by Anne Perry
Praise for Anne Perry
and THE SINS OF THE WOLF
“Give her a good murder and a shameful social evil, and Anne Perry can write a Victorian mystery that would make Dickens’s eyes pop.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Perry combines murder with a profile of the morals and manners of Victorian society…. Murder fens who prefer their crimes with a touch of class should heat some scones and nestle back for the afternoon.”
—Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“Her best yet … Perry’s rich prose and splendidly authentic renderings of the dress, manners, dialogue, and customs of mid-nineteenth-century London, combined with a mesmerizing courtroom drama [and] a plot that’s filled with surprising twists and unexpected suspense.”
—Booklist
“Chilling … [An] intriguing insight into Victorian skulduggery.”
—San Gabriel Valley Daily Tribune
“Totally absorbing … [An] intense and gripping story.”
—Mostly Murder
“A taut, enthralling blend of courtroom thriller and complex, compelling whodunit.”
—Mystery News
“A courtroom battle of wits that rivals the works of Scott Turow and Patricia Cornwell … A most satisfying story of love, betrayal, dark deeds and justice. Rarely does one find such exceptional writing in a murder mystery.”
—Baton Rouge Magazine
“Anne Perry has made the Victorian era her own literary preserve…. Perry’s work is consistently top-notch.”
—The San Diego Union
“Perry’s Victorian-era mysteries are—and THE SINS OF THE WOLF is a fine example-perfect for a long evening in a cozy corner. They are rich in plotting and characterization.”
—The Anniston Star
“Anne Perry is my choice for today’s best mystery writer of Victoriana.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Fans of Perry know she serves up her clues with generous dollops of Victorian manners and morals and there’s usually class, caste and kinky sex to keep the plot boiling. I don’t want to give it away, but rest assured, Perry doesn’t disappoint.”
—The Toronto Globe & Mail
“[Perry] is adept at showing the reader two sides of Victorian London—the dark side where people are barely surviving and glittering society where people sometimes kill to hide terrible secrets.”
—The Knoxville News-Sentinel
“Perry skillfully evokes the atmosphere of nineteenth-century London and its sharp social contrasts.”
—Publishers Weekly
By Anne Perry
Published by The Random House Publishing Group:
Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt
THE CATER STREET HANGMAN
CALLANDER SQUARE
PARAGON WALK
RESURRECTION ROW
BLUEGATE FIELDS
RUTLAND PLACE
DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE
CARDINGTON CRESCENT
SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE
BETHLEHEM ROAD
HIGHGATE RISE
BELGRAVE SQUARE
FARRIERS’ LANE
THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN
TRAITORS GATE
PENTECOST ALLEY
ASHWORTH HALL
BRUNSWICK GARDENS
BEDFORD SQUARE
HALF MOON STREET
THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY
SOUTHAMPTON ROW
SEVEN DIALS
LONG SPOON LANE
BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS
Featuring William Monk
THE FACE OF A STRANGER
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
DEFEND AND BETRAY
A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH
THE SINS OF THE WOLF
CAIN HIS BROTHER
WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE
THE SILENT CRY
A BREACH OF PROMISE
THE TWISTED ROOT
SLAVES OF OBSESSION
FUNERAL IN BLUE
DEATH OF A STRANGER
THE SHIFTING TIDE
DARK ASSASSIN
The World War I Novels
NO GRAVES AS YET
SHOULDER THE SKY
ANGELS IN THE GLOOM
AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE
WE SHALL NOT SLEEP
The Christmas Novels
A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR
A CHRISTMAS GUEST
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
A CHRISTMAS BEGINNING
A CHRISTMAS GRACE
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1994 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-76779-0
v3.1
To Kimberly Hovey
for her help and friendship
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
1
HESTER LATTERLY SAT upright in the train, staring out of the window at the wide, rolling countryside of the Scottish Lowlands.
The early October sun rose through a haze above the horizon. It was a little after eight in the morning, and the stubble fields were still wreathed in mist, the great trees seeming to float rootless above it, their leaves only beginning to turn bronze on odd branches here and there. The buildings she could see were of solid gray stone, looking as if they had sprung from the land in a way the softer colors of the south never did. There were no thatched roofs here, no plaster walls pargeted in patterns, but tall chimneys smoking, crowstepped gables outlined against the sky, and broad windows winking in the early light.
She had come home when her parents had died at the close of the Crimean War, nearly a year and a half before. She would like to have stayed in Scutari until the bitter end, but the family tragedy had required her presence. Since then she had attempted to put into effect some of the new nursing practices she had learned so painfully, and even more, to reform England’s old-fashioned ideas of hospital hygiene in accordance with Miss Nightingale’s theories. And for her pains, she had been dismissed as opinionated and disobedient. There really was no defense against either charge. She was guilty.
