by Anne Perry
“Most understandable.” Gilfeather nodded. “I think in your circumstances I should have felt the same. And presumably that part of your arrangement lived up to your hopes.”
Oonagh smiled bleakly, but did not answer.
“Were you present when Miss Latterly arrived, Mrs. McIvor?” Gilfeather continued.
The questions were all as Monk had foreseen. Gilfeather asked them and Oonagh answered them, and the court listened with rapt attention, all except Monk, who stared around at first one face, then another. Gilfeather himself looked satisfied, even smug. Watching him, the jury could only believe he was completely in command of the whole procedure and held no doubt as to its outcome.
Monk resented it bitterly, while admiring the man’s professionalism. He could not recall the trial of his mentor all those years ago. He did not even know in which court it had been held, but his helplessness now brought back waves of old emotion and grief. Then he had known the truth and had watched impotently while someone he had both loved and admired had been convicted of a crime he had not committed. Then Monk had been young and looking with incredulity at the injustice, not believing until the last possible moment that it could really happen. Afterwards he had been stunned. This time it was all too familiar, an old wound with scar tissue ripped away to reveal the unhealed depths, and probed anew.
At the defense table James Argyll sat with his black brows drawn down in thought. His was a dangerous face, full of strength and subtlety, but he was a man without weapons. Monk had failed him. Deliberately he used the word over and over to himself. Failure. Someone had killed Mary Farraline, and he had not found any trace of who it was or why it had happened. He had had weeks in which to seek, and all he had produced was that Kenneth had a pretty mistress with long yellow hair, white skin and a determination never to be cold and hungry again, or to sleep in some strange bed at some man’s favor, because she had not one of her own.
Actually Monk sympathized with her more than he did with Kenneth, who had been forced to part with more expensive gifts than he had wished, in order to keep her favors.
But unless someone could raise adequate suspicion of embezzlement to have the company books audited, and embezzlement was in fact proved true, then it was possibly scandalous, although not probably, and it was certainly no cause for murder.
Monk looked at Rathbone and in spite of himself felt a stab of sympathy. To a stranger he appeared merely to be listening, his head a trifle to one side, his long face thoughtful, his dark eyes heavy-lidded as if his attention were entirely involved. But Monk had known him long enough and seen him under pressure before. He could see the angle of his shoulders hunched under his beautiful jacket, the stiffness of his neck and the slow clenching and unclenching of his hand on the table, and he felt the frustration boiling inside him. Whatever he thought or whatever emotions churned inside him, there was nothing he could do now. Whatever he would have done differently, whether it was a whole strategy or as little as an intonation or an expression of the face, he could only sit silently and watch.
Oonagh was answering Gilfeather’s questions about the preparation for Mary’s journey.
“And who packed your mother’s case, Mrs. McIvor?”
“Her lady’s maid.”
“Upon whose instructions?”
“Mine.” Oonagh hesitated only a fraction of a moment, her face pale, her head high. No one in the court moved. “I prepared a list of what should go in, so Mother would have everything she needed and … and not too many dinner gowns rather than plain day dresses, and skirts. It… it was not a social visit … not really.”
There was a murmur of sympathy like a breath of wind around the room. The personal details brought the reality of death more sharply.
Gilfeather waited a second or two, allowing the emotions time.
“I see. And naturally you included the appropriate jewelry on this list?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you packed this list in the case?”
“Yes.” The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “So the maid who packed for her return would have something by which to know what should be there, and nothing would accidentally be left behind. It can be very tiresome …” She did not need to finish.
Again the sense of the dead woman filled the room. Someone in the gallery was weeping.
“Which brings me to another point, Mrs. McIvor,” Gilfeather said after several moments. “Precisely why was your mother making this long journey to London? Would it not have been more sensible for your sister to have returned to Edinburgh, and then been able to visit the whole family?”
“Normally speaking, of course,” Oonagh agreed, resuming her calm, intelligent tone. “But my sister is recently married and expecting her first child. She could not travel, and she was very anxious to see Mother.”
“Indeed? And do you know why that was?”
There was a complete silence in the court. One woman coughed discreetly and the sound was like gunfire.
“Yes … she was concerned … afraid that her child might not be quite normal, might be afflicted with some hereditary illness….” The words dropped one by one, carefully enunciated, into a pool of expectancy. There were gasps around the room. The jurors sat motionless. The judge turned sharply towards her.
Rathbone’s head came up, his expression tense.
Argyll’s eyes searched Oonagh’s face.
“Indeed,” Gilfeather said very softly. “And what did your mother propose to do about these fears, Mrs. McIvor?” He did not ask what the illness was, and Monk heard the whisper and rustle around the crowd as a hundred people let out their breath in release of tension and disappointment.
Oonagh paled a little. Her chin lifted. She knew their thoughts.
