by Anne Perry
Hamish had been an entirely different matter. He had been hardworking, inventive, daring in business and obviously extremely successful. The company made a magnificent profit, and had grown from very small beginnings into one of the finest printers in Edinburgh, if not in Scotland. It did not employ a large number of people, preferring quality to quantity, but its reputation was without stain.
Hamish himself had been a gentleman, but not in the least pompous. Maybe he had sown a few wild oats here and there, but that was usual enough. He had been discreet. He had never embarrassed his family and there was no scandal attached to his name. He had died eight years ago, after declining health for some time. Towards the end he had left the house very little. Possibly he had suffered a series of strokes; certainly his movement had been impaired. It was not an uncommon occurrence. Very sad to lose such a fine man.
Not that his son was not an excellent man also. Less able in business, and not unwilling to turn over the management of the company largely to his brother-in-law Baird McIvor. McIvor was a foreigner, mind: English, but not a bad man for all that. A bit moody now and then, but very capable, and was honest as you like. Mr. Alastair was the Procurator Fiscal, and that could hardly leave him time for affairs of business as well. And a fine Fiscal he was, too, an ornament to the community. A trifle pompous for some tastes, but then a Fiscal should be of a serious mind. If the law was not a grave matter, what was?
Did he sow a few wild oats as well? No one had heard tell of it. He hardly seemed the type of man to do that. No scandal attached to his name at all.
Well, there was the Galbraith case, but that scandal was around Mr. Galbraith, not the Fiscal.
Monk asked about the Galbraith case, although he thought he already knew.
He was told largely what he had heard before: Galbraith had been charged with fraud; a very large sum of money was involved. Everyone felt sure there would be a conviction when the matter came to trial, then the Fiscal had declared that there was insufficient evidence to bring the case before the court, so Galbraith had escaped prison—but not disgrace, at least not in the public opinion. Hardly the Fiscal’s fault.
And Mary Farraline?
Now there was a lady indeed! Every attribute one could admire, dignity, unfailingly courteous to all, no arrogance about her, civil to everyone, rich and poor. That was the mark of quality, was it not? Always elegant, never ostentatious.
Her personal reputation?
Don’t be absurd. One would not even think of such a question in regard to Mrs. Farraline. Charming, but never overfriendly with anyone at all. Devoted to her family. Well yes, she had been a fine-looking woman in her youth, and naturally there would have been admirers. She was not without humor and enjoyment of life, but that was quite a different thing from suggesting improper behavior or the breath of scandal.
Of course. And the present generation?
Well enough, but not of her quality, except perhaps Miss Oonagh. Now there was another lady. Like her mother, she was, quiet, strong, intensely loyal to family … and clever too. Some said it was as much her brains that ran the company as her husband’s. That could be true. But if it was, it was no one else’s affair.
Monk arrived at Ainslie Place armed with a great deal more knowledge of the family’s status in society and their good reputation, but nothing that he could see in any way would gain him the least idea of who killed Mary Farraline, let alone proof of it.
He was received civilly by McTeer, who now regarded him with discreet interest, albeit still total disapproval. As on previous occasions he was shown into the withdrawing room, where most of the family was assembled. Only Alastair seemed to be missing.
Oonagh came forward to greet him, a half smile on her lips.
“Good evening, Mr. Monk.” She met his eyes with a level look, far too candid and intelligent to be flattering in the usual sense, but he found the fact that she was interested enough not to be merely polite of more value than another woman’s flirtation would have been. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, and finding Edinburgh a most remarkable city,” he replied, meeting her look with an equal mixture of ardor in his eyes and conventions on his lips.
She turned to the others, and he followed her, exchanging polite acknowledgments, words on health and the weather and the other trivialities people use when they have nothing of importance to say.
Hector Farraline was present this evening. He looked appalling. His face was so pale the freckles across his cheeks stood out and his eyes were red-rimmed. Monk guessed he must be taking a bottle of whiskey a day to be looking so ill. At this rate it would only be a short time before he drank himself to death. He was sitting slightly splayed out on the largest sofa. He regarded Monk with puzzled interest, as if he were measuring up his role in events.
Monk saw Deirdra with the same pleasure as before. She really was a most individual woman, but not even her dearest friend could have said her gown was highly fashionable. Monk accepted that she was apparently extravagant with dress, but his own immaculate taste knew a good gown when he saw one, and hers was certainly not. The fabric was excellent and there was carefully stitched jet beadwork on the bodice, but the skirt was poorly proportioned. The lowest tier was too short, which on a small woman was all the more unfortunate. The sleeves seemed to have been lifted at the shoulder, and caused something of a pleat where there should not have been one.
But none of these things were of any importance. They showed individuality and made her seem curiously vulnerable, a quality which always appealed to him.
He accepted the wine offered, and stood a little closer to the fire.
