by Anne Perry
She stared at him across the salmon mousse and cucumber and the remains of the sorbet, her eyes pleading.
He smiled and shook his head fractionally, which was ridiculous. He had no reason to keep her secret.
When he encountered Oonagh later, he met her eyes and told her he was investigating the matter but as yet had found no conclusive evidence. The lie troubled him not in the slightest.
In the morning post there was a letter from Callandra. Monk tore it open and read:
My dear William,
I am afraid the news from here is all of the very worst. I have visited Hester as often as I am permitted. She has great courage, but I can see that the strain is telling on her profoundly. I had foolishly imagined that her time in the Scutari hospital would have inured her to at least some of the hardships that Newgate would offer. Of course it is wildly different. The physical portion is relatively negligible. It is the mental suffering, the endless tedium of day after day with nothing to do but let her imagination conjure the worst. Fear is more debilitating than almost anything else.
In Scutari she was endlessly needed, respected, even loved. Here she is idle and the object of hatred and contempt from warders who have no doubt of her guilt.
I hear from Oliver that you have made no significant progress in learning who else may have killed Mary Farraline. I wish I could offer some assistance. I have asked Hester over and over for every memory or impression she might have, but nothing has come to mind which she has not already told you.
I am afraid the worst news of all is something we should have foreseen, but I regret we did not. Not that we could have helped it, even had we known from the outset. Since the crime was committed while the train was in Scotland, whoever is guilty, they have demanded that Hester be tried in Edinburgh. We have no grounds whatever upon which to contest it. She will be returned to stand trial in Edinburgh High Court, and Oliver will not be able to do anything more than offer his personal assistance. Since he is qualified only to practice English Law, he cannot appear for her.
Of course I shall make provision for the best Scottish lawyer I can find, but I confess I feel deeply distressed that Oliver cannot do it. He has the unparalleled advantage that he believes entirely in her innocence.
Still, we must not lose courage. The battle is not yet over, and as long as it is not, we have not lost—nor shall we.
My dear William, spare nothing to learn the truth, neither time nor money are of the least importance. Write to me for anything at all you might need.
Yours faithfully,
Callandra Daviot
He stood in the bitter autumn sunlight with the white paper a blur in front of him; his body was shaking. Rathbone could not defend her. He had never even thought of that—but now that Callandra wrote it, it seemed so obvious. He had not realized until now just how much he had been counting on Rathbone’s skill, how the lawyer’s past victories had weighed unconsciously on his mind, making him hope the impossible. Now, with one blow, that was ended.
It was minutes before his mind cleared. A dray stopped in the street outside. The cellarman shouted and the driver swore. The sound of the horses stamping on the cobbles and the rattle of wheels came up clearly through the window ajar.
Someone in the Farraline house had tampered with Mary’s medicine, with the knowledge it would kill her. Someone had put her pearl brooch in Hester’s bag. Greed? Fear? Revenge? Some motive not yet guessed at?
Where did Eilish go down the Kings Stables Road? Who was the rough, uncouth man who waited for Deirdra, and whom she met with such intense and secret conversation before running back into the house? A lover? Surely not, not in such clothes. A blackmailer? More probable. Over what? Her extravagance. Did she gamble, pay off old debts, keep a lover, a relative, an illegitimate child? Or was the extravagance simply to pay off a blackmailer? One thing, it was not to buy fashionable dresses. She had unquestionably lied about that.
It was an ugly resolution, but he decided he must follow her, or the man, and find the truth of it, whatever it was. And he must follow Eilish too. If it was a love affair with her sister’s husband, or with anyone else, that also must be known, and beyond doubt.
The first night was totally fruitless. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish appeared. But the second night at a little after midnight the man in the torn coat came again, and after lingering furtively beyond the arc of light from the streetlamp, and again looking at his watch, Deirdra appeared, creeping like a shadow out of the side gate. After a brief, intense exchange, but no overt gesture of affection, they turned away from the house and, side by side, walked rapidly across the grass and down Glenfinlas Street south, exactly the same way Eilish had gone.
This time Monk kept well behind them, which was not difficult because they moved extremely rapidly. For a small woman, Deirdra had a remarkable stride, and did not seem to tire, almost as if something lay ahead of her which filled her with energy and enthusiasm. Monk also stopped and turned around several times to make sure he was not being followed. He still remembered with pain his previous foray along here after Eilish.
He could see no one, apart from two youths going in the opposite direction, a black dog scavenging in the gutter, and a drunk propped against the wall and beginning to slide down.
There was a light wind with a smell of grime and damp on it, and overhead thin clouds darkened the three-quarter moon. Between the pools of the streetlamps the spaces melted into impenetrable shadow. The great mound of the castle towering above them and to the left showed a jagged, now-familiar line against the paler sky.
Deirdra and the man turned left into the Grassmarket. The pavement was narrower here and the five-story buildings made the street seem like the bottom of a deep ravine. There was little sound but that of footsteps, muffled by damp and echo, and the occasional shout, bang of a door or gate, and now and again horses’ hooves as some late traveler passed.