Her father had died in social and financial disgrace. There was no money for her, or for her brother Charles. He would have provided for her, of course, out of his own salary, and she could have lived with him and his wife as a dependent, but that thought was intolerable. Within a short space of time she had found a position as a private nurse, and when the patient recovered, she had found another. Some were agreeable, others less so, but she had never been more than a week without some remunerative employment, and so she was her own mistress.
This summer she had taken another hospital appointment briefly, at the urgent request of her friend and frequent patron Lady Callandra Daviot, when the death of Nurse Barrymore had threatened Dr. Christian Beck with arrest and prosecution. When that matter had been finally resolved she had found another private pos
t, but that too was at an end, and she was once again seeking a place.
She had found it in the form of an advertisement in a London newspaper. A prominent Edinburgh family was seeking a young woman of good birth, and some nursing background, to accompany Mrs. Mary Farraline, an elderly lady of delicate but not critical health, who wished to make the journey to London, and back again some six days later. One of Miss Nightingale’s ladies would be preferred. All travel would naturally be paid for by the family, and there would be a generous remuneration for the duties required. Applications were to be sent to Mrs. Baird McIvor, at 17 Ainslie Place, Edinburgh.
Hester had never been to Edinburgh before—indeed, she had not been to Scotland at all—and the thought of four such train journeys at this time of the year seemed most agreeable. She wrote to Mrs. McIvor stating her experience and qualifications, and her willingness to accept the position.
She received a reply four days later, and enclosed with Mrs. McIvor’s acceptance of her application was a second-class train ticket for the night journey to Edinburgh on the following Tuesday, leaving London at 9:15 in the evening and arriving in Edinburgh at 8:35 the morning after. A carriage would meet her at Waverley Station and take her to the Farraline house, where she would spend the day becoming acquainted with her patient, and that evening she and Mrs. Farraline would board the train and return to London.
Hester had made some inquiries, out of interest, even though she would barely arrive in Edinburgh before she left it again, at least on the initial visit. Perhaps when she returned with Mrs. Farraline after her stay in London she would have the opportunity to remain a day or two. Her time would be her own, and she could see something of the city. She had been informed that in spite of being the capital of Scotland, it was a great deal smaller than London, a mere one hundred and seventy thousand compared with London’s nearly three million. Nonetheless it was a city of great distinction, “the Athens of the North,” renowned for its learning, most particularly in the fields of medicine and law.
The train rattled and lurched around a curve in the tracks, and when the air had cleared Hester could see in the distance the dark rooftops of the city, dominated by the crooked skyline of the castle perched on its massive rock, and beyond them all, the pale gleam of the sea. In spite of all common sense, she felt a thrill of excitement ripple through her as though she were at the outset of some great adventure, not a single day in a strange house before a very ordinary professional task.
The journey had been long and uncomfortable, there being no privacy in a second-class carriage, and very little room. She had naturally sat upright all night, so she was stiff, and had only the occasional snatches of sleep. She stood up and straightened her clothes, then, as discreetly as possible, redid her hair.
The train finally drew into the station amid gushing steam, clanking wheels, shouting voices and slamming doors. She seized her single piece of luggage, a soft-sided valise large enough for only a change of underclothing and her toiletries, and made her way to alight onto the platform.
The cold air struck her sharply, making her draw in her breath. Everywhere there was noise and bustle, people shouting for porters, newsboys calling out, the clatter of trollies and wagons. Cinders shot out of the funnel and a grimy stoker whistled cheerfully. Steam belched and billowed across the platform and a man swore as smuts descended on his clean shirt collar.
Hester felt wildly exhilarated, and she strode along the platform towards the stairs and the exit with most unladylike haste. A large woman in a stiff black dress and poke bonnet looked at her with disapproval and remarked ringingly to the man next to her that she did not know what young people were coming to these days. No one had any sense of what was proper anymore. Manners were quite shocking, and everyone was a deal too free with their opinions, whether they had any right to them or not. As for young women, they had every kind of unsuitable idea in their heads that one might imagine.
“Aye, m’dear,” the man said absently, continuing to look for a porter to carry their very considerable baggage. “Aye, I’m sure you’re right,” he added as she appeared to be about to continue.
“Really, Alexander, I sometimes think you are not listening to me at all,” the woman said testily.
“Oh, I am, m’dear, I am,” he answered, turning his back on her and waving to a porter.
Hester smiled to herself and made her way up the steps to the exit, and after handing in her ticket, went out onto the street. It took her only a few moments to find the carriage which had come to meet her; the driver was the only one looking from person to person, but hesitating when he saw a young woman in a plain gray costume and carrying a single valise. Hester passed her and addressed the man.
