by Anne Perry
“I put my hand into my case, and instead of pins I found a brooch … with diamonds and gray pearls in it. It is not mine, and I am quite sure it was Mrs. Farraline’s, because she described it to me in the course of conversation about what she might do in London.”
His face darkened and he moved away from the mantelpiece and sat down in the chair opposite her, waiting patiently for her to be seated also.
“So she was not wearing it on the train?” he asked.
“No. That is the point. She said she had left it at home in Edinburgh because the gown it went with had been stained!”
“It only went with one gown?” he said in surprise, but the disbelief in his voice did not carry to his eyes. Already his mind was ahead, understanding the fears.
“Gray pearls,” she explained unnecessarily. “They would look wrong with most colors, rather dull.” She went on talking to avoid the moment when she would have to acknowledge what it really meant. “Even black wouldn’t be—”
“All right,” he said. “She said she had left it behind? I don’t suppose she packed her own clothes. She had a maid for that sort of thing. And her cases would be in the guard’s van during the journey. Did you meet this maid? Did you quarrel with her? Was she jealous of you because she wished to come to London herself, and you were taking her place?”
“No. She didn’t want to go at all. And we did not quarrel. She was perfectly agreeable.”
“Then who put the brooch in your bag? You wouldn’t be coming to me if you’d done it yourself.”
“Don’t be fatuous!” she said. “Of course I didn’t do it. If I were a thief, I would hardly come and tell you about it!” Her voice was getting louder and higher with anger as fear caught hold of her and she began to see more clearly the peril of the situation.
He looked at her unhappily. “Where is the brooch now?”
“At Callandra’s house.”
“Since the unfortunate woman is dead, it is not a matter of simply returning it to her. And we do not know if it was lost in a genuine accident or if it is part of an attempted crime. It could become very ugly.” He bit his lip doubtfully. “People in bereavement are often irrational and only too ready to retreat from grief into anger. It is easier to be angry, to feel relief at having something with which to blame someone else. The matter of returning it should be dealt with professionally, by someone retained solely to look after your interests in the case. We had better go and speak to Rathbone.” And without waiting to see whether she agreed with this advice, he took his coat from the rack and his hat off the stand and advanced towards the door. “Well, don’t sit there,” he said tartly. “The more rapidly it is done, the better. Besides, I might lose a client if I dither around wasting time.”
“You don’t need to come with me,” she said defensively, rising to her feet. “I can find Oliver myself and tell him what happened. Thank you for your advice.” She went past him and out of the door into the entranceway. It was raining outside, and as she opened the street door the cold air chilled her, matching the fear and sense of isolation within.
He ignored her words and followed her out, closing the door behind him and beginning to walk towards the main thoroughfare, where they could find a hansom to take them from Tottenham Court Road west across the city towards the Inns of Court and Vere Street, where Oliver Rathbone had his office. She was obliged to go with him, or else start an argument which would have been totally foolish.
The traffic was heavy, carriages, cabs, wagons, carts of every description passing by, splashing the water out of the gutters, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses dripping, sodden hides dark. Drivers sat hunched with collars up and hats down in a futile attempt to keep the cold rain from running down their necks, hands clenched on the reins.
The crossing sweeper, a boy of about eight or nine years, was still busily pushing manure out of the way to make a clean path for any pedestrian who wished to reach the other side. He seemed to be one of those cheerful souls willing to make the best out of any situation. His skimpy trousers stuck to his legs, his coat was too long for him and gaped around the neck, but his enormous cap seemed to keep most of the rain off his head, except for his chin and nose. He wore the cap tilted at such an angle that the lower half of his face was visible, and his gap-toothed smile was the first thing one saw of him.
Monk had no need to cross the road, but he threw him a halfpenny anyway, and Hester felt a sudden surge of hope. The boy caught it and automatically put it between his teeth to assure himself it was real, then tipped his finger to the peak of his cap, almost invisible under its folds, and called out his thanks.
Monk hailed a hansom and as it stopped, he pulled open the door for her and then followed her in, calling out Rathbone’s address to the driver.
“Shouldn’t I go and get the brooch first?” Hester asked. “Then I can give it to him to return to the Farralines.”
“I think you should report it first,” he replied, settling himself in his seat as the cab lurched forward. “For your own safety.”
The chill returned. She said nothing. They rode in silence through the wet streets. All she could think of was Mary Farraline, and how much she had liked her, her stories of Europe in her youth, of Hamish as a soldier, dashing and brave, and the other men with whom she had danced the nights away before those tumultuous days. They had seemed so alive in her memory. It was hard to accept that she too was suddenly and so completely gone.
Monk did not interrupt her thoughts. Whatever he was concerned with, it apparently held him totally. Once she glanced sideways at him and saw the deep concentration in his face, eyes steadily ahead, brows drawn fractionally downward, mouth tense.
She looked away again, feeling closed out.
At Vere Street the cab stopped and Monk alighted, held the door for her long enough for her to move over and grasp it herself, then paid the driver and went across the pavement to the entrance of the offices and tugged sharply at the bellpull.
