lady Callandra has retained me to represent you, since Mr. Rathbone cannot appear before the bar in Scotland."

"How do you do," she replied.

"Please sit down, Miss Latterly." He indicated the wooden chairs, and as soon as she had taken one, he took the other. He was watching her with curiosity and some surprise. She wondered with self-mockery what he had expected of her-perhaps a big, rawboned woman with the physical strength to carry wounded men off the battlefield, like Rebecca Box, the soldier's wife who had dared the shot and walked alone onto the field between the lines to bring back the falen across her shoulders. Or maybe he had envisioned a drunkard, or a slut, or an ignorant woman who could find no better employment than emptying slops and winding bandages.

Her heart sank, and she found it difficult to control her sense of despair so it did not show in her face or spill in tears down her cheeks.

"I have already spoken with Mr. Rathbone," Argyll was saying to her.

With a tremendous effort she mastered herself and looked back at him calmly.

"He has told me that Miss Nightingale is prepared to testify for you."

"Oh?" Her heart leapt and without warning hope came back with a ridiculous pain. All sorts of things that she held dear seemed possible again, things for which she had already endured the parting, at least in her mind: people, sights, sounds, even the habits of thinking of tomorrow, having time for which to plan. She found her body shaking; her hands on the table trembled and she had to grip them so hard the nails dug into the flesh to keep them still enough that he would not see. "That must be good..."

"Oh it is excellent," he agreed. "But showing the qualities of your character will not be sufficient if we cannot also show that someone else had both the opportunity and the motive to murder Mrs. Farraline. However, in discussing the matter with Mr. Monk..."

It was absurd how mention of his name made her stomach turn over and her breath catch in her throat.

He continued as if he had noticed nothing.

"... it seems as if Mr. Kenneth Farraline may have tampered with the company books in order to finance his affair with someone whom the family obviously consider unsuitable. How unsuitable and why, and how deeply he is entangled with her, whether there is a child or not, just what hold she has over him, we have yet to learn. I have dispatched Mr. Monk posthaste to uncover that If he is as excellent as Mr. Rathbone assures me, it should not take him above two days. Though I confess I wonder why he has not made it his business to learn it before now."

Her heart was tight in her throat. "Because unless you can prove that he has embezzled from the company, the fact that he has a mistress is irrelevant," she said gravely. "A great many men do, especially young, well-bred men who have no other involvements. In fact, I would hazard a guess it is more common than not."

His eyes widened in momentary surprise, then in undisguised admiration for her candor and her courage. He was a man whose admiration was not easily stirred.

"Of course you are right, Miss Latterly. And that is my task. It will require some legal endeavor to obtain audit for the company books, and I propose to put Mr. Hector Farral-ine in the witness-box in order to obtain it. Now if you please, we shall go through the order of the witnesses Mr. Gilfeather will call for the prosecution and what we may expect them to say."

"Of course."

He frowned. "Have you attended a criminal trial, Miss Latterly? You speak almost as if you are familiar with the procedure. Your composure is admirable, but this is not the time to mislead me, even in the name of dignity."

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Yes, Mr. Argyll, I have attended several, in the cause of my occasional assistance to Mr. Monk."

"Assistance to Mr. Monk?" he questioned. "Is there something of importance I have not been told?"

"I don't think it is of importance." She pulled a slight face. "I cannot imagine that the jurors, or the public, would find it respectable, and certainly not mitigating."

'Tell me," he demanded grimly.

"I first met Mr. Monk when he was investigating the murder of a Crimean officer named Joscelin Grey. Because of Mr. Grey's involvement with my late father, I was able to give Mr. Monk some assistance," she explained obediently, although she found her voice shaking. Funny how memory made that time now seem so dear. The quarrels dimmed into episodes which now seemed almost amusing. She could no longer feel the anger or the contempt she had for him then.

"Continue," Argyll pressed. "You speak as though it were not a single instance."

"It wasn't. I used my nursing experience to obtain a position with Sir Basil Moidore when Mr. Monk was investigating the death of Sir Basil's daughter."

Argyll's black eyebrows rose. "In order to assist Mr. Monk?" he said with unconcealed amazement. "I had not realized your devotion was so deep."

She felt a tide of color burn up her face.

"It was not a devotion to Mr. Monk," she said tartly. "It was the desire to see some sort of justice done. And it was my devotion to Lady Callandra which made me obtain a position in the Royal Free Hospital in order to learn more of the death of Nurse Barrymore. And the fact that I had known her in the Crimea, and formed a considerable regard for her. I became involved with General Carlyon's death because I was asked to by his sister, who is a friend of mine." She looked him very directly in the face, defying him to doubt her.

An almost imperceptible touch of color stained his cheeks, but there was still amusement in his eyes.

"I see. So you are indeed very familiar with the rules of evidence and the procedure of trial?"

"I... I think so."