“Have you occupied your time successfully?” Quinlan inquired, looking at him over the top of his own glass. It was impossible to tell if his question was ironic or not.
Monk could think of nothing to reply that would elicit a useful response. He was beginning to feel desperate. Time was running short and so far he had heard nothing at all of use to Hester. How much had he to lose by more dangerous tactics?
“I know a great deal more about your family,” he said with a smile of amusement rather than warmth. “Some of it facts, some opinion, much of it of interest one way or another.” That was a lie, but he could not afford the truth.
“About us?” Baird said quickly. “I thought you were investigating Miss Latterly?”
“I’m investigating the entire circumstance. But certainly, if you recall, I said that I knew a great deal more, not that I had pursued the knowledge as my primary goal.”
“The difference seems academic.” Quinlan for once sided with Baird. “And what is interesting about it? Did they tell you I married the beautiful Eilish Farraline almost out of the arms of her previous suitor? A young man of good breeding and no money, of whom her family disapproved.”
Baird’s face darkened, but he bit his tongue rather than respond.
Eilish looked momentarily unhappy, glanced at Baird, but he was looking away from her, then at Quinlan with dislike.
“How fortunate that they approved of you,” Monk said expressionlessly. “Was that personal charm, an influential family, or merely wealth?”
Oonagh drew her breath in sharply, but there was amusement glittering in her eyes, and an appreciation of Monk which he could not fail to see was growing increasingly personal. He felt an acute satisfaction in it; in fact, were he honest he would have acknowledged it as pleasure.
“You would have to have asked Mother-in-law,” Deirdra said at last. “I imagine she was the person whose approval mattered. Of course in many ways Alastair … but he would be guided in such things. I don’t know why he did not care for the other young man. He seemed perfectly agreeable to me.”
“ ‘Perfectly agreeable’ is neither here nor there,” Kenneth said with a touch of bitterness. “Not even money is everything, unless it is thousands. It is all respectability—isn’t it, Oonagh?”
Oonagh looked at him with patience and acute perception.
“For heaven’s sake, please don’t tell us where it is,” Quinlan said quickly, looking at Kenneth. “The answer is only too obvious.”
“Well, I am still none the wiser,” Baird said, staring at Quinlan. “You have no fortune, your family has never been mentioned, and personal charm is not even worth considering.”
Oonagh looked at him with an unreadable expression. “We Farralines do not need money or family allegiances. We marry where we wish to. Quinlan has his qualities, and as long as they please Eilish, and we gave our approval, that is all that matters.” She smiled at Eilish. “Isn’t it, dear?”
Eilish hesitated; a curious play of emotions fought in her expression, then finally it softened with something like apology and she smiled back. “Yes, of course it is. I loathed you at the time for agreeing with Mother. In fact, I thought you were largely to blame. But now I can see I would never have been happy with Robert Crawford.” She glanced at Baird, and away again. “He was certainly not the right person for me.”
A flush of color spread up Baird’s cheeks, and he looked away.
“Romantic love,” Hector said, more to himself than apparently to anyone else. “What a dream … what a beautiful dream.” There was reminiscence in his tone and his eyes were not focused on anything.
They all studiously ignored him.
“Does anyone know what time we may expect Alastair?” Kenneth asked, looking from Deirdra to Oonagh. “Are we going to have to wait dinner for him … again?”
“If he is late,” Oonagh replied coolly, “it will be for an excellent reason, not because he is inconsiderate or has some social entertainment he prefers.”
Like a small boy Kenneth pulled a face, but he said nothing. Monk formed the distinct impression he did not dare to, dearly as he would have liked.
Conversation struggled on for another ten or fifteen minutes. Monk found himself talking with Deirdra, mostly by design, not to obtain Oonagh’s information but because he enjoyed her company. She was an intelligent woman, and seemed to be devoid of the sort of artifice he disliked. He watched Eilish out of the comer of his eye, but her luminous beauty did not appeal to him. He preferred character and wit. Sheer beauty lent an aura of invulnerability, and was peculiarly unattractive to him.
“Have you really found out anything about poor Mother-in-law’s death, Mr. Monk?” Deirdra asked gravely. “I do hope the affair is not going to drag on and cause more and more distress?” The lift in her voice made it a question and her dark eyes were full of anxiety.
She deserved the truth—although he would not have hesitated to lie even to her, had he thought it would serve its purpose.
“I am afraid I can think of no way in which it will be resolved easily,” he replied. “Criminal trials are always unpleasant. No one is going”—he forced himself to say it—“to be hanged without doing everything they know how to avoid it.”