The door was opened by a white-haired clerk in winged collar and frock coat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” he said stiffly. Then he caught sight of Hester behind him. “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. Please come in out of the rain. Fearful weather.” He shook his head, standing back for them to follow him into the foyer, and then the outer office. “I am afraid Mr. Rathbone is not expecting you.” He looked at them doubtfully, his pale gray eyes very steady, like a disillusioned schoolmaster. “He has a gentleman with him presently.”
“We’ll wait,” Monk said grimly. “This is a matter of urgency.”
“Of course.” The clerk nodded his head and indicated a seat where they could make themselves comfortable. Monk declined and stood impatiently, staring through the glass partitions to the office where juniors in black coats copied writs and deeds in copperplate, and other more senior clerks searched in huge law books for references and precedents.
Hester sat down, and Monk sat also but almost immediately rose to his feet again, unable to keep still. One or two heads lifted as they caught sight of him out of the corner of their eyes, but no one spoke.
Minutes ticked by. Monk’s face grew tighter and his impatience more obvious.
Finally the door of Rathbone’s office opened and an elderly gentleman with massive side whiskers came out, turned and said something, then bowed very slightly and made his way across the office to where the clerk who had welcomed Hester and Monk left his desk and handed the gentleman his hat and cane.
Monk moved forward. No one was going to preempt him. He grasped the handle of the office door and swung it wider, coming face-to-face with Oliver Rathbone.
“Good afternoon,” Monk said briskly. “Hester and I have the most urgent matter with which we require your assistance.”
Rathbone did not back away. His long face with its humorous eyes and mouth registered only good-natured surprise.
“Indeed?” He looked past Monk at the clerk who had shown the previous client to the door and was no
w standing wondering what to do about Monk and his regrettable lapse from good manners. Rathbone met his eyes, and understanding passed between them. Monk saw it, and unaccountably it irritated him. But he was in the position of a supplicant, so it would be self-defeating to be sarcastic. He stepped back to allow Rathbone to see Hester, who was now just behind him.
Oliver Rathbone was of medium height, slender, and dressed with the immaculate ease of one who is accustomed to the best of material things and has grown to take elegance for granted. It required no effort; it was a way of life.
However, when he saw Hester’s pale face and unusually grim and bedraggled appearance, his composure was shaken, and ignoring Monk, he went forward anxiously.
“My dear Hester, whatever has happened? You look quite—distressed !”
It was nearly two months since she had last seen him, and then it had been more by chance than design. She was not sure how he regarded their relationship. In any formal sense it was professional rather than personal. She did not move in his social sphere at all. Yet they were friends in a deeper sense than most acquaintances ever were. They had shared passionate beliefs in justice, spoken more frankly than perhaps either had to anyone else about certain things. On the other hand, there were whole worlds of personal emotions they had never touched on at all.
Now he was staring at her with obvious concern. In spite of his fairish hair, his eyes were very dark, and she was acutely aware of the intelligence in him.
“For goodness’ sake tell him!” Monk said, waving his arm towards the office. “But not out here,” he added, in case she should be absentminded enough to be so indiscreet.
Without looking at Monk, Hester walked in front of Rathbone and into the office. Monk followed her, and Rathbone came in behind and closed the door.
Hester began straightaway. Quietly and succinctly, with as little emotion as she could manage, she told him the elements of what had transpired.
Rathbone sat listening without interruption, and although twice Monk opened his mouth to speak, on each occasion he changed his mind.
“Where is this brooch now?” Rathbone said when at last she finished.
“With Lady Callandra,” she replied. Rathbone knew Callandra well enough and no introduction of her was necessary.
“But she did not see you find it? Not that it matters,” he added quickly, on observing her consternation. “Could you have misunderstood Mrs. Farraline on the subject of having left this article in Edinburgh?”
“I cannot think how. She had no reason to bring it, since the dress was stained, and she said quite specifically that it went with no other.” She could not restrain herself from asking, “What do you think has happened?”
“Does your bag resemble any that Mrs. Farraline had, either with her or in the guard’s van? Or any that you observed in her dressing room in Edinburgh?”
Hester felt cold and there was a hard knot inside her.
“No. Mine was a very ordinary brown leather bag with soft sides. Mrs. Farraline’s were yellow pigskin, with her initials monogrammed on them, and they all matched.” Her voice was scratchy, her mouth dry. She was aware of Monk’s growing irritation behind her. “No one could think mine was one of hers,” she finished.
Rathbone spoke very quietly.
“Then I am afraid I can think of no explanation other than malice, and why anyone should do such a thing, I cannot imagine.”
“But I was only there less than a day,” Hester protested. “I did nothing that could possibly offend anyone!”
“You had better go and get this piece of jewelry and bring it to me immediately. I shall write to Mrs. Farraline’s estate and inform them of its discovery, and that we shall return it as soon as possible. Please do not waste any time. I do not believe we can afford to wait.”
Hester rose to her feet. “I don’t understand,” she said helplessly. “It seems so pointless.”
Rathbone rose also, coming around to open the door for her. He glanced at Monk, then back at Hester.
“Probably it is some family quarrel we know nothing of, or even some malice directed at Mrs. Farraline which has tragically gone astray with her death. It hardly matters at the moment. Your part is to bring it to me, and I shall give you a receipt for it and deal with the matter as regards Mrs. Farraline’s executors.”