"Very weD, forgive me for having seemed to patronize you, Miss Latterly."

"Of course," she said graciously. "Please continue."

The following day Monk spent from dawn until slightly before midnight investigating Kenneth Farraline and writing his findings to give to James Argyll, a pursuit which he believed to be largely pointless.

Rathbone had a wretched day. There was almost nothing he could accomplish. He had never cared so much about the outcome of a case, or been so helpless to influence one. A dozen times he almost set out to see Argyll again, and each time he resisted with difficulty, telling himself it would serve no purpose at all. But it was only the sting to his pride of running around after another barrister, particularly when it was the one taking his place, and the certainty that Argyll would read his nervousness like a billboard, that finally stayed him.

He knew that Callandra Daviot would be in Edinburgh for the trial, which began on the next morning, so she would have to come up on that day's train, unless she had already traveled and was here before him. By midafternoon he was at his wit's end and had paced the floor uselessly ever since picking without appetite over what should have been an excellent luncheon.

Late in the evening he was tired, but unable to relax sufficiently to retire. There was a knock on the door of the room he had taken. He whirled around.

"Come in!" he shouted, striding towards the doorway and almost being struck as the door opened and Callandra appeared in the entrance, followed immediately by Henry Rathbone, Rathbone's father. Of course he had told his father of the whole affair before he could read of it in the newspapers. The elder Rathbone had met Hester on several occasions and had formed a fondness for her. The sight of his tall, slightly stooped figure now, with his ascetic face and benign expression, was ridiculously comforting. And at the same time it awoke in the younger man emotions of both dependence and fierce protection he would rather not have been burdened with in the circumstances.

"Please excuse me, Oliver," Callandra said briskly. "I realize it is late, and I am possibly interrupting you, but I could not contain myself until morning." She came in as he stepped back, smiling in spite of himself. Henry Rathbone followed immediately after, searching Oliver's face.

"Come in," Rathbone invited, closing the door behind him. He very nearly said that they were not interrupting anything at all, then pride prevented him from such an admission. "Father! I had not expected you. It is good of you to have come."

"Don't be absurd." Henry Rathbone dismissed it with a shake of his head. "Of course I came. How is she?'

"I have not seen her since the night before she left London," Rathbone replied. "I am not her barrister here in Edinburgh. They will only allow Argyll in now."

"So what are you doing?" Callandra demanded, too restless to sit in either of the large armchairs available.

"Waiting," Rathbone answered bitterly. "Worrying. Racking my brain to think of anything we have left undone, any possibilities we could still pursue."

Callandra drew in her breath, then said nothing.

Henry Rathbone sat down and crossed his legs. "Well, pacing the floor is not going to help. We had better approach the matter logically. I presume there is no possibility this poison was administered accidentally, or intentionally by Mrs. Farraline herself? All right, there is no need to lose your temper, Oliver. It is necessary to establish the facts."

Rathbone glanced at him, smothering his impatience with difficulty. He knew perfectly well that his father did not lack emotion or care, indeed he felt painfully; but his ability to suppress his feelings and concentrate his brain irritated him, because he was so far from that kind of control himself.

Callandra sat down on the other chair, staring at Henry hopefully.

"And the servants?" Henry continued.

"Ruled out by Monk," Rathbone replied. "It was one of the family."

"Remind me again who they are," Henry directed.

"Alastair, the eldest son, the Procurator Fiscal; his wife, Deirdra, who is building a flying machine..."

Henry looked up, awaiting an explanation, his blue eyes mild and puzzled.

"Eccentric," Rathbone agreed. "But Monk is convinced she is otherwise harmless."

Henry pulled a face.

"Eldest daughter Oonagh Mclvor; her husband, Baud, who is apparently in love with his sister-in-law, Eilish, and is taking books from the company for her to use in her midnight occupation of teaching a ragged school. Eilish's husband, Quinlan Fyffe, married into the family and into the business. Clever and unappealing, but Monk knows of no reason why he should have wished to kill his mother-in-law. And the youngest brother, Kenneth, who seems our best hope at the moment."

"What about the daughter in London?' Henry asked.

"She cannot have been guilty," Rathbone reasoned with a sharp edge to his voice. "She was nowhere near Edin-buigh or Mary, or the medicine. We can discount her and her husband."

"Why was Mary going to visit her?" Henry asked, ignoring Rathbone's tone.

"I don't know. Something to do with her health. She is expecting her first child and is very nervous. It's natural enough she should wish her mother to be there."

"Is that all you know?"

"Do you think it would matter?" Callandra asked urgently.

"No, of course not." Rathbone dismissed it with a sharp flick of his hand. He stood leaning a little against the table, still unwilling to sit down.

Henry ignored his reply. "Have you given any thought as to why Mrs. Farraline was killed at that precise time, rather than any other?" he asked.

"Opportunity," Rathbone replied. "A perfect chance to lay the blame on someone else. I would have thought that was obvious."