Suddenly and ridiculously he was overwhelmed with a blinding hatred for them all, standing in this warm room waiting to be called in to dinner. One of them had murdered Mary Farraline and was going to allow the law to murder Hester in his or her place. “And no doubt a good defense lawyer will try to spread blame and suspicion somewhere else,” he added between his clenched teeth. “Of course it will be unpleasant. She is fighting for her life. She is a brave woman who has faced loneliness, privation and physical danger before. She won’t surrender. She will have to be beaten.”
Deirdra was staring at him, her face drawn, her eyes wide.
“You speak as if you knew her well,” she said in little more than a whisper.
Monk checked himself instantly, like a runner tripping and regaining his balance.
“It is my business to, Mrs. Farraline. I can hardly defend the prosecution’s interest if I am unfamiliar with the enemy.”
“Oh … no, I suppose not. I had not thought of that.” She frowned. “I had not thought very much about it at all. Alastair would have known better. I expect you have talked with him.” It was an assumption rather than a question. She looked a trifle crestfallen. “You should really speak with Oonagh. She is most observant of people. She always seems to know what a person really means, rather than what they say. I have noticed it often. She is most gifted at reading character.” She smiled. “It is really rather a comforting quality, to feel someone understands you so well.”
“Except in Miss Latterly’s case,” Monk said with more sarcasm than he had meant to show.
She caught his tone and looked at him with a mixture of perception and defense.
He found himself annoyed, both for having been rude to her and for having betrayed himself.
“You must not blame her for that,” she said quickly. “She was so busy caring for poor Mother-in-law. It was she whom Mother confided in. She seemed to be most concerned about Griselda.” A slight frown puckered her brows. “I had not thought there was anything really wrong. She always was rather a worrier. But perhaps it was something more serious? A first confinement can be difficult. So can any, for that matter, of course. But I know Griselda wrote several times a week, until eventually even Oonagh agreed that it really was necessary that Mother should travel down to London to reassure her. Now, poor soul, she will never know what Mother would have told her.”
“Can Mrs. McIvor not write to her in such a way as to help?” he suggested.
“Oh I am sure she has done,” Deirdra said with certainty. “I wish I could help myself, but I have no idea what was the subject of her anxiety. I think it was some family medical history over which Mother-in-law could have set her mind at ease.”
“Then I am sure Mrs. McIvor will have done so.”
“Of course.” She smiled a sudden warmth.
“Oonagh will help if anyone can. I daresay Mother confided in her anyway. She will know precisely what to say to make Griselda feel better.”
Further conversation was cut off by the arrival of Alastair, looking tired and a trifle harassed. He spoke first to Oonagh, exchanging only a word or two, but then he acknowledged his wife and apologized to Monk for being late. The moment after, the gong sounded and they went into the dining room.
They were into the second course when the embarrassment began. Hector had been sitting in relative silence, only making the occasional monosyllabic reply, until suddenly he looked across at Alastair, frowning at him and focusing his eyes with difficulty.
“I suppose it’s that case again,” he said with disgust. “You should leave it alone. You lost. That’s the end of it.”
“No, Uncle Hector,” Alastair said wearily. “I was meeting with the sheriff over something quite new.”
Hector grunted and looked unconvinced, but it might have been that he was too drunk to have understood.
“It was a bad case, that. You ought to have won. I’m not surprised you still think about it.”
Oonagh filled her glass with wine from the decanter on the table and passed it across to Hector. He took it with a glance at her but he did not drink it straightaway.
“Alastair does not win or lose cases, Uncle Hector,” she said gently. “He decides whether there is sufficient evidence to prosecute or not. If there isn’t, there would be no point in bringing it to court. It would only waste public money.”
“And subject the person, most probably innocent, to a harrowing ordeal and public shame,” Monk added rather abruptly.
Oonagh flashed him a look of quick surprise. “Certainly, and that also.”
Hector looked at Monk as if he had only just remembered his presence.
“Oh yes … you’re the detective, aren’t you. Come to make sure of the case against that nurse. Pity.” He looked at Monk with acute disfavor. “I liked her. Nice girl. Courage. Takes a lot of courage for a woman to go out to a place like the Crimea, you know, and look after the
wounded.” There was distinct hostility in his face. “You’d better be sure, young man. You’d better be damned sure you’ve got the right person.”
“I shall be,” Monk said grimly. “I am more dedicated to that than you can possibly know.”
Hector stared at him, then at last almost reluctantly began to drink Oonagh’s wine.
“There isn’t any doubt, Uncle Hector,” Quinlan said irritably. “If you were a little closer to sober you’d know that.”
“Would I!” Hector was annoyed. He put down the glass, very nearly spilling it. It was only saved by Eilish, on the other side, reaching forward and pulling a spoon handle out of the way. “Why would I?” Hector demanded, ignoring Eilish. “Why would I know that, Quinlan?”
“Well, apart from the fact that if it was not her then it was one of us,” Quinlan said, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile, “she was the only one who had any reason. The brooch was found in her case.”