by Anne Perry
“How do you find the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?”
“My lord, we find the case not proven.”
There was a thunderous silence, an emptiness ringing in the ears.
“Not proven?” the judge said with a lift of incredulity.
“Yes, my lord, not proven.”
Slowly the judge turned to Hester, his expression bitter.
“You have heard the verdict, Miss Latterly. You are not exonerated, but you are free to go.”
11
“WHAT DOES IT MEAN?” Hester asked intently, staring at Rathbone. They were in the sitting room of the lodgings Callandra had taken while in Edinburgh for the trial. Hester was to stay with her at least for this night, and the reconsideration could be made in the morning. Rathbone was sitting in a hard-backed chair, too charged with emotion to relax in one of the spacious softer ones. Monk stood by the mantelshelf, half leaning on it, his face dark, his brows drawn down in concentration. Callandra herself seemed more at ease. She and Henry Rathbone sat opposite on the sofa silently.
“It means that you are neither innocent nor guilty,” Rathbone replied, pulling a face. “It is not a verdict we have in England. Argyll explained it to me.”
“They think I am guilty, but they are not really quite sure enough to hang me,” Hester said with a catch in her voice. “Can they try me again?”
“It means they think you’re guilty, but they can’t damned well prove it,” Monk put in bitterly. He turned to Rathbone, his Up curled. “Can they try her again?”
“No. In that respect it is the same as a verdict of not guilty.”
“But people will always wonder,” Hester said grimly, her face very pale. She was perfectly aware of what it meant. She had seen the expressions of the people in the gallery, even those who were truly uncertain of her guilt. Who would hire as a nurse a woman who might be a murderess? The fact that she also might not was hardly a recommendation.
No one answered immediately. She looked at Monk, not that she expected comfort from him, but possibly because she did not. His face would reflect the worst she would find, the plain and bitter truth.
He stared back at her with such a blazing anger that for a moment she was frightened. Even during the trial of Percival in the Moidore case, she had never seen such a barely controllable rage in him.
“I wish I could say otherwise,” Rathbone said very softly. “But it is a very unsatisfactory conclusion.”
Callandra and Monk both spoke at once, but her voice was lost in his, which was harsh, furious, and immeasurably more penetrating. Whatever she said was never heard.
“It is not a conclusion. For the love of God, what is the matter with you?” He glared at them all, but principally at Rathbone and Hester. “We don’t know who killed Mary Farraline! We must find out!”
“Monk …” Rathbone began, but again Monk overrode him with a snarl of contempt.
“It is one of the family.”
“Baird McIvor?” Callandra asked.
“I have doubts,” Henry Rathbone began. “It seems …”
“Unsatisfactory?” Monk asked with sarcasm, mimicking Oliver’s earlier comment. “Very. No doubt they’ll find him ‘not proven’ also, if it ever gets to trial. At least I hope so. I think it was that sniveling little beggar Kenneth. He embezzled from the company books, and his mother caught him.”
“If he has covered his tracks, and from his confidence I have no doubt he has,” Oliver argued, “then we’ll never prove it.”
“Well, you won’t if you run off back to London and leave McIvor to face trial … and maybe hang for it,” Monk snapped back at him. “Is that what you intend?”
Rathbone looked temporarily nonplussed. He stared at Monk with acute dislike.
“Do we gather from your remark that you intend to remain, Mr. Monk?” Henry Rathbone asked, his mild face pinched with concern. “Is that because you believe you can accomplish something you have not done so far?”
A faint flush of anger and self-consciousness colored Monk’s lean cheeks.
“We have a great deal more to pursue than we did even a day ago. I’m going to remain here until I have seen the end of it.” He looked at Hester with a strange, mixed expression in his face. “You don’t need to be so frightened. Whether they can prove it or not, they’ll charge someone else.” His voice still sounded angry.