"Perhaps," Henry agreed dubiously, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingertips together in a steeple. "But it seems to me also very possible that something provoked it at this precise time. You do not kill someone simply because a good opportunity presents itself."

Rathbone straightened up, at last a tiny spot of instinct caught inside him.

"Have you something in mind?"

"Surely it is worth giving close examination to anything that happened within three or four days immediately before Mrs. Farraline set out for London?" Henry asked. "The murder may have been an opportunist act after years of desire, but it may also have been precipitated by something that happened very shortly before."

"Indeed it may," Rathbone agreed, moving away from the table. "Thank you, Father. At last we have another avenue to explore. That is, if Monk has not already done it and found it empty. But he said nothing."

"Are you sure you cannot see Hester?" Callandra asked quickly.

"Yes I am sure, but I shall be in court, of course, and I may be permitted a few moments then."

"Please..." Callandra was very pale. Suddenly all the emotion they had been trying so hard to smother beneath practical action, intelligence and self-control poured into the silence in the warm, unfamiliar room, with its anonymous furnishings and smell of polish.

Rathbone stared at Callandra, then at his father. The understanding between them was complete; all the fear, the affection, the knowledge of loss hanging over them, the helplessness were too clear to need words.

"Of course I'll tell her," Rathbone said quietly. "But she knows already."

"Thank you," Callandra said.

Henry nodded his head.

The morning of the trial was cold, sharp and threatening rain. Oliver Rathbone walked briskly from the rooms he had taken just off Princes Street, up the steps of the mound towards the castle, then up Bank Street and sharp left onto the High Street. Almost immediately he was faced with the great Cathedral of St. Giles, half hiding Parliament Square, on the farther side of which was Parliament House, unused now since the Act of Union, and the High Court of Justiciary.

He crossed the square. No one knew or recognized him. He passed newspaper sellers not only pressing their news of today but promising all sorts of scandal and revelation for the next issue. The murderess of Mary Farraline was on trial. Read all about it. Learn the secrets known only to a few. Incredible stories for the price of a penny.

He walked past them impatiently. He had heard all these things before, but they had not hurt when it was only a client. It was to be expected and brushed aside. When it was Hester it had a power to wound in quite a new way.

He went up the steps, and even there, amid the black-gowned barristers, he was unknown. It was surprisingly disorienting. He was accustomed to recognition, even considerable respect, to younger men moving aside for him in deference, muttering to each other of his past successes, hoping to emulate them one day.

Here he was merely another spectator, albeit one who might sit near the front and occasionally pass a note to the counsel for the defense.

He had already made arrangements and obtained permission to see Hester for a few moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.

"Good morning, Mr. Rathbone," the clerk said stiffly. "If you will come this way, sir, I'll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment." And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial-or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.

He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray which she used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.

For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.

"G-good morning, Oliver," she said almost steadily.

How many more times would he be able to speak to her alone? Then they might part forever. There were all manner of things he wanted to say, emotional things, about caring for her, how intolerably he would miss her, the place in his life no one else would ever enter, let alone fill. He was uncertain exactly what that was, in a romantic sense, but he had no doubt at all about the love of friends, even its nature or its ineffable value.

"Good morning," he replied. "I have met Mr. Argyll, and I am very impressed with him. I think he will not fall short of his reputation. We may have every confidence in him." How dismally formal, and so little of what was in his mind.

"Do you think so?" she asked, watching his face.

"I do. I imagine he has given you all the appropriate advice about your conduct and your replies to him or Mr. Gilfeather?" Perhaps it was best to speak of nothing but business. It would burden her unbearably to be emotional now.

She smiled with an effort. "Yes. But I already knew it, from having heard you speak. I shall answer only as I am asked, speak clearly and respectfully, not stare too directly at anyone......"

"Did he say that?"

"No... but you would have, would you not?"

His smile was uncertain, even painful.

"I wouki-to you. Men do not like a woman who is too confident."

"I know."

"Yes..." He swallowed. "Of course you do."

"Don't worry. I shall behave myself meekly," she assured him. "And he also warned me what to expect the other witnesses to say, and that the crowd will be hostile." She gave a shaky sigh. "I should have expected that, but it is a very unpleasant thought that they have already judged me guilty."

"We will change their minds," he said fiercely. "They have not heard your evidence yet; they have only heard the prosecutor's view of things."

"I-"

But she got no further. There was a brisk knock on the door and it swung open to allow the warder in.

"Sorry, sir, but you'll have to be on your way. Got to take the prisoner up."

There was no time for anything further. Rathbone glanced at Hester once, forced a smile to his lips, then obeyed the orders and withdrew.

The High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh was not like the Old Bailey, and Monk was reminded again with an ugly jolt that they were in a different land. Although united by many common bonds and governed by one queen and one parliament, the law of the land was different, the history and the heritage were different, and until very recently in a long national memory, they had been as often enemies as friends. The borders were drenched with the blood of both sides, and the Auld Alliance was not with England but with France, England's foe down the centuries.

