by Anne Perry
She stared at him wordlessly.
He reached one hand across the table as if to touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.
“Hester, we cannot afford to hide from the truth,” he said earnestly. “You have fallen into the midst of something we do not yet understand, and it would be foolish to imagine anyone involved in it is your friend, or will necessarily tell the truth if it is contrary to their interests. If Oonagh McIvor has to choose whether to blame someone in her own household or you, a stranger, we cannot rely upon her either wishing, or being able, to recall and repeat the exact truth.”
“But … but if someone in her house is a thief, surely she would wish to know that?” she protested.
“Not necessarily, particularly if it is not a maid, but one of her family.”
“But why? Why just one brooch? And why put it in my case?”
His face tightened, as if he were suddenly colder, and the anxiety in his eyes deepened.
“I don’t know, but the only alternative I can see is to suppose that you did take it, and that is not tolerable.”
The enormity of what he had said became hideously plain to her. How could she expect anyone to believe she had not seized the chance, suddenly offered, and taken the brooch … then when Mary was found dead, suddenly become frightened and tried to return it? She met Rathbone’s eyes and knew he was thinking precisely the same thing.
Did he really believe her, in his heart? Or was he only behaving as if he did because it was his professional obligation to do so? She felt as if reality were slipping away from her and nightmare closing in, isolation and helplessness, endless confusion where nothing made sense, one moment’s sanity was the next moment’s chaos.
“I didn’t take it,” she said suddenly, her voice loud in the silence. “I never saw it before I found it in my bag. I gave it straight to Callandra. What else could I have done?”
His hands closed over hers, surprisingly warm when she was so cold.
“I know you didn’t take it,” he said firmly. “And I shall prove it. But it will not be easy. You will have to resign yourself to a battle.”
She said nothing, struggling to keep the panic under control.
“Would you like me to inform your brother and sister—”
“No! No—please don’t tell Charles.” Her voice was sharp, and unconsciously she had jerked forward. “You mustn’t tell Charles—or Imogen.” She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. “It will be hard enough for him if he has to know, but if we can fight it first …”
He was frowning at her. “Don’t you think he would wish to know? Surely he would wish to offer you some support, some comfort?”
“Of course he would wish it,” she agreed with a fierce mixture of anger, pity and defensiveness. “But he wouldn’t know what to believe. He would want to think I was innocent, and he would not know how to. Charles is very literal. He cannot believe something he cannot understand.” She knew she sounded critical, and she had not meant to, but all her own fear and anguish was in her voice, she could hear it and it was out of control. “It would distress him, and he could do nothing to help. He would feel he ought to visit me, and that would be terrible for him.”
She wanted to explain to Rathbone about her father’s suicide when he was ruined by a cheat, and their mother’s death shortly afterwards, and the shock it had been for Charles. He had been the only one of the three children to be in England at the time, James having died recently in the Crimea, and Hester being still out there nursing. The full weight of the disgrace and the financial ruin had fallen on Charles, and then the grief afterwards.
Of course Rathbone knew something of it, because he had defended the man charged in the resulting murder case. But if he had not known the full extent of her father’s disgrace, she was not willing to tell him now, or to expose and relive her father’s vulnerability. She found herself sitting silently, risking his thinking her sullen.
Rathbone smiled very slightly, a small expression of resignation, and a kind of bitter humor.
“I think you are judging him ill,” he said calmly. “But it is not of great importance now. Perhaps later on we can discuss it again.” He rose to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” She stood up also, too quickly, knocking herself against the table and scraping the chair legs loudly on the floor. She lost her balance clumsily and only regained it by holding on to the table. “What happens next?”
He was close to her, so close she could smell the faint odor of the wool of his coat and feel the warmth of his skin. She longed for the comfort of being held with a depth that made the blood rush up to her face in shame. She straightened and took a step backwards.
“They will keep you here,” he answered, wincing. “I shall go and seek Monk and send him to learn more of the Farralines and what really happened.”
“To Edinburgh?” she said with surprise.
“Of course. I doubt there is anything more we can discover in London.”
“Oh.”
He moved to the door and knocked. “Wardress!” He turned back to see her. “Keep heart,” he said gently. “There is an answer, and we shall find it.”
She forced herself to smile. She knew he was speaking only to comfort her, but even so the words themselves had some power. She clung to them, willing herself to believe.
“Of course. Thank you….”
They were prevented from saying anything further by the clang of the keys in the lock and the wardress’s appearing, grim-faced and implacable.
Before calling upon Monk, which Rathbone viewed with very mixed thoughts, he returned to his offices in Vere Street. He had learned little of practical value from his interview with Hester, and he felt more emotionally drained than he had foreseen. Visiting clients accused of crime was always trying. Naturally they were frightened, shocked by arrest. Even when they were guilty, capture and charge took them by surprise. When they were innocent the sense of bewilderment and having been overtaken by events out of their control was devastating.
He had seen Hester angry before, burning with injustice, frightened for other people, close to despair, but never with the fear for herself. In a sense she had always been in some control of events, her own freedom not at stake.
