The Sins of the Wolf

by Anne Perry

  She could not just continue to stand there, staring at the motionless form under the rug. She must tell the authorities, beginning with the conductor and the guard. Then of course when they reached the station there would be the stationmaster, and possibly the police. After that, infinitely worse, she would have to tell Griselda Murdoch. The thought of that made her feel a little sick.

  Better begin. Standing there would not help anything, and the contemplation of it was only adding to the hurt. Feeling numb she went to the compartment entranceway, in her awkwardness banging her elbow on the wooden partition. She was cold and stiff with tension. It hurt more than it would have normally, but she had no time for pain. Which way to go? Either. It made no difference. Just do something, don’t stand undecided. She went left, towards the front of the train.

  “Conductor! Conductor! Where are you?”

  A military man with a mustache peered around a corner and stared at her. He drew breath to speak, but she had rushed on.

  “Conductor!”

  A very thin woman with gray hair looked at her sharply.

  “Goodness, girl, whatever is the matter? Must you make so much noise?”

  “Have you seen the conductor?” Hester demanded breathlessly.

  “No I haven’t. But for heaven’s sake lower your voice.” And without further comment she withdrew into her compartment.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  She spun around. It was the conductor at last, his bland face unsuspecting of the trouble she was about to impart. Perhaps he was used to hysterical female passengers. She made an effort to keep her voice calm and under some control.

  “I am afraid something very serious has happened….” Why was she shaking so much? She had seen hundreds of dead bodies before.

  “Yes, miss. What would that be?” He was still quite unmoved, merely politely interested.

  “I am afraid Mrs. Farraline, the lady with whom I was traveling, has died in the night.”

  “Probably just asleep, miss. Some folk sleep very deep—”

  “I’m a nurse!” Hester snapped at him, her voice rising sharply. “I know death when I see it!”

  This time he looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Oh dear. You quite sure? Elderly lady, is she? Heart, I suppose. Took bad, was she? Ye should’a’ called me then, you know.” He looked at her critically.

  At another time Hester might have asked him what he could have done, but she was too distressed to argue.

  “No—no, she made no sound in the night. I just found her when I went to rouse her now.” Her voice was wavering again, and her lips almost too stiff to form the words. “I don’t know—what happened. I suppose it was her heart. She was taking medicine for it.”

  “She had forgot to take it, did she?” He looked at her dubiously.

  “No of course she didn’t! I gave it to her myself. Hadn’t you better report it to the guard?”

  “All in good time, miss. Ye’d better take me to your compartment and we’ll have a look. Maybe she’s only poorly?” But his voice held little hope and he was only staving off the moment of acknowledgment.

  Obediently Hester turned and led the way back, stopping at the entrance and allowing him to go in. He pulled the blanket back from the face and looked at Mary for only an instant before replacing it and stepping out again hastily.

  “Yes, miss. Afraid you’re right. Poor lady’s passed over. I’ll go and tell the guard. You stay ’ere, and don’t touch anything, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Maybe you’d better sit down. We don’t want you fainting or anything.”

  Hester was about to tell him she didn’t faint, and then changed her mind. Her knees were weak and she would be very glad to sit down again.

  The compartment was cold and, in spite of the rattle and jolt of the train, seemed oddly silent. Mary lay on the seat opposite, no longer in the comfortable position in which she had gone to sleep, but half turned over as Hester had left her, and the conductor had seen her upturned face. It was ridiculous to think of comfort, but Hester had to restrain herself from going and trying to ease her back to a more natural position. She had liked Mary, right from the moment they had met. She had a vitality and candor which were uniquely appealing, and had already awoken in Hester something close to affection.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the guard. He was a small man with a heavy mustache and lugubrious eyes. There was a smudge of snuff on the front of his uniform jacket.

  “Sad business,” he said dolefully. “Very sad. Fine lady, no doubt. Still, nothing to be done now to ’elp ’er, poor soul. Where was you takin’ ’er?”

  “To meet her daughter and son-in-law,” Hester replied. “They will be at the station….”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. Well, nothing else for it.” He shook his head. “We’ll let all the other passengers get orff, and we’ll send for the stationmaster. No doubt ’e’ll find this daughter. What’s ’er name? D’ye know ’er name, miss?”

  “Mrs. Griselda Murdoch. Her husband is Mr. Connal Murdoch.”

  “Very good. Well, I’m afraid the train is full, so I can’t offer you another compartment to sit in, I’m sorry. But we’ll be in London in another few moments. You just try to stay calm.” He turned to the conductor. “You got something as you can give this young lady, medicinal, like?”

  The conductor’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

  “Are you asking me if I got strong drink on me person, sir?”

  “Of course I in’t,” the guard said smoothly. “That’d be agin company policy. But I just thought as yer might ’ave had summink medicinal on yer, against the cold, or shock, or summink. For passengers, and the like.”

  “Well …” The conductor looked at Hester’s wan face. “Well, I suppose I might be able to find something—like …”

  “Good. You go and look, Jake, an’ if you can, you give this poor soul a nip, right?”

  “Yes sir! Right!”