The titles were different, the clothes marginally so, and there were not twelve men to the jury, but fifteen. Only the majestic implacability of the law was unchanged. The jury had been empaneled, the prisoner charged and the proceedings commenced.

The prosecution was conducted by a huge, rambling man with a soft voice and flyaway gray hair. His face was benign and the lights shone on the bald crown of his head. Monk knew from deep instinct that his affability and gentle air of disorganization were a total sham. Behind the smile was a brain whetted to scalpel sharpness.

On the other bench, equally courteous but utterly different in attitude, was James Argyll. He looked grizzled and dangerous, like an old bear, his black eyes and sharp brows accentuating his air of intense concentration and the fact that he feared nothing and was deceived by no one.

How much was it a personal battle, with Hester's life to win or lose as the prize? These two must have met many times before. They must know each other as one can know only an adversary tested and tried to the limit. One can never know a friend in quite that way.

Monk looked at Hester in the dock. She was very white, her eyes focused far away, as if she were in a daze. Perhaps she was. This was reality so intense it was like no other, and therefore would seem unreal. Each sense would at times be so keen she would remember every grain of wood in the dock railing and yet not hear what was said. Or hear even an intake of breath from the clerk before her, or the wardress behind, or the crackle of the fires in the two grates at each side of the room, and yet not see the people in the gallery even if they moved or jostled each other the better to see.

The judge was seated above them, an elderly man with a narrow, clever face and crooked teeth, a long nose and fine hair. He must have been handsome in his youth. Now his character was too deeply marked and his erratic temper stamped his features.

The first witness for the prosecution was Alastair Farraline. There was a hush in the court and then a slow letting out of breath as his name was called. Everyone knew he was the Procurator Fiscal, a title to elicit both fear and respect in the law. A woman in the gallery gave a little scream of sheer pent-up emotion as he climbed to the witness-box, and the judge glared at her.

"Control yourself, madam, or I shall have you removed," he warned grimly.

She clapped both hands over her mouth.

"Proceed," the judge commanded.

Gilfeather thanked him and turned to Alastair with a smile.

"First of all, Mr. Farraline, may I extend to you the court's sympathy on the loss of your mother. A lady we all held in the highest esteem."

Alastair, pale and very upright, the light shining on his hair, tried to smile back, and failed.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Monk glanced at Hester, but she was immobile and staring at Alastair.

Immediately behind Argyll, Oliver Rathbone was so rigid that even from across the room Monk could see the fabric of his coat stretched across his shoulders.

"Now, Mr. Farraline," Gilfeather continued. "When your mother planned this journey south into England, did you always intend to send someone with her to care for her?"

"Yes."

"Why, sir? Why not one of her own servants? You have a sufficiency of servants, do you not?"

"Of course." Alastair looked puzzled and unhappy. "Mother's lady's maid had never traveled, and did not wish to. We were afraid her own nervousness would make her unsuitable as a companion, and possibly inefficient, especially at dealing with any difficulty or inconvenience which might arise."

"Naturally," Gilfeather agreed, nodding sagely. "You wished someone competent to take care in any contingency, therefore a woman who had traveled before."

"And a nurse," Alastair added. "Just in case the..." He swallowed. He looked wretched. "In case the tension of the journey should make Mother unwell."

The judge's mouth tightened. There was a rustle in the gallery.

Oliver Rathbone winced. Argyll sat expressionless.

"So you advertised for someone suitable?" Gilfeather prompted.

"Yes. We had two or three replies, but Miss Latterly seemed to us to be the best qualified and most suitable."

"She gave you references, of course?"

"Of course. She seemed excellent."

"Did you at any time have cause to doubt the wisdom of your choice prior to your seeing her off in Edinburgh station for the journey to London?"

"No. She seemed a perfectly acceptable young woman," Alastair answered. Never once did he glance at Hester, but kept his eyes studiously away from her.

Gilfeather asked him a few more questions, all fairly trivial. Monk's attention wandered. He looked for Oonagh's fair head and did not find her, but Eilish was easy to see, and Deirdra. He was surprised to see Deirdra looking straight back at him with pity, and something like conspiracy, in her eyes.

Or perhaps it was only the lamplight reflecting.

Gilfeather sat down amid a stir of excitement from the gallery. James Argyll stood up.

"Mr. Farraline..."

Alastair looked at him with a fixed, polite expression of dislike.

"Mr. Farraline." Argyll did not smile at him. "Why did you choose someone from London rather than Edinburgh? Have we no acceptable nurses in Scotland?"

Alastair's face tightened noticeably.

"I imagine so, sir. None of them answered our advertisement. We wished for the best we could find. A woman who had served with Florence Nightingale seemed to us above reproach."