“She was going to assure her that the disease of which my father died was contracted long after she was born and was in no way hereditary.” Her voice was very level, very clear. “It was a fever he developed while serving in the army abroad, and it damaged his internal organs, eventually killing him. Griselda was too young to have remembered it accurately, and I suppose at the time of Father’s death she was not told. No one thought it would matter to her.” She hesitated. “I am sorry to say so, but Griselda worries about her health far more than is necessary or natural.”
“You are saying her anxiety was without cause?” Gilfeather concluded.
“Yes. Quite without cause. She would not believe that easily, and Mother was going to see her in person to convince her.”
“I see. Very natural. I am sure any mother might well have done the same.”
Oonagh nodded but did not reply.
There was a faint air of disappointment around the room. Some people’s attention wandered.
Oonagh cleared her throat.
“Yes?” Gilfeather said immediately.
“It is not only my mother’s gray pearl brooch which was missing,” she said carefully. “Although of course we have that back now.”
Now the attention was returned in full. No one fidgeted anymore.
“Indeed?” Gilfeather looked interested.
“There was also a diamond brooch of a great deal more value,” Oonagh said gravely. “It was commissioned from our family jeweler, but it was not among my mother’s effects.”
In the dock Hester straightened up sharply and leaned forward, amazement in her face.
“I see.” Gilfeather stared at Oonagh. “And the estimated worth of the two pieces, Mrs. McIvor?”
“Oh, a hundred pounds or so for the pearls, and perhaps a little more for the diamonds.”
There was a gasp of breath around the room. The judge frowned and leaned forward a little.
“A very considerable sum indeed,” Gilfeather agreed. “Enough to buy a great many luxuries for a woman living from one chance job to another.”
Rathbone winced, so slightly perhaps only Monk saw it, but he knew exactly why.
“And was this diamond brooch on the list to be packed for
London?”
“No. If Mother took it, it was a last-minute decision of her own.”
“I see. But you have not found it among her effects?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McIvor.”
Gilfeather stepped back, indicating graciously that Argyll might proceed.
Argyll thanked him and rose to his feet.
“This second piece of jewelry, Mrs. McIvor; you did not mention it earlier. In fact, this is the first time we have heard it referred to. Why is that?”
“Because we did not previously realize that it was missing,” Oonagh answered reasonably.
“How odd! Such a valuable piece must surely have been kept in a safe place, a locked jewel casket or something of the like.”
“I presume so.”
“You don’t know.”
She looked uncertain. “No. It was my mother’s, not mine.”
“How many times have you seen her wear it?”
“I—” She watched him carefully with that same clear, direct look Monk remembered facing himself. “I don’t recall seeing her wear it.”
“How do you know she had it at all?”
“Because it was commissioned from our family jeweler, paid for and taken.”
“By whom?”
“I see your point, Mr. Argyll,” she granted. “But it is not mine, nor my sister’s, nor does it belong to my sister-in-law. It can only have been my mother’s. I daresay she wore it on some occasion when I was not present and so I have never noticed it.”
“Is it not possible, Mrs. McIvor, that it was a gift for someone else, and not for a member of your family at all?” he suggested. “That would account for why no one has seen it and it is not there now, would it not?”
“If it were the truth, yes,” Oonagh said dismissively. “But it was very expensive indeed to give someone who is not a member of the family. We are generous, I hope, but not extravagant.”
Heads nodded. One woman stifled a giggle, and the man next to her glared at her.
“So you are saying, Mrs. McIvor, that the brooch was commissioned and yet no one has seen it, although it was paid for, is that right? You are not saying that you have any evidence to suggest that Miss Latterly has it, or ever has had?”
“She had the pearl brooch,” Oonagh pointed out. “Even she does not deny that.”
“No, indeed not,” Argyll agreed. “She made every effort to return it to you as soon as she discovered it. But she has not seen the diamond brooch, any more than you have.”
Oonagh flushed, opened her mouth, and then changed her mind and remained silent.
Argyll smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. McIvor. I have nothing further to ask you.”
It was another tiny point gained, but the momentary elation vanished almost as soon as it came. Gilfeather was amused. He could afford to be.
He called the conductor from the train on which Mary Farraline and Hester had traveled. He said exactly what was expected. No one else, as far as he knew, had gone into the carriage. The two women had been alone the entire journey. Yes, Mrs. Farraline had left the compartment at least once, to attend the requirements of nature. Yes, Miss Latterly had called him in a state of some distress to report the death of the elder lady. He had gone along to see, and indeed, he deeply regretted to say so, but she had been dead. He had done his duty as soon as he had arrived in London. It was all very sad.
Argyll knew well enough not to alienate the jury by questioning what was too well established to state, and he would only harass an ordinary little man following his calling. He waved away his opportunity to cross-examine with a flick of his hand and an inclination of his head.
The stationmaster also said only what was entirely predictable, if in places self-important, nervous and melodramatic.
Again Monk’s attention wandered to the faces around the room. He was able to watch Hester for several moments because she was staring at the witness-box. He regarded her curiously. She was not beautiful, but tense, frightened as she was now, there was a quality of refinement in her which was like a kind of beauty. It was stripped of all artifice or pretense, even the mask of usual good manners, and its very honesty caught the emotions. He was surprised how familiar she seemed, as if he had known every line of her entire being, every flicker of expression that would cross her features. He thought he knew what she was feeling, but he was powerless to give her anything.