She felt absurdly, unreasonably hurt. It was unfair. He seemed to be blaming her because the matter was unresolved, and she was frightened, and only with the greatest difficulty prevented herself from bursting into tears. Now that the worst fear was over, the sense of anticlimax, the confusion and relief, and the continued anxiety were almost more than she could bear. She wanted to be alone, where she could allow herself to stop the pretense and not care in the slightest what anyone else thought. And at the same time she wanted company, she wanted someone to put his arms around her and hold her closely, tightly, and not to let her go. She wanted to feel the warmth of someone, the breathing heartbeat, the tenderness. She certainly did not want to quarrel, least of all with Monk.
And yet because she was so vulnerable, she was furious with him. The only defense was attack.
“I don’t know what you are so upset about,” she said. “No one accused you of anything, except perhaps incompetence! But they don’t hang you for that!” She turned to Callandra. “I am going to remain as well. For my own sake, as well as anyone else’s, I am going to find out who killed Mary Farraline. I really—”
“Don’t be absurd!” Monk cut across her. “There’s nothing you can accomplish here, and you may well be a hindrance.”
“To whom?” she demanded. Anger was so much easier than the fear and need she really felt. “You? I would have thought, on your showing so far, you would be grateful for any help you could obtain. You don’t know whether it was Baird McIvor or Kenneth. You just said as much. At least I knew Mary, you didn’t.”
Monk’s eyebrows rose. “And what help is that? If she said something useful, don’t tell me you have waited until now to reveal it.”
“Don’t be stupid! Of course—”
“This conversation is not furthering our cause,” Henry Rathbone interrupted them. “I think, if you will forgive me saying so, it is well time we exercised a little more logical thought and rather less emotion. It is only natural that after such a fearful experience we may all be excused a little self-indulgence, but it really will serve us ill in learning who is responsible for Mrs. Farraline’s death. Perhaps we should retire to our beds and resume our discussion in the morning?”
“An excellent idea.” Callandra rose to her feet. “We are all too tired to think usefully.”
“There is no decision to make,” Monk said irritably. “I shall go back to the Farraline house and continue my investigations.”
“How will you explain yourself?” Rathbone asked with pursed lips. “They may not find personal curiosity an acceptable excuse.”
Monk regarded him with loathing. “They are acutely vulnerable at the moment,” he replied slowly and with sarcastic patience. “It is now apparent to everyone that one of the family is guilty. They will each be pointing the finger at the other. It should not be beyond my ability to convince at least one of them that they require my services.”
Oliver’s eyebrows rose very high. “At least one? Do you plan to work for several of them? That should provoke an interesting situation, to say the least of it!”
“All right … one of them,” Monk conceded waspishly. “I’m sure Eilish is not guilty, and she will be very keen to prove that McIvor is not either, since she is in love with him. I think it is not impossible she will prefer him to her brother, if she is driven to choose.”
“Which presumably you will do?”
“How perceptive of you!”
“Not particularly. You were rather obvious.”
Monk opened his mouth to retort.
“William!” Callandra commanded. “I will be obliged if you will ta
ke your leave. Whether you return to your room in the Grassmarket or not is up to you, but it seems more than apparent to me that you need a good night’s sleep.” She regarded Henry Rathbone with affection. “I am sure you must be ready to retire, and I am. Good night, Mr. Rathbone. You have been of great support to me in this most trying time, and my gratitude to you is immense. I hope we shall remain friends once you have returned to London.”
“I am always at your service, ma’am,” he said with a smile which warmed his whole face. “Good night. Come, Oliver. We have all but outstayed our welcome.”
“Good night, Lady Callandra,” Oliver said courteously. He turned to Hester, ignoring Monk. His face was suddenly gentle. The anger fled and a pronounced tenderness took its place. “Good night, my dear. Tonight you are free, and we shall find the solution somehow. You shall not be jeopardized again.”