There was a murmur around the crowd and mixed emotions, patriotic approval of Florence Nightingale and all she stood for in their minds, anger that her reputation should be besmirched, even vicariously, surprise, doubt and anticipation.

"You really considered such qualification necessary for so simple a task as administering a prepared dose to an intelligent and far from incapacitated lady?" Argyll said curiously. "Members of the jury may wonder why a local woman of sound reputation would not have served at least as well, and far less expensively in railway fares than sending for a stranger from London."

This time the rustle was agreement.

Monk shifted impatiently. It was a point so minor as to be worthless, too subtle for the jury even to understand, much less recall when the time came.

"We wanted someone accustomed to travel," Alastair repeated doggedly, his face pink, although it was impossible to tell what emotion lay behind the flushed cheeks and unhappy eyes. It could have been no more than grief, and certain embarrassment at being required to stand so publicly for everyone to stare at with such morbid interest. He was used only to honor, respect, even awe. Now his private affairs, his family and its emotions, were displayed and he was helpless to defend himself.

"Thank you," Argyll said politely, conveying neither belief nor disbelief. "Did Miss Latterly seem an entirely satisfactory person to you while she was in your house?"

Even if Alastair had wished to deny it, he was now in a position where he could not, or he would seem to have connived at whatever ill he had implied.

"Yes, of course," he said sharply. "I should never have permitted my mother to travel if I had suspected anything at all."

Argyll nodded and smiled. "In fact, would it be true to say that your mother seemed to get along particularly well with Miss Latterly?"

Alastair's face hardened. "Yes... I feel it would. A remarkably-" He stopped.

Argyll waited. The judged looked inquiringly at Alastair. The jurors all sat staring.

Alastair bit his lip. Apparently he had thought better of what he was going to say.

There was a murmur of sympathy around the room. Alastair's face tightened, loathing the public pity.

Argyll knew when he had stopped winning, even if he did not know why.

"Thank you, sir. That is all I have to ask you."

Gilfeather nodded benignly, and the judge excused Alastair with a further expression of sympathy and respect which Alastair accepted tight-lipped.

The next witness to be called was Oonagh Mclvor. She caused even more of a stir than Alastair. She had no title, no public position, but even if no one had known who she was, her air of dignity and suppressed passion would have commanded both respect and attention. Of course she was dressed entirely in black, but she was anything but drab. Her fair skin was delicate and warm and the gleam of her hair was plain beneath her black bonnet.

She climbed the steps deliberately and took the oath with an unwavering voice, then stood waiting for Gilfeather to begin. Not one of the fifteen jurors took his eyes from her.

Gilfeather hesitated, as if wondering how much to play on the jury's sympathy, then decided against it. He was a subtle man and saw no need to gild the lily.

"Mrs. Mclvor, did you concur in your brother's decision to employ a nurse from London for your mother?"

"Yes I did," she said slowly and calmly. "I confess I thought it an excellent idea. I thought as well as her professional abilities, and her experience in travel, she would be an interesting companion for my mother." She looked apologetic. "Mother had traveled considerably in her youth, and I think at times she missed the excitement of it. I thought such a woman would be able to talk with her about foreign parts and experiences that would be bound to entertain her."

"Most understandable." Gilfeather nodded. "I think in your circumstances I should have felt the same. And presumably that part of your arrangement lived up to your hopes."

Oonagh smiled bleakly, but did not answer.

"Were you present when Miss Latterly arrived, Mrs. Mclvor?" Gilfeather continued.

The questions were all as Monk had foreseen. Gilfeather asked them and Oonagh answered them, and the court listened with rapt attention, all except Monk, who stared around at first one face, then another. Gilfeather himself looked satisfied, even smug. Watching him, the jury could only believe he was completely in command of the whole procedure and held no doubt as to its outcome.

Monk resented it bitterly, while admiring the man's professionalism. He could not recall the trial of his mentor all those years ago. He did not even know in which court it had been held, but his helplessness now brought back waves of old emotion and grief. Then he had known the truth and had watched impotently while someone he had both loved and admired had been convicted of a crime he had not committed. Then Monk had been young and looking with incredulity at the injustice, not believing until the last possible moment that it could really happen. Afterwards he had been stunned. This time it was all too familiar, an old wound with scar tissue ripped away to reveal the unhealed depths, and probed anew.

At the defense table James Argyll sat with his black brows drawn down in thought. His was a dangerous face, full of strength and subtlety, but he was a man without weapons. Monk had failed him. Deliberately he used the word over and over to himself. Failure. Someone had killed Mary Farraline, and he had not found any trace of who it was or why it had happened. He had had weeks in which to seek, and all he had produced was that Kenneth had a pretty mistress with long yellow hair, white skin and a determination never to be cold and hungry again, or to sleep in some strange bed at some man's favor, because she had not one of her own.

Actually Monk sympathized with her more than he did with Kenneth, who had been forced to part with more expensive gifts than he had wished, in order to keep her favors.