  And he was as good as his word. Having “found” the forbidden brandy, he gave Hester a brimming capful and then left her again, muttering unintelligibly about duty. It was a further quarter of an hour, during which she was shivering cold and feeling increasingly apprehensive, before the stationmaster appeared in the compartment entranceway. He had a bland, curious face, auburn hair and, at the present moment, a severe cold in the head.

  “Now then, miss,” he said, and sneezed violently. “You’d better tell us exactly what happened to the poor lady. Who is she? And for that matter, who are you?”

  “Her name is Mrs. Mary Farraline, from Edinburgh,” Hester replied. “I am Hester Latterly, employed to accompany her from Edinburgh to London in order to give her her medicine and see that she was comfortable.” It sounded hollow now, even absurd.

  “I see. What was the medicine for, miss?”

  “A heart ailment, I believe. I was not told any details of her condition, only that the medicine must be given to her regularly, how much, and at what time.”

  “And did you give it to her, miss?” He regarded her under his eyebrows. “Ye’r sure you did?”

  “Yes, absolutely sure.” She rose to her feet and pulled down the medicine cabinet, opened it, and showed him the empty vials.

  “There’s two gone,” the stationmaster observed.

  “That’s right. I gave her one last night, at about a quarter to eleven, the other they must have used in the morning.”

  “But you only joined the train yesterday evenin’,” the conductor pointed out, peering over the stationmaster’s shoulder. “’ad to ’ave. It don’t start till evenin’.”

  “I know that,” Hester said patiently. “Perhaps they were short of medicine, or the maid was lazy, and this was already made up, ready to use. I don’t know. But I gave her the second one, out of this vial.” She pointed to the second one in its bed. “Last night.”

  “And how was she then, miss? Poorly?”

  “No—no she seemed very well,” Hester said
honestly.

  “I see. Well, we’d best put a guard on duty ’ere to see she in’t”—he hesitated—“in’t disturbed, and you’d better come and find the poor lady’s daughter who’s come to meet her, poor soul.” The stationmaster frowned, still staring at Hester. “You sure she didn’t call out in the night? You were here, I take it—all night?”

  “Yes I was,” Hester said stiffly.

  He hesitated again, then sneezed fiercely and was obliged to blow his nose. He looked at her carefully for several minutes, regarding her straight-backed, very slender figure, and making some estimate of her age, and decided she was probably telling the truth. It was not a flattering conclusion.

  “I don’t know Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch,” Hester said quietly. “You will have to make some sort of announcement in order to find them.”

  “We’ll take care of all that sort of thing. Now you just compose yourself, miss, and come and tell these poor souls that their mother has passed over.” He looked at her narrowly. “Are you going to be able to do that, miss?”

  “Yes—yes certainly I am. Thank you for your concern.”

  She followed after the stationmaster as he backed out of the entrance and led the way to the carriage door. He turned and assisted her to alight onto the platform. The outside air was sharp and cold on her face, smelling of steam and soot and the grime of thousands of dirty feet. A chill wind whistled along the platform, in spite of the roof overhead, and the noise of trollies, boot heels, banging doors and voices echoed up into the vast overhead span. She followed the stationmaster jostling through the thinning crowd as they reached the steps to his office.

  “Are they … here?” she asked, suddenly finding her throat tight.

  “Yes, miss. Weren’t ’ard to find. Young lady and gentleman looking to that train. Only ’ad to ask.”

  “Has anyone told them yet?”

  “No, miss. Thought it better to learn that from you, seein’ as you know the family, and o’ course knew the lady herself.”

  “Oh.”

  The stationmaster opened the door and stood back. Hester went straight in.

  The first person she saw was a young woman with fair auburn hair, waved like Eilish’s, but much duller in color, sandy rather than burning autumnal. Her face was oval, her features good, but lacking both the passion and the beauty of her sister. Compared with anyone else, she would have been handsome enough, in a quiet, very seemly sort of way, but having met Eilish, Hester could only see her as a shadow, a pale reflection. Perhaps in time, when her present condition had run its term and she was no longer plagued by anxieties, she could be more like Oonagh, have more vivacity and confidence in her.

  But it was the man beside her who spoke. He was three or four inches taller than she, his face bony, with hooded eyes and a habit of pursing his lips, which drew attention to his well-shaped mouth.

  “You are the nurse employed to accompany Mrs. Farraline on the train?” he demanded. “Good. Perhaps you can tell us what this is all about? Where is Mrs. Farraline? Why have we been kept waiting here?”

  Hester met his eyes for a moment in acknowledgment that she had heard him, then turned to Griselda.

  “I am Hester Latterly. I was employed to accompany Mrs. Farraline. I am deeply sorry to have to bring you very bad news. She was in excellent spirits last evening, and seemed to be quite well, but she passed away in her sleep, during the night. I think she could not have suffered, because she did not cry out….”

  Griselda stared at her as if she had not comprehended a word she had heard.

  “Mother?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you are saying. She was coming down to London to tell me—I don’t know what. But she said it would all be all right! She said so! She promised me.” She turned helplessly to her husband.

  He ignored her and stared at Hester.