“Thank you,” she said with a sudden rush of emotion making her voice hoarse. “I know how much you have done for me already, and I am profoundly grateful. Nothing I can say—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Just sleep well. Tomorrow is time enough to think of the next step.”
She took a deep breath. “Good night.”
He smiled and led the way to the door. Henry Rathbone followed immediately after him, smiling at Hester, and leaving without further speech.
Monk hesitated, frowning, then seemed to think better of what he had been going to say.
“Good night, Hester, Lady Callandra.”
He was gone and the door closed before she realized it was the first time she could recall his having used her given name. It was odd to hear it on his tongue, and she was; torn between relief that he had left and a desire for him to stay. That was ridiculous. She was much too tired and overwrought to make any sense even to herself.
“I think I will go to bed if you don’t mind,” she said to Callandra. “I think I am really …”
“Exhausted,” Callandra finished very gently. “Of course you are, my dear. I shall have the innkeeper send us both up hot milk and a spot of brandy. I think I need it about as much as you do. I can confess to you now, I was deathly afraid I was going to lose one of the dearest friends I have. The relief is rather more than I can comfortably cope with. I am very ready to sleep.” She held out her hand, and without an instant’s hesitation, Hester took it, and walked into her arms to cling to her as fiercely as she was able, and did not move till the innkeeper knocked on the door.
Early the following morning everyone was a trifle self-conscious over the previous night’s high emotion. No one referred to it. Henry Rathbone took his leave back to London, stopping for a moment to speak with Hester and then failing to find words for what he meant. It did not matter in the slightest. She had no need of them.
Callandra also went, apparently satisfied that she could add nothing further to the situation.
Oliver Rathbone said that he was going to council with Argyll once more, and that no doubt he would see Monk and Hester again before he also returned to London. Not unnaturally he had other cases awaiting him. He said nothing to Monk about whatever he had intended to do at Ainslie Place, and took only a moment to speak, rather formally, to Hester. She thanked him yet again for his work on her behalf, and he looked embarrassed, so she pursued it no further.
By nine o’clock she and Monk were alone, everyone else having departed for the morning train south. It was a windy day but not unpleasant, and fitful shafts of sunlight gave it a brightness out of keeping with both their moods. They stood side by side on Princes Street, staring up its handsome length towards the rise of the new town, and Ainslie Place.
“I don’t know where you think you are going to stay,” Monk said with a frown. “The Grassmarket is most unsuitable, and you cannot afford the hotel where Callandra was.”
“What is wrong with the Grassmarket?” she demanded.
“It’s not suitable for a woman alone,” he replied irritably. “For heaven’s sake, I thought your own common sense would have told you that! The neighborhood is rough, and a great deal of it none too clean.”
She looked at him witheringly. “Worse than Newgate?” she inquired.
“Acquired a taste for it, have you?” he said, tight-lipped.
“Then leave me to attend to my own accommodation,” she said rashly. “And let us proceed to Ainslie Place.”
“What do you mean ‘us’? I’m not taking you!”
“I do not require you to. I am perfectly capable of taking myself. I believe I shall walk there. It is not an unpleasant day and I should welcome a little exercise. I have not had much of late.”
Monk shrugged and set out at a smart pace, so smart she was obliged almost to run to keep up with him. She had no breath to continue the conversation.
They arrived after ten, Hester with sore feet and feeling too heated for comfort, and by now in a very different temper. Damn Monk!
He, on the contrary, was looking rather pleased with himself.
The door of number seventeen was opened by McTeer. His dismal expression fell even farther when he saw Monk, and approached disastrous proportions when he saw Hester behind him.
“And who will ye be wanting?” he said slowly, rolling the words on his tongue as if he were making a prognostication of doom. “Have ye come for Mr. McIvor?”
“No, of course not,” Monk said. “We have no power to come for anybody.”
McTeer snorted. “I thought maybe ye were the poliss….”