But unless someone could raise adequate suspicion of embezzlement to have the company books audited, and embezzlement was in fact proved true, then it was possibly scandalous, although not probably, and it was certainly no cause for murder.

Monk looked at Rathbone and in spite of himself felt a stab of sympathy. To a stranger he appeared merely to be listening, his head a trifle to one side, his long face thoughtful, his dark eyes heavy-lidded as if his attention were entirely involved. But Monk had known him long enough and seen him under pressure before. He could see the angle of his shoulders hunched under his beautiful jacket, the stiffness of his neck and the slow clenching and unclenching of his hand on the table, and he felt the frustration boiling inside him. Whatever he thought or whatever emotions churned inside him, there was nothing he could do now. Whatever he would have done differently, whether it was a whole strategy or as little as an intonation or an expression of the face, he could only sit silently and watch.

Oonagh was answering Gilfeather's questions about the preparation for Mary's journey.

"And who packed your mother's case, Mrs. Mclvor?"

"Her lady's maid."

"Upon whose instructions?"

"Mine." Oonagh hesitated only a fraction of a moment, her face pale, her head high. No one in the court moved. "I prepared a Est of what should go in, so Mother would have everything she needed and... and not too many dinner gowns rather than plain day dresses, and skirts. It... it was not a social visit... not really."

There was a murmur of sympathy like a breath of wind around the room. The personal details brought the reality of death more sharply.

Gilfeather waited a second or two, allowing the emotions time.

"I see. And naturally you included the appropriate jewelry on this list?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you packed this list in the case?"

"Yes." The ghost of a smile crossed her face. "So the maid who packed for her return would have something by which to know what should be there, and nothing would accidentally be left behind. It can be very tiresome..." She did not need to finish.

Again the sense of the dead woman filled the room. Someone in the gallery was weeping.

"Which brings me to another point, Mrs. Mclvor," Gilfeather said after several moments. "Precisely why was your mother making this long journey to London? Would it not have been more sensible for your sister to have returned to Edinburgh, and then been able to visit the whole family?"

"Normally speaking, of course," Oonagh agreed, resuming her calm, intelligent tone. "But my sister is recently married and expecting her first child. She could not travel, and she was very anxious to see Mother."

"Indeed? And do you know why that was?"

There was a complete silence in the court. One woman coughed discreetly and the sound was like gunfire.

"Yes... she was concerned... afraid that her child might not be quite normal, might be afflicted with some hereditary illness____________________" The words dropped one by one, carefully enunciated, into a pool of expectancy. There were gasps around the room. The jurors sat motionless. The judge turned sharply towards her.

Rathbone's head came up, his expression tense.

Argyll's eyes searched Oonagh's face.

"Indeed," Gilfeather said very softly. "And what did your mother propose to do about these fears, Mrs. Mclvor?" He did not ask what the illness was, and Monk heard the whisper and rustle around the crowd as a hundred people let out their breath in release of tension and disappointment.

Oonagh paled a little. Her chin lifted. She knew their thoughts.

"She was going to assure her that the disease of which my father died was contracted long after she was born and was in no way hereditary." Her voice was very level, very clear. "It was a fever he developed while serving in the army abroad, and it damaged his internal organs, eventually killing him. Griselda was too young to have remembered it accurately, and I suppose at the time of Father's death she was not told. No one thought it would matter to her." She hesitated. "I am sorry to say so, but Griselda worries about her health far more than is necessary or natural."

"You are saying her anxiety was without cause?" Gilfeather concluded.

"Yes. Quite without cause. She would not believe that easily, and Mother was going to see her in person to convince her."

"I see. Very natural. I am sure any mother might well have done the same."

Oonagh nodded but did not reply.

There was a faint air of disappointment around the room. Some people's attention wandered.

Oonagh cleared her throat.

"Yes?" Gilfeather said immediately.

"It is not only my mother's gray pearl brooch which was missing," she said carefully. "Although of course we have that back now."

Now the attention was returned in full. No one fidgeted anymore.

"Indeed?" Gilfeather looked interested.

"There was also a diamond brooch of a great deal more £

value," Ooaagh said gravely. "It was commissioned from our family jeweler, but it was not among my mother's effects."

In the dock Hester straightened up sharply and leaned forward, amazement in her face.

"I see." Gilfeather stared at Oonagh. "And the estimated worth of the two pieces, Mrs. Mclvor?"

"Oh, a hundred pounds or so for the pearls, and perhaps a little more for the diamonds."

There was a gasp of breath around the room. The judge frowned and leaned forward a little.

"A very considerable sum indeed," Gilfeather agreed. "Enough to buy a great many luxuries for a woman living from one chance job to another."

Rathbone winced, so slightly perhaps only Monk saw it, but he knew exactly why.

"And was this diamond brooch on the list to be packed for London?"