The sense of helplessness was so intense it was like a pain in his chest. But even if he could have spoken to her, he knew there was nothing to say which she did not already know. Perhaps it would have helped if he could have lied. He would never know that, because he could not. He would not do it well, and to do it badly would only place a barrier between them which would make it all worse.
Oonagh had remained in the courtroom. He could see her fair hair across her brow beneath the brim of the dark bonnet. She looked calm and brave, as if she had spent hours alone in deep thought and self-mastery before she had left Ainslie Place to come here, and now nothing would break through her composure.
Did she know who had killed her mother? Did she guess, knowing her siblings as well as she did? He studied her features, the smooth brow, the level eyes, the long straight nose, the full mouth, almost perfectly shaped. Each feature was good, and yet the whole had too much power in it for ordinary beauty. Had she taken over the mantle of leadership on Mary’s death? Was she protecting the family honor, or one individual member’s weakness or evil?
Even if he found out who it was, he might never know that.
If?
Coldness enveloped him. He had unwittingly voiced the fear he had denied so scrupulously ever since he had come to Edinburgh. He dismissed it violently.
It was one of the Farralines. It had to be.
He turned from Oonagh to Alastair, sitting beside her, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stationmaster giving his evidence. He looked haunted, as though the burden of the public trial of his family’s tragedy were more than he could bear. As Monk had seen once or twice before, it seemed to be his sister upon whom he leaned for support rather than his wife. Deirdra was there, certainly, and sitting next to him, but his body was inclined to the left, closer to Oonagh, and his right shoulder was half turned, excluding Deirdra.
Deirdra stared straight ahead of her, not ignoring Alastair so much as simply more interested in the proceedings. There was barely any concern or anxiety in her face with its calm brow, tip-tilted nose, and sturdy chin. If she suspected any impending tragedy, she was a consummate actress.
Kenneth was not in the room, nor had Monk expected him to be. He would be called to testify, and therefore was not permitted in yet, in case he overheard something that in some way altered what he would say. It was the law. Eilish was here, like a silent flame. Baird, on the far side of Oonagh, was also turned a little away, not obviously, simply a withdrawing of himself. He did not look at Eilish, but even from the far side of the room, Monk felt the iron control he was exerting on himself not to.
Quinlan Fyffe was absent, presumably because he too would be called.
The stationmaster finished his evidence and Argyll declined to question him. He was excused and replaced by the doctor who had been sent for and had certified that Mary Farraline was indeed dead. Gilfeather was very kind to him, seeking not to embarrass him for having diagnosed the death as due to ordinary heart failure and in no way worthy of further investigation. Even so, the man was uncomfortable and answered in monosyllables.
Argyll rose and smiled at him, then sat down without saying anything at all.
It was late in the afternoon. Court was adjourned for the day.
Monk left immediately, hurrying to find Rathbone and learn his judgment of how the day had gone. He saw him on the steps and caught up with him just as he and James Argyll climbed into a hansom cab.
Monk stopped at the curb and swore vehemently. His better sense knew perfectly well that Rathbone could tell him nothing he did not know for himself, and ye
t he was infuriated not to have been able to speak to him. He stood still for several minutes, too angry to think what to do next.
“Were you looking for Oliver, or just for the cab, Mr. Monk?”
He turned around sharply to find Henry Rathbone standing a few feet away. There was something in the anxiety in his gentle face, and vulnerability in it, which robbed him of his rage and left only his fear, and the need to share it.
“Rathbone,” he replied. “Although I don’t suppose he could have told me anything I haven’t seen for myself. Were you in the court? I didn’t see you.”
“I was behind you,” Henry Rathbone replied with a faint smile. “Standing. I was too late for a seat.” They started to walk and Monk fell in step beside him. “I hadn’t realized there would be so much public interest. It is the least attractive side of people, I think. I prefer people individually; in a crowd I find they so often take on each other’s least admirable qualities. A pack instinct, I suppose. The scent of fear, of something wounded—” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re right,” Monk said grimly. “And Gilfeather is good.” He did not add the rest of the thought. It was unnecessary.
They walked in a strangely companionable silence for several yards. Monk was surprised. The man was Rathbone’s father, and yet he felt a liking for him as if he had known him for years and the relationship had always been comfortable. Instead of resenting Hester’s liking for him, he was pleased. There was something in Henry Rathbone’s face, his rather awkward gait, his long legs, not quite straight, which brought back faint, indistinct memories of being a young man, admiring his mentor intensely, almost without question. He had been very naive then. It seemed like another man whose innocence he looked at as he would a stranger’s, only the feeling was within him, unaccountably sharp for just those few moments.
There was a legless beggar sitting on the footpath, an old soldier from some war gone from the public mind. He was selling small pieces of white heather bound into nosegays for luck.