The Grassmarket was only a few hundred yards long, then it turned into Cowgate until it crossed South Bridge, running parallel to Canongate, and turned into Holyrood Road. To the right lay the Pleasance and Dumbiedykes, to the left the High Street, the Royal Mile, and eventually Holyrood Palace. In between was an endless maze of alleys and yards, passages between buildings, steps up and steps down, a thousand nooks and doorways.
Monk increased his pace. Where on earth was Deirdra going? Her pace had not slackened at all, nor had she glanced behind her.
Ahead of him Deirdra and the man crossed the road and abruptly disappeared.
Monk swore and ran forward, tripping over a cobble and all but losing his balance. A dog sleeping in a doorway stirred, growled, and then lowered its head again.
Candlemaker Row. He swung around the corner and was just in time to see Deirdra and the man as they passed the beginning of the graveyard to the right, stop, hesitate barely a moment, then go into one of the vast, shadowy buildings to the left.
Monk ran after them, reaching the spot only minutes after they had gone. At first he could see no entrance. The street walls and high wooden gates were a seamless barrier against intrusion.
But they had been here, and now they were not. Something had yielded to their touch. Step by step he moved along, pushing gently, until under his weight one wooden gate swung open just enough to allow him to squeeze inside and to find himself in a cobbled yard facing a building something like a barn. Yellow gaslight streamed from the cracks around an ill-fitting door which would have let through a horse and dray, were it open.
He moved forward gingerly, feeling every step before putting his weight down. He did not want to brush against something and set off an alarm. He had no idea where he was, or what manner of place to expect, or even who else might be inside.
He reached the door in silence and peered in through the wide crack. The sight that met his eyes was so extraordinary, so wildly fanciful and absurd, he stared at it for several minutes before his brain accepted its reality. It was a huge shed, big enough to have built a boat in
, except that the structure that crouched in the center of the floor was surely never intended to sail. It had no keel and no possible place for masts. It would have resembled a running chicken, but it had no legs. Its body was large enough for a full-grown man to sit inside, and the wings were outspread as if it fully intended to take off and fly. It seemed to be constructed primarily of wood and canvas. There was some kind of machinery where the heart would have been, were it a real bird.
But more incredible, if anything could be, was Deirdra Farraline, dressed in old clothes, a leather apron over her gown, thick leather gloves over her small, strong hands, her hair scraped back out of her eyes. She was bent forward earnestly laboring over the contraption, tightening screws with delicate, intense efficiency. The man who had come for her was now stripped to his shirtsleeves and was pushing and heaving at another piece of structure which he seemed to be intending to attach to the rear of the bird, by which to extend its tail by some eight or nine feet.
Monk had little enough to lose. He pushed the door open far enough for him to squeeze through and get inside. Neither of the two workers noticed him, so engrossed were they in their labors. Deirdra bent her head, her tongue between her teeth, her brow drawn down in the power of her thought. Monk watched her hands. She was quick and very certain. She knew exactly what she was doing, which tool she wanted and how to use it. The man was patient, and skilled also, but he appeared to be working under her direction.
It was fully five minutes before Deirdra looked up and saw Monk standing in the doorway. She froze.
“Good evening, Mrs. Farraline,” he said quietly, moving forward. “Pardon my technical ignorance, but what are you making?” His voice was so normal, so devoid of any criticism or doubt, he might have been discussing the weather at some polite social function.
She stared at him, her dark eyes searching his face for ridicule, anger, contempt, any of the emotions she expected, and finding none of them.
“A flying machine,” she said at last.
It was a remark so preposterous no explanation seemed adequate, or even worth attempting. Her companion stood with a spanner in his hand, waiting to see whether she needed support, protection or silence on his part. He was quite clearly embarrassed, but Monk judged it was for her reputation, not his own, and certainly not for their project.
All kinds of questions raced through Monk’s head, none of them relevant to Hester’s dilemma.
“It must be expensive,” he said aloud.
She looked startled. Her eyes widened. She had been ready to counter with defense of the possibility of flying, the necessity to try, the previous ideas and drawings of da Vinci or of Roger Bacon, but the cost was the last thing she had imagined he would mention.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, of course it is.”
“More expensive than a few fashionable dresses,” he went on.
That brought a rush of color to her cheeks as she realized his thoughts.
“It is all my own money,” she protested. “I’ve saved by buying secondhand clothes and having them made over. I never took anything from the family. I know someone has falsified the company books, but I never had a farthing from them. I swear it! And Mary knew what I was doing,” she rushed on. “I can’t prove it, but she did. She thought it was quite mad, but she enjoyed it. She thought it was a wonderful piece of insanity.”
“And your husband?”
“Alastair?” she said incredulously. “Good heavens, no. No.” She came towards him, her face puckered with anxiety. “Please, you must not tell him! He would not understand. He is a good man in so many ways, but he has no imagination, and no sense of … of …”
“Humor?” he suggested.