"No. If Mother took it, it was a last-minute decision of her own."

"I see. But you have not found it among her effects?"

"No."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mclvor."

Gilfeather stepped back, indicating graciously that Argyll might proceed.

Argyll thanked him and rose to his feet.

"This second piece of jewelry, Mrs. Mclvor; you did not mention it earlier. In fact, this is the first time we have heard it referred to. Why is that?"

"Because we did not previously realize that it was missing," Oonagh answered reasonably.

"How odd! Such a valuable piece must surely have been kept in a safe place, a locked jewel casket or something of the like."

"I presume so."

"You don't know."

She looked uncertain. "No. It was my mother's, not mine."

"How many times have you seen her wear it?"

"I-" She watched him carefully with that same clear, direct look Monk remembered facing himself. "I don't recall seeing her wear it"

"How do you know she had it at all?"

"Because it was commissioned from our family jeweler, paid for and taken."

"By whom?"

"I see your point, Mr. Argyll," she granted. "But it is not mine, nor my sister's, nor does it belong to my sister-in-law. It can only have been my mother's. I daresay she wore it on some occasion when I was not present and so I have never noticed it."

"Is it not possible, Mrs. Mclvor, that it vas a gift for someone else, and not for a member of your family at all?" he suggested. "That would account for why no one has seen it and it is not mere now, would it not?"

"If it were the truth, yes," Oonagh said dismissively, "But it was very expensive indeed to give someone who is not a member of the family. We are generous, I hope, but not extravagant"

Heads nodded. One woman stifled a giggle, and the man next to her glared at her.

"So you are saying, Mrs. Mclvor, that the brooch was commissioned and yet no one has seen it, although it was paid for, is that right? You are not saying that you have any evidence to suggest that Miss Latterly has it, or ever has had?"

"She had the pearl brooch," Oonagh pointed out. "Even she does not deny that"

"No, indeed not," Argyll agreed. "She made every effort to return it to you as soon as she discovered it. But she has not seen the diamond brooch, any more than you have."

Oonagh flushed, opened her mouth, and then changed her mind and remained silent.

Argyll smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Mclvor. I have nothing further to ask you."

It was another tiny point gained, but the momentary elation vanished almost as soon as it came. Gilfeather was amused. He could afford to be.

He called the conductor from the train on which Mary Farraline and Hester had traveled. He said exactly what was expected. No one else, as far as he knew, had gone into the carriage. The two women had been alone the entire journey. Yes, Mrs. Farraline had left the compartment at least once, to attend the requirements of nature. Yes, Miss Latterly had called him in a state of some distress to report the death of the elder lady. He had gone along to see, and indeed, he deeply regretted to say so, but she had been dead. He had done his duty as soon as he had arrived in London. It was all very sad.

Argyll knew well enough not to alienate the jury by questioning what was too well established to state, and he would only harass an ordinary little man following his calling. He waved away his opportunity to cross-examine with a flick of his hand and an inclination of Ms head.

The stationmaster also said only what was entirely predictable, if in places self-important, nervous and melodramatic.

Again Monk's attention wandered to the faces around the room. He was able to watch Hester for several moments because she was staring at the witness-box. He regarded her curiously. She was not beautiful, but tense, frightened as she was now, there was a quality of refinement in her which was like a kind of beauty. It was stripped of all artifice or pretense, even the mask of usual good manners, and its very honesty caught the emotions. He was surprised how familiar she seemed, as if he had known every line of her entire being, every flicker of expression that would cross her features. He thought he knew what she was feeling, but he was powerless to give her anything.

The sense of helplessness was so intense it was like a pain in his chest. But even if he could have spoken to her, he knew there was nothing to say which she did not already know. Perhaps it would have helped if he could have lied. He would never know that, because he could not. He would not do it well, and to do it badly would only place a barrier between them which would make it all worse.

Oonagh had remained in the courtroom. He could see her fair hair across her brow beneath the brim of the dark bonnet. She looked calm and brave, as if she had spent hours alone in deep thought and self-mastery before she had left Ainslie Place to come here, and now nothing would break through her composure.

Did she know who had killed her mother? Did she guess, knowing her siblings as well as she did? He studied her features, the smooth brow, the level eyes, the long straight nose, the full mouth, almost perfectly shaped. Each feature was good, and yet the whole had too much power in it for ordinary beauty. Had she taken over the mantle of leadership on Mary's death? Was she protecting the family honor, or one individual member's weakness or evil?

Even if he found out who it was, he might never know that.

If?

Coldness enveloped him. He had unwittingly voiced the fear he had denied so scrupulously ever since he had come to Edinburgh. He dismissed it violently.

It was one of the Farralines. It had to be.