  “What are you saying? That is not an explanation of anything. If Mrs. Farraline was in perfect health yesterday evening, she wouldn’t simply have”—he looked for the right euphemism—“have passed over—without … For heaven’s sake, I thought you were a nurse. What is the point of having a nurse to come with her if this is what happens? You are worse than useless!”

  “Come now, sir,” the stationmaster said reasonably. “If the good lady was getting on in years, and had a bad heart, she could have gone any time. It’s something to be grateful for, she didn’t suffer.”

  “Didn’t suffer, man? She’s dead!” Murdoch exploded.

  Griselda covered her face and collapsed backwards onto the wooden chair behind her.

  “She can’t be gone,” she wailed. “She was going to tell me … I can’t bear this! She promised!”

  Murdoch looked at her, his face filled with confusion, anger and helplessness. He seized on the refuge offered him.

  “Come now, my dear. There is some truth in what the stationmaster says. It was extraordinarily sudden, but we must be grateful that she did not suffer. At least it appears so.”

  Griselda looked at him with horror in her wide eyes. “But she didn’t—I mean, there wasn’t even a letter. It is vitally important. She would never have … Oh this is terrible.” She covered her face again and began to weep.

  Murdoch looked at the stationmaster, ignoring Hester.

  “You must understand, my wife was devoted to her mother. This has been a great shock to her.”

  “Yes sir, only natural,” the stationmaster agreed. “’Course it is. Would to anyone, especially a young lady o’ sensibility.”

  Griselda rose to her feet suddenly. “Let me see her!” she demanded, pushing her way forward.

  “Now really, my dear,” Murdoch protested, grasping her shoulders. “That would do no good at all and you must rest. Think of your condition….”

  “But I must!” She fought free of him and confronted Hester, her face so pale the dusting of freckles across her cheeks stood out like dirty marks. Her eyes were wild and staring. “What did she say to you?” she demanded. “She must have told you something! Something about her purpose in coming here—something about me! Didn’t she?”

  “Only that she was coming to reassure you that you had no cause for anxiety,” Hester said gently. “She was quite definite about that. You need have no anxiety at all.”

  “But why?” Griselda said furiously, her hands held up as if she would grasp Hester and shake her if she had dared. “Are you sure? She might not have meant it! She could have been simply—I don’t know—being kind.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hester replied quite frankly. “From what I saw of Mrs. Farraline, she did not speak idly in order to set someone’s mind at rest; if what she had said was not completely true, she need not have mentioned it at all. Of course it is extremely difficult for you at such a dreadful time, but I should try to believe that you really do have no cause for concern.”

  “Would you?” Griselda said eagerly. “Do you think so, Miss …”

  “Latterly. Yes I do.”

  “Come, my dear,” Connal said soothingly. “This is really not important now. We have arrangements to make. And you must write to your family in Edinburgh. There is a great deal to take care of.”

  Griselda turned to him as if he had been speaking a foreign language.

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry yourself. I shall attend to it all. I shall write this morning, a full letter with all that we know. If I post it today, it will go on the night train, and they will receive it in Edinburgh tomorrow morning. I will assume then that it was very quiet and she almost certainly felt nothing.” He shook his head a little. “Now, my dear, this has been a terrible day for you. I shall take you home where Mama can care for you.” His voice held a sudden relief at having thought of the ideal way of releasing himself from a situation beyond his ability. “You really must consider your … health, my dear. You should rest. There is nothing you can do here, I assure you.”

  “That’s right, ma’am,” the stationmaster said quickly. “You go with your husband.
’E is absolutely right, ma’am.”

  Griselda hesitated, shot another anguished look at Hester, then succumbed to a superior force.

  Hester watched her go with relief, and a sharp, sad memory of Mary saying how unnecessarily Griselda worried. She could almost hear Mary’s voice in her head, and the very humor in it. Perhaps she should have said more to comfort her. She had seemed more devastated by the lack of reassurance over her child than by her mother’s death. But perhaps that was the easier of the two emotions to face. Where some people retreated into anger, and she had seen that often enough, Griselda was grasping on to fear. Being with child, especially a first, could cause all kinds of strange turmoils in the mind, feelings that would not normally be so close to the surface.

  But Griselda was gone, and there was nothing she could add now. Perhaps in time Murdoch would think of the right things to say or do.

  It was nearly another hour of questions and repeated futile answers before Hester was permitted to leave the station. She had recounted to every appropriate authority the exact instructions she had been given in Edinburgh, how Mary had seemed during the evening, that she had made no complaint whatever of illness, on the contrary, she had seemed in unusually good spirits. No, Hester had heard nothing unusual in the night, the sound of the wheels on the track had obliterated almost everything else anyway. Yes, without question she had given Mrs. Farraline her medicine, one vial as instructed. The other vial had already been empty.

  No, she did not know the cause of Mrs. Farraline’s death. She assumed it was the heart complaint from which she suffered. No, she had not been told the history of the illness. She was not nursing her, simply accompanying her and making sure she did not forget her medicine or take a double dose. Could she have done so? No, she had not opened the case herself, it was exactly where Hester had put it. Besides which, Mary was not absentminded, nor approaching senility.