A flash of temper lit her face, then after a second softened into amusement.
“No, Mr. Monk, not humor either. And you may laugh, but one day it will fly. You don’t understand now, but one day you will.”
“I understand dedication,” he said with a twisted smile. “Even obsession. I understand the desire to do something which is so powerful that all other desires are sacrificed to it.”
The man moved forward a step, the spanner held firmly in his hand, but at least for the moment he judged Monk constituted no danger to her, and he remained silent.
“I swear I did not harm Mary, Mr. Monk, nor do I know who did.” Deirdra took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Nothing,” Monk replied, amazed at his own answer. He had spoken before he had weighed the matter; his reply was instinctive and emotional. “Providing you give me all the help you can to learn who did kill Mrs. Farraline.”
She looked at him with dawning perception in her eyes, and as far as he could judge, not so much anger as amazement.
“You are not here for the prosecution, are you?”
“No. I have known Hester Latterly for a long time, and I will never believe she poisoned a patient. She might kill someone in outrage, in self-defense, but never for gain.”
The color drained out of her face; her eyes shadowed.
“I see. That means one of us did … doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to help you find out who it is?”
He hesitated, on the edge of reminding her that it was the price of his silence, then decided it would be wiser not to. She already understood as much.
“Don’t you want to know?” he asked instead.
She waited only a moment.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand, and she took it in her leather-gloved one and clasped it in silent agreement.
7
MONK RETURNED to his lodgings cold, tired and faced with a dilemma. He had promised to tell Oonagh if he learned where Deirdra spent her money—or, more accurately, Alastair’s money. Now that he knew the answer, every instinct and desire was to tell no one at all, most especially not Oonagh.
Of course her whole enterprise was quite mad, bereft of any connection with reality, but it was an absurd and glorious madness, and harmed no one at all. What if she did spend money on it? The Farralines had plenty of money, and better on a wild and innocuous folly like a flying machine than on gambling, a lover, or to deck herself in silks and jewels in order to look wealthier or more beautiful than her peers. Certainly she should continue.
He found himself striding out with his head high and a lift in his step, and he very nearly went straight past the establishment of Wm. Forster, Innkeeper, in his exhilaration.
In the morning, however, he realized he should have taken the opportunity to strike a better bargain with her. He could have asked her about the company books, and whether there was any basis for Hector’s charge. And there was the matter of what he would say to Oonagh. She would never allow him simply to let the subject fade away. And if he were to avoid her, he would have to avoid the Farraline house, which was an impossibility.
Memory of that returned Hester to his thoughts sharply and with a pain that surprised him. At the forefront of his mind he had always considered Hester intelligent, and certainly a useful colleague, but a person about whom his feelings were very mixed. He respected her qualities, at any rate some of them, but he did not really like her. A great many of her mannerisms and attitudes irritated him enormously. Being in her company was like having a small cut on the hands, a paper cut, which was always in danger of being reopened. It was not really an injury, but it was a constant source of discomfort.
And now came the awareness that if he did not succeed in finding proof of who had really killed Mary Farraline, Hester would be gone. He would never see her or speak with her again, never see her square shoulders and proud, rather angular figure come walking towards him, ready to pick a quarrel or enthuse about some cause or other, order him around and express her opinions furiously and with total, blind conviction. If he was facing an impossible case, desperate and defeated, there would be no one who would fight beside him to the end, and beyond, even when reason told t
hem both defeat was already a reality.
He was overwhelmed with a loneliness so deep, staring at the gray cobbles of the Grassmarket and the leaden sky between the heaped and jumbled roofs, the light was worse than the darkness had been, and unreasonably colder. The thought of a world without her was desolating, and the realization that it hurt him so profoundly choked him with anger.
He set out at a brisk walk towards Kings Stables Road, and eventually Ainslie Place. At the front of his mind, his reason for going was to speak to Hector Farraline and press him further to make some sense in the dark and extremely vague accusations he had been making about the company books. If they were indeed being falsified, it might be a motive for murder—if Mary had known, or was about to be told.
His excuse was to report to Oonagh that he was still investigating Deirdra but that so far all he had learned was that she was indeed a poor judge of how to obtain a bargain, and given to extravagance in her attire. If she pressed him for details he would find it difficult to reply, but he was too consumed with emotion for his mind to take heed of such things.
It was a brisk morning after the previous night’s frost, but striding up the rise towards Princes Street, it was not at all unpleasant. He was not in any way familiar with Edinburgh, except the immediate vicinity of the Grassmarket now, but he had already developed a liking for the city. The old town was steep and narrow with high buildings, lots of alleys, closes and leg-aching flights of steps, sudden courtyards, and wynds, as they were called; especially eastward towards the Royal Mile, at the far end of which stood Holyrood Palace.
He arrived at Ainslie Place and McTeer let him in with his usual air of gloom and foreboding.
“Good morning to ye, Mr. Monk.” He took Monk’s hat and coat. “Looks like more rain, I’ll be thinking.”