He turned from Oonagh to Alastair, sitting beside her, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stationmaster giving his evidence. He looked haunted, as though the burden of the public trial of his family's tragedy were more than he could bear. As Monk had seen once or twice before, it seemed to be his sister upon whom he leaned for support rather than his wife. Deirdra was there, certainly, and sitting next to him, but his body was inclined to the left, closer to Oonagh, and his right shoulder was half turned, excluding Deirdra.

Deirdra stared straight ahead of her, not ignoring Alastair so much as simply more interested in the proceedings. There was barely any concern or anxiety in her face with its calm brow, tip-tilted nose, and sturdy chin. If she suspected any impending tragedy, she was a consummate actress.

Kenneth was not in the room, nor had Monk expected him to be. He would be called to testify, and therefore was not permitted in yet, in case he overheard something that in some way altered what he would say. It was the law. Eilish was here, like a silent flame. Baird, on the far side of Oonagh, was also turned a little away, not obviously, simply a withdrawing of himself. He did not look at Eilish, but even from the far side of the room, Monk felt the iron control he was exerting on himself not to.

Quinlan Fyffe was absent, presumably because he too would be called.

The stationmaster finished his evidence and Argyll declined to question him. He was excused and replaced by the doctor who had been sent for and had certified that Mary Farraline was indeed dead. Gilfeather was very kind to him, seeking not to embarrass him for having diagnosed the death as due to ordinary heart failure and in no way worthy of further investigation. Even so, the man was uncomfortable and answered in monosyllables.

Argyll rose and smiled at him, then sat down without saying anything at all.

It was late in the afternoon. Court was adjourned for the day.

Monk left immediately, hurrying to find Rathbone and learn his judgment of how the day had gone. He saw him on the steps and caught up with him just as he and James Argyll climbed into a hansom cab.

Monk stopped at the curb and swore vehemently. His better sense knew perfectly well that Rathbone could tell him nothing he did not know for himself, and yet he was infuriated not to have been able to speak to him. He stood still for several minutes, too angry to think what to do next.

"Were you looking for Oliver, or just for the cab, Mr. Monk?"

He turned around sharply to find Henry Rathbone standing a few feet away. There was something in the anxiety in his gentle face, and vulnerability in it, which robbed him of his rage and left only his fear, and the need to share it.

"Rathbone," he replied. "Although I don't suppose he could have told me anything I haven't seen for myself. Were you in the court? I didn't see you."

"I was behind you," Henry Rathbone replied with a faint smile. "Standing. I was too late for a seat." They started to walk and Monk fell in step beside him. "I hadn't realized there would be so much public interest. It is the least attractive side of people, I think. I prefer people individually; in a crowd I find they so often take on each other's least admirable qualities. A pack instinct, I suppose. The scent of fear, of something wounded-" He stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry."

"You're right," Monk said grimly. "And Gilfeather is good." He did not add the rest of the thought. It was unnecessary.

They walked in a strangely companionable silence for several yards. Monk was surprised. The man was Rathbone's father, and yet he felt a liking for him as if he had known him for years and the relationship had always been comfortable. Instead of resenting Hester's liking for him, he was pleased. There was something in Henry Rathbone's face, his rather awkward gait, his long legs, not quite straight, which brought back faint, indistinct memories of being a young man, admiring his mentor intensely, almost without question. He had been very naive then. It seemed like another man whose innocence he looked at as he would a stranger's, only the feeling was within him, unaccountably sharp for just those few moments.

There was a legless beggar sitting on the footpath, an old soldier from some war gone from the public mind. He was selling small pieces of white heather bound into nosegays for luck.

Suddenly Henry Rathbone's eyes filled with agonized tears of pity. Wordlessly he smiled at the man and offered him sixpence for two bunches. He took them and walked in silence for several more paces before passing one to Monk.

"Don't lose hope," he said abruptly as they stepped off the curb and across the street. "Argyll is clever too. One of the family is responsible. Think what that person must be feeling! Think of the guilt, no matter what passion drove him or her to do it, whether it was fear or greed, or hatred for some wrong, real or imagined. There is still a terror, in all but the totally mad, for having taken such an irretrievable step."

Monk said nothing, but kept in step with him, thoughts turning over in his mind. What Henry Rathbone said was true. Someone was laboring under a driving passion which must include both fear and guilt.

"And perhaps a kind of elation," Henry went on. "The culprit seems to have won, to be on the brink of victory."

Monk grunted. "What kind of victory? Achievement of something or escape from some danger? Is it elation or relief?"

Henry shook his head, his face troubled. The darkness of it touched him, both for Mary Farraline and for whichever of her children, or children by marriage, had killed her.

"Pressure," he said, continuing to shake his head. "The process of the law may reach them, you know. That is what Oliver would do. Question. Probe. Play on their doubts of each other. I hope Argyll will do the same."

Neither of them said anything about Hester, but Monk knew Henry Rathbone was thinking of her too. There was no need to talk of winning or losing. It was always just below the surface of their words anyway, too painful to touch. They walked on together in silence up the Lawnmarket.