He took off his coat and gave it to the clerk waiting to take it from him. Hester was so impatient of fools, so fierce to charge into battle. It was a characteristic most alarming, and highly unattractive in a woman. Society would not tolerate it. He smiled as he imagined how it would be greeted by most of the respectable ladies he knew. He could visualize the expressions in their well-bred faces. And it alarmed him, as his smile broadened with self-mockery, that it was the quality in her which most appealed to him. Gentler, more conventionally behaved women he found more comfortable, less challenging, less disturbing to his well-being, his assumptions and certainly his social and professional ambitions, but they did not remain always in his memory after they had parted. He was neither troubled by them nor invigorated. Safety was beginning to cloy, for all its seeming advantages.
Absentmindedly he thanked the clerk and walked past him to his office. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. He must not allow this to happen to Hester. He was one of the best barristers in England, he was the ideal person to protect her and get this absurd charge dismissed. It irritated him that he would have to use Monk to find out the truth of what had happened, or at least enough of it to prove Hester’s innocence—and reasonable doubt would be far from satisfactory—but without facts he could do nothing.
It was not that he disliked Monk, not entirely. The man had an excellent mind, courage, and a kind of honor; even the fact that he was abrasive, often ill-mannered, and always arrogant was not of itself a strike against him. He was not a gentleman, for all his confidence, his elegance, his fine diction. The difference was indefinable, but it was there. There was a certain underlying aggression in him of which Rathbone was always aware. And his attitude towards Hest
er was intensely irritating.
Hester’s welfare was the only thing that mattered at the moment. His own feelings about Monk were irrelevant. He would send a messenger to fetch him, and while he was waiting for him to arrive, prepare sufficient money to send him to Edinburgh on the night train with instructions to remain there until he could learn precisely what jealousies, pressures financial or emotional, existed in the Farraline household which had produced this ridiculous accident of circumstance.
He rang the bell for the clerk to come, and when the door opened, drew breath to speak, then saw the man’s face.
“What is it, Clements? What is wrong?”
“The police, sir. Sergeant Daly is here to see you.”
“Ah.” Perhaps the charge had been withdrawn, and he would not need to send for Monk after all. “Ask him to come in, Clements.”
Clements bit his lip, his eyes troubled, and withdrew to obey.
“Yes?” Rathbone said hopefully as Sergeant Daly appeared in the doorway looking solid and sad. Rathbone was about to ask if the charges had been dropped when something in Daly’s face stopped him.
Daly closed the door behind him quietly, the latch clicking home with a snick.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rathbone.” His voice was light and very clear. In other circumstances it would have been pleasant, in spite of the London edge to the accent. “But I’ve got some rather unpleasant news.”
The words were very mild, and yet Rathbone felt a sense of dread out of all proportion to the situation. He breathed in, and his stomach lurched. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“What is it, Sergeant?” He managed to sound almost as calm as Daly had, completely belying the fear inside him.
Daly remained standing, his blunt face filled with sorrow.
“Well sir, I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch weren’t totally satisfied with the way poor Mrs. Farraline died, it being so unexpected like, and they called their own doctor to make an examination …” He left the words hanging in the air.
“You mean a postmortem?” Rathbone said sharply. Why on earth did the man not come to the point? “What of it?”
“He’s not satisfied she died natural, sir.”
“What?”
“He’s not satisfied—”
“I heard you!” Rathbone made as if to rise from his seat but his legs betrayed him and he changed his mind. “What was … unnatural about it? Didn’t the police surgeon say it was heart failure?”
“Yes sir, he did that,” Daly agreed. “But it was a somewhat hasty examination, made with the understanding that the lady was elderly and that she suffered from a heart ailment already.”
“Are you now saying that that is not true?” Rathbone’s voice rose, even though he had not intended it to. He sounded shrill and he knew it. He must keep more control of himself!
“No sir, o’ course I’m not,” Daly said, shaking his head. “There’s no question she was elderly, and apparently she’d ’ad this complaint for some time. But when Mr. Murdoch’s own doctor had a closer look, like ’e was asked to, he wasn’t so sure. Mr. Murdoch suggested a postmortem examination, as is Mrs. Murdoch’s right, in the circumstances, what with the theft, an’ all.”
“What on earth do you mean, man?” Rathbone exploded. “You aren’t suggesting Miss Latterly strangled her patient for a piece of jewelry, are you? And then immediately reported finding it and made every effort to return it to the family?”
“No sir, not strangled …” Daly said quietly.
Rathbone’s throat tightened so he could hardly breathe.
“Poisoned,” Daly finished. “With a double dose of her medicine, to be exact.” He looked at Rathbone with deep sadness. “They found it when they cut her open an’ looked inside her. Not easy to spot, affects the heart, but seein’ as the lady was on the medicine, an’ two vials was empty when it should’a’ bin one, natural thing to look for, see? Not very pleasant, I’m afraid, but undeniable. I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Latterly is now being held on a charge of murder.”
“B-but …” Rathbone’s voice died away, choked in his throat, his lips dry.
“There weren’t no one else there, sir. Mrs. Farraline were perfectly all right when she got onto the train in Edinburgh with Miss Latterly, and she was dead, poor soul, when she arrived in London. You tell me what else we’re to believe.”