Still she hesitated, confusion welling in her mind, remembering their faces: Mary, Oonagh, Alastair at the dinner table, the beautiful Eilish, Baird and Quinlan who so obviously disliked each other, Kenneth hurrying to his appointment, absentminded Deirdra, the man whose portrait hung in the hall, and drunken, rambling Uncle Hector.
“Come,” Monk said sharply, pulling abruptly at her elbow. “There is no time to waste, and certainly none to stand here trying to solve a problem for which we have no information.”
“Yes—yes, I’m coming,” she agreed, still uncertain. She turned to Rathbone. “Thank you.”
They rode back to Callandra’s house in silence, Monk apparently lost in thought, and Hester still wrestling with her memories of Edinburgh and searching for any reason at all why someone should have played such a pointless and malicious trick on her. Or was it on Mary? Or the lady’s maid? Was that it? Yes, that must be it. One of the maids was jealous, and trying to get her into trouble, perhaps even usurp her position, without actually stealing the brooch.
She was about to say this to Monk when the cab pulled up and they alighted, and the thought was lost in action.
However, the butler who opened Callandra’s door was pale-faced and totally unsmiling, and he led the way hastily, closing the door with a snap.
“What is it?” Monk demanded immediately.
“I am afraid, sir, that there are two persons from the police in the withdrawing room,” the butler replied grimly, his expression conveying both his distaste and his apprehension. “Her ladyship is speaking with them now.”
Monk strode past him across the floor and threw open the withdrawing room door. Hester followed after him, calmer and cold now that the moment had come.
Inside the room Callandra was standing in the center of the floor and she turned around as soon as she heard the door. Beside her were two men, one small and stocky with a blunt face and wide eyes, the other taller, leaner and foxy looking. If they knew Monk they gave no sign of it.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the shorter one said politely, but his eyes did not widen in the slightest.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sergeant Daly, Metropolitan Police. You must be Miss Latterly, am I right?”
Hester swallowed. “Yes….” Suddenly her voice would not stay level. “What is it you wish? Is it regarding the death of Mrs. Farraline?”
“No, miss, not at present.” He came forward, polite and very formal. His taller companion was apparently junior. “Miss Latterly, I have authority to search your baggage, and your person if necessary, for a piece of jewelry belonging to the late Mrs. Mary Farraline, which, according to her daughter, is missing from her luggage. Perhaps you can save us the necessity for anything so unpleasant by telling us if you have such a piece?”
“Yes she has,” Monk said icily. “She has already reported the matter to her legal adviser, and we came here, on his counsel, to take the pin to him so that he might return it to Mrs. Farraline’s estate.”
Sergeant Daly nodded. “Very wise of you, ma’am, but not sufficient, I’m afraid. Constable Jacks”—he nodded abruptly at the other man—“would you go with this gentleman and obtain the said article.” He looked at Monk. “Perhaps you’d be good enough, sir? And you, Miss Latterly, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”
“Nonsense!” Callandra stepped forward. “Miss Latterly has told you what happened. She found the piece of jewelry that was missing and made provision to return it. You do not need further explanations. She has had a long journey to Edinburgh and back again, and a most distressing experience. She is not going anywhere with you, merely in order to repeat an explanation which is quite clear to
you now. You are not a fool, man, you understand exactly what has happened.”
“No, I do not understand, your ladyship,” he said calmly. “I don’t understand at all why a respectable woman who cares for the sick should take from an old lady a piece of jewelry which belongs to her, but that’s unarguably what it looks like. Theft is theft, ma’am, whoever did it and whatever for. And I’m afraid, Miss Latterly, you will have to come with us.” He shook his head gently. “And don’t make it harder for yourself by resisting. I’d hate to have to take you in manacles—but I will, if you force me.”
For the second time that day, Hester felt shock and disbelief buffet her like a blow, and then they vanished, leaving only cold, bitter knowledge.
“I shall not make that necessary,” she said in a very small voice. “I did not steal anything from Mrs. Farraline. She was my patient, and I had the highest regard for her. And I have never stolen anything from anyone.” She turned to Callandra. “Thank you, but I think protest is of no value at this time.” She felt herself painfully close to tears, and did not trust herself to speak anymore, least of all to Monk.
Callandra produced the brooch, which she had placed on the mantelshelf before Hester had left, and silently gave it to the sergeant.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he accepted it, and wrapped it in a large clean handkerchief which he took from his coat pocket. He turned again to Hester. “Now, miss, I think it would be best if you come along. Perhaps Constable Jacks can fetch your valise for you. You’ll already have everything you need in that, at least for tonight.”
Hester was surprised, then she realized that of course they knew she would have them with her. They had known where to find her. Her landlady must have given them Callandra’s name. It was an educated guess. She had stayed with her often enough before, between cases. The knowledge was like a door slamming, closing her in.
She had time only to glance at Monk and see the burning anger in his face. The next moment she was in the hall, a policeman on either side of her, being taken inexorably towards the open front door and the street beyond, cold and gray with driving rain.