It still jarred Monk that he was no longer a policeman and had no power whatever. His new status gave him freedom, and at the same time robbed him of half the ability to use it to its uttermost.
“Then ye’ll be wanting Mrs. McIvor, no doubt,” McTeer finished for himself. “Mr. Alastair is no here at this time o’ day.”
“Of course not,” Monk agreed. “I should be obliged to see whoever I may.”
“Aye, aye, I daresay. Well, you’d better come in.” And reluctantly McTeer pulled the door wide enough open to allow them to pass into the hall, with its giant picture of Hamish Farraline dominating the room.
Hester stared at it with curiosity as McTeer withdrew. Monk waited impatiently.
“What are you going to say?” Hester asked him.
“I don’t know,” he replied tersely. “It can’t be prescribed and followed like a dose of medicine.”
“Medicine is not prescribed and followed regardless,” she contradicted. “You watch the progress of the patient and do whatever you think best according to his response.”
“Don’t be pedantic.”
“Well, if you don’t know now, you had better make up your mind very rapidly,” she replied. “Oonagh will be here in a moment, unless she sends a message that she will not receive you.”
He turned his back, but remained standing close to her. She was right, and it irritated him almost beyond bearing. There had been too much emotion in the last few weeks, and he was profoundly disturbed by it. He hated his feelings to be beyond his control. The anger brought back memories which frightened him, recent memories of confusion and fear. The possibility of failure was another all too recent memory he preferred not to reawaken. The emotion caused by the knowledge that she might very easily die was a profound and deeply confused turmoil he chose to ignore. If he did so for long enough, he could sink into all the other memories he had lost.
She did not interrupt his thoughts again until McTeer returned to say that they would be received in the library. He did not say by whom.
When he opened the library door and announced them, all three of the women were there: Eilish, pale as a ghost, her eyes dark with fear; Deirdra, tense and unhappy, glancing all the time at Eilish; and Oonagh, composed and grave, and somewhat apologetic. It was she who came forward to greet first Hester, then Monk. As always, she was not lost for words.
“Miss Latterly, no expression of regret can suffice for what you have endured, but please believe that we are truly sorry, and as far as we have any par
t in it, we apologize profoundly.”
It was a noble speech, most especially considering that it was her own husband who now stood so openly accused.
Eilish looked wretched, and Monk felt an unaccustomed wave of pity for her. Quinlan’s behavior could only be acutely embarrassing to her.
Hester was generous about it, whatever her underlying feelings.
“You have no call to apologize, Mrs. McIvor. You were newly bereaved in most fearful circumstances. I think you acted with dignity and restraint. I would be pleased to have done as well.”
A slight smile touched Oonagh’s lips.
“You are very gracious, Miss Latterly, more generous than I think I should be”—the smile broadened for a moment—“were we to change places.”
Eilish made a strangled sound in her throat.
Deirdra turned to her, but Oonagh ignored the interruption, and looked at Monk.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk. McTeer gave no indication as to why you have come. Was it simply to accompany Miss Latterly, that we might apologize to her?”
“I did not come for apologies,” Hester cut across him before he could speak. “I came to say how highly I regarded your mother, and in spite of all that has happened since we last met, I regard her loss as the worst of it.”
“That is generous of you,” Oonagh accepted. “Yes, she was a remarkable person. She will be greatly missed, outside the family as well as within it.”
They seemed to be on the point of being shown out again, and Monk had asked nothing at all.
“I have already expressed my regrets, long ago,” he said somewhat abruptly. “I came to ask if you wished my assistance in the matter. It is far from resolved, and the police will not allow it to rest. They cannot.”
“As an agent of inquiry?” Oonagh’s fair eyebrows rose curiously. “To help us obtain another verdict of ‘not proven’?”
“Do you think Mr. McIvor is guilty?”
It was an appalling thing to ask. There was a shocked, breathless silence. Even Hester gasped and bit her lip. A coal settled in the grate and outside beyond the windows a dog barked.