“I don’t know. But not that!” Rathbone protested. “Miss Latterly is a brave and honorable woman who served in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. She saved dozens of lives, at great cost to herself. She gave up the comfort and safety of England to—”
“I know all that, sir,” Daly interrupted firmly. “You prove as someone else killed the old lady, and I’ll be the first to drop the charge against Miss Latterly. But until you do, we’re holding ’er.” He sighed, looking at Rathbone sadly. “I got no pleasure in it. She seems like a nice young lady, and I lost a brother in the Crimea meself. I know what some o’ those women did for our men. But it’s my duty, and liking ’as nothing to do with it most of the time.”
“Yes—yes of course.” Rathbone leaned back in the chair, feeling drained, as if he had run a great distance. “Thank you. I shall begin my duty now, to find out what did happen and prove she had no part in it.”
“Yes sir. I wish you luck, sir. You’ll need all you can get, and more than luck as well.” And with that he turned around and opened the door, leaving Rathbone staring after him.
He had been gone only a few moments when Clements returned, his expression anxious. He poked his head around the door inquiringly.
“Mr. Rathbone, is there anything I can do, sir?”
“What?” Rathbone jerked to attention, at least physically. His thoughts were still in tumult. “What is it, Clements?”
“Is there anything I can do, sir? I take it it’s bad news of some nature.”
“Yes there is. Go and fetch Mr. William Monk, immediately.”
“Mr. Monk, sir? The detective, do you mean?”
“Yes of course, the detective. Fetch him here.”
“I shall have to give him some reason, Mr Rathbone,” Clements said unhappily. “He is not the sort of gentleman to come simply because I say so.”
“Tell him the Farraline case has taken a profound turn for the worse, and I need his undivided attention most urgently,” Rathbone replied, his voice growing sharper and unintentionally louder.
“If I don’t find him—” Clements began.
“Keep looking until you do! Don’t return here without him, man.”
“Yes sir. Indeed, I’m very sorry, sir.”
Rathbone forced his mind to attention. “What for? You’ve done nothing amiss.”
“No sir. I’m very sorry the Farraline case has turned for the worse. Miss Latterly is a fine young lady, and I’m sure—” He stopped. “I’ll go and find Mr. Monk, sir, and fetch him back right away.”
But it was two long, heavy hours before Monk pushed the office door open, without having knocked, and strode in. His face was pale, his wide, thin mouth drawn in a hard line.
“What happened?” he demanded. “What’s gone wrong now? Why haven’t you got in touch with the Farralines’ lawyer and explained what happened?” His eyebrows rose. “Surely you don’t want me to take it up to Edinburgh.”
The emotions that Rathbone had been fighting against since Daly first came in—the fear, the anxiety, the helplessness, the imaginings ahead that his intelligence foresaw—all burst in anger, the rawest and easiest release.
“No I do not!” he said between his teeth. “Do you think I’d send Clements ’round to fetch you simply to run errands for me? If that’s the extent of your ability, I’ve wasted my time—and yours. I should have called someone else … anyone else, God help me!”
Monk grew even paler. He read Rathbone’s temper as if it had been a page printed large in front of him. He understood both the fear and the self-doubt, and both were like a cold slap to the face for Rathbone.
“Mary
Farraline’s body has been examined, postmortem,” Rathbone said icily, “at the request of her daughter Griselda Murdoch. Apparently she died of an overdose of her medicine, the medicine Hester was employed to give to her. The police have accordingly charged Hester with her murder … presumably for the sake of the gray pearl brooch.”
It was a vicious satisfaction to him to see Monk’s face blanch even further and his eyes widen fractionally with shock, as if he had sustained a heavy and totally unexpected blow.
The two stood facing each other across Rathbone’s desk in frozen silence for seconds. Then Monk absorbed the shock and recovered himself, far more rapidly than Rathbone had expected him to, more rapidly than he had himself.
“I presume we are agreed that Hester did not kill her?” Monk said levelly. “In spite of any evidence to the contrary?”
Rathbone smiled bleakly, remembering Monk’s own fearful suspicions of himself when he had awakened in his amnesia, the struggle through the tightening webs of evidence. He saw the same memories in Monk’s eyes and for an instant their understanding was as clear as the dawn light. Even great distances seemed close enough to touch. Enmity vanished.
“Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “We know only a fraction of the truth. When we know it all, the story will be utterly different.”
Monk smiled.
Then the moment vanished.
“And what makes you think we shall ever know it all?” Monk demanded. “Who, in God’s name, ever knows all the truth about anything? Do you?”
“If I know enough about the facts to put it beyond dispute,” Rathbone said coldly, “that would be sufficient. Are you willing to help in the practicalities, or do you wish to stand there arguing the nicer philosophical points of it?”
“Oh, practicalities?” Monk said sarcastically, his eyebrows high. “What had you in mind?” His gaze swept the desk, searching for something achieved, some sign of progress, and found nothing.
Rathbone was acutely aware of his inadequacies, and what he had actually been doing between the time Daly left and Monk arrived was getting rid of all other pressing matters to leave himself free to attend to the Farraline case, but he refused to explain himself to Monk.