“Excuse me, are you from Mrs. McIvor?” she inquired.
“Aye, miss, I am that. Would you be Miss Latterly, just come up from London to be with the mistress?”
“Yes I am.”
“Well then, you’ll be ready to come and sit down to a decent breakfast, I daresay. I don’t suppose they serve anything on those trains, but we can do better, and that’s a fact. Here, I’ll take your bag for you.”
She was about to protest that it was not heavy, but he took it anyway, and crossing the pavement, handed her up into the carriage and closed the door. The journey was far too short; she would have liked to see more of the city. They proceeded simply off the bridge into Princes Street, down the greater part of its length past the fine fronts of shops and houses to the right, and to the left the green slope of the gardens, Scott’s monument and the castle beyond and above. They turned right up towards the new town, and after the briefest passage through Georgian streets, they were in Ainslie Place. Number seventeen was exactly like its neighbors to either side: four stories high with spacious windows decreasing in size with each floor, and perfect symmetry to its facade, proportions that were full of grace and ease and the Regency’s eye for simplicity.
She was driven around the back; after all, she was more of a servant than a guest. She alighted in the yard before the coachman returned the vehicle and horse to the stables, and presented herself at the door. It opened before she had time to pull the bell, and a bootboy regarded her with interest.
“I’m Hester Latterly, the nurse to accompany Mrs. Farraline on her journey,” she introduced herself.
“Oh yes, miss. If ye’ll come in, I’ll tell Mr. McTeer.” And without waiting for her answer, he led her through the kitchen to the passageway, where he almost walked into a gaunt-faced butler with a funereal expression. The butler regarded Hester closely.
“So ye’re the nurse that’s come to take the mistress to London.” He said it as if London were the burial ground. “Ye’d better come in. Mirren’ll be bringing your case, no doubt. And I daresay ye’ll be wanting a bite to eat before ye go and see Mrs. McIvor.” He looked at her appraisingly. “And a wash and a chance to comb your hair.”
“Thank you,” she accepted self-consciously, feeling untidier than she had hitherto thought herself.
“Aye, well if ye like to go into the kitchen, the cook’ll get ye breakfast, and someone’ll come for ye when Mrs. McIvor’s ready.”
“Come on,” the bootboy said cheerfully, turning on his heel to take her back. “What are them trains like, miss? I never been on one.”
“You get about your business, Tommy,” the butler ordered dourly. “Never mind about trains. Have you done Mr. Alastair’s good boots yet?”
“Yes, Mr. McTeer, I done them all.”
“Then I’ll find something else for you….”
Hester was given an excellent meal at a corner of the large kitchen table, then shown to a small bedroom set aside for her use, next to the nursery, where her valise had been left. She washed her face and neck, and did her hair yet again.
She had no time to wait until she was sent for and conducted by the dismal McTeer through the green baize door into a large hall with a black-and-white flagged floor like a chessboard. The walls were paneled in wood an
d there were half a dozen trophies of animal heads mounted and hung, most of them red deer. However, the one thing that arrested her attention and held it was a life-size portrait of a man straight ahead of her. It dominated the room, not only with its coloring, which was remarkable, but with some quality of character in the features. His head was long and narrow with large, clear blue eyes, a long slender nose, pinched at the bridge, and a broad mouth whose lines were blurred and strangely uncertain. His fair hair swept across his brow in a splash of color so startling as to draw the eyes from all the surrounding darkness of oak and gilt and the glassy stare of the long-dead stags.
The butler led her across the hall and down a passage past several doors until he came to one where he knocked briefly, then he opened it and stood back for her to pass.
“Miss Latterly, ma’am, the nurse from London.”
“Thank you, McTeer. Please come in, Miss Latterly.” The voice was soft, gently modulated, and only very slightly accented in the precise, very proper, rather flat Edinburgh society pitch.
The room was decorated largely in a cool mid-blue with a floral pattern of some indistinct sort upon the walls and in the carpet. The wide windows overlooked a small garden and the early light gave the room a chilly air, even though there was a fire burning in the grate. The single occupant was a slender woman in her late thirties and the moment Hester saw her she knew she must be related to the man whose portrait hung in the hall. She had the same long face, and nose and broad mouth, but in her there was no hint of indecision. Her lips were beautifully shaped, the blue eyes steady and direct. Her fair hair was dressed in the current severe fashion, but its warm color gave it a charm which would have been absent in a less glowing shade. And yet her face was not beautiful; there was a power in it which was too apparent and she took no pains to mask her intelligence.
“Please come in, Miss Latterly,” she repeated. “I am Oonagh McIvor. I wrote to you on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Mary Farraline. I hope you had an agreeable journey from London?”
