by Anne Perry
“No!” Eilish said at last, her voice a sob in her throat. “No, of course not!”
Monk was ruthless. “Then you will need to prove that it was someone else, or he will take Miss Latterly’s place at the rope’s end.”
“Monk!” Hester exploded. “For heaven’s sake!”
“You find the truth ugly?” he said. “I would have thought you, of all people, would not now balk at the reality.”
She said nothing. He could feel her disgust as if it were a palpable thing radiating from her. It did not disturb him in the slightest.
A bar of pale sunlight came through the clouds and shone on one of the bookcases.
“I fear you are right, Mr. Monk,” Oonagh said with distaste, “no matter how bluntly you phrase it. The authorities cannot afford to allow the matter to remain unresolved. They have not yet been here, but no doubt it is merely a matter of time. If not today, then tomorrow. I know of no one else we could call to our assistance in the matter of learning the truth. Of course we do have lawyers, should that be necessary. What would you propose to do?” She did not mention money; it was vulgar, and she had more than sufficient means to meet anything he might charge, probably out of petty housekeeping.
It was an impossible question to answer. He was seeking the truth only to prove once and for all that it was not Hester. The only imaginable alternatives were members of the Farraline family. Looking at Oonagh’s face, he saw the depths of her eyes, the black laughter in there, and knew that she understood it as perfectly as he did.
Eilish moved uncomfortably. Deirdra glanced at her.
“Discover which of you it was, Mrs. McIvor,” Monk said quietly. “At least let us hang the right man—or woman. Or would you prefer simply to hang the most convenient?”
Hester let out a suppressed groan of anguish.
Oonagh remained entirely composed.
“No one could accuse you of mincing your words, Mr. Monk. But you are correct. I should prefer it to be the right person, whether it is my husband or one of my brothers. How do you propose to proceed? You must know a great deal already, and it has not led you to any conclusion, or doubtless you would have said so in Miss Latterly’s interests.”
Monk felt himself tighten as if he had been slapped. Once again his respect for Oonagh mounted. She was unlike any woman he had known before, and he could think of few men, if any, who could match her cold courage or her monumental composure.
“I now know a great deal more than I did then, Mrs. McIvor. I think we all do,” he replied dryly.
“And you believe it!” Eilish could control herself no longer. “You believe everything Quinlan said, just because it was—”
“Eilish!” Oonagh’s voice cut across her firmly, reducing her to agonized silence, staring at Monk with her brilliant eyes. Oonagh turned back to Monk. “I presume you do not believe the matter is ended, or you would not have bothered to come. I imagine, whatever tactics or courtesy require you to say, it is to clear Miss Latterly’s name that you have really come. No, you do not need to answer that. Please don’t protest, it is unworthy of either of us.”
“I was not going to protest,” he said tersely. “As I see it, there are at least two avenues to explore on the grounds of evidence, either old or new.”
“Mother’s property in Ross-shire,” Oonagh said. “What else?”
“The diamond brooch which apparently you never found.”
She looked a little surprised. “You think it matters?”
“I have no idea, but I shall find out. Who is your jeweler?”
“Arnott and Dunbar, of Frederick Street.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated only an instant. “Will it be possible to know a little more about the property in …”
“Ross-shire,” she finished for him, her eyes wide. “If you wish to. Quinlan has naturally given the papers to the police. They took them yesterday evening. But the fact is irrefutable. Mother inherited a small croft in Easter Ross. She gave the leasing of it into Baird’s hands, and there are, it would seem, no receipts of money whatever….”
“There will be some explanation for it!” Eilish said desperately. “Baird would never simply steal it!”
“Whatever it is, I doubt it is simple,” Oonagh said dryly. “But of course, dear, we all wish to think it is not as it seems, no one more than I!”
Eilish blushed, and then went white.
“Where is Easter Ross?” Monk could not recall the county, if he had ever known anything of it. Presumably it was in the east, but to the east of where?
“Oh, beyond Inverness, I think,” Oonagh replied absently. “It is really very far north indeed. Saint Colmac, Port of Saint Colmac, or something like that. Really, it is all rather absurd; the amount cannot be more than a few pounds a year. Hardly worth anyone’s life!”
“People have been killed over a hand of cards,” Monk said bitterly, then as Hester glanced towards him, suddenly wondered how he knew that. He was not conscious of knowing, and yet he had spoken with certainty. It was another of those little jolts of knowledge that returned every so often, utterly without warning and with no surrounding recollection.
“I suppose so.” Oonagh’s voice was little more than a whisper. She looked towards the window. “I shall find the precise address for you, if that is what you wish. Perhaps you would dine with us this evening, and I shall have it for you then?”
“Thank you,” Monk replied, then suddenly was uncertain whether Hester had been included or not.
“Thank you,” Hester accepted, before the question could be answered by anyone else. “That would be most generous of you, especially in the circumstances.”
Oonagh drew in her breath, then decided against arguing, and smiled instead.
It was dismissal, and Monk and Hester were in the hall, waiting for the sepulchral McTeer to let them out, when Eilish came hurrying after them, grasping Monk by the arm, hardly seeming to see Hester.
“Mr. Monk! It wasn’t Baird. He would never have hurt Mother, whatever anyone thinks. He doesn’t even care all that much about money. There has to be another explanation for all this.”
Monk felt acutely sorry for her. He knew only too well the bitterness of disillusion, the moment when one realizes that the man or the woman that one has loved intensely is after all not merely imperfect but flawed, and in a way that is ugly, shallow and alien. It is not that he or she has supped, and needs forgiving, but never was the person one thought. The whole relationship was a mirage, a lie, unwitting perhaps, but still a lie.
“Have you asked him?” he said gently.
She looked very white. “Yes. He simply says that he did not steal anything but it is a subject he cannot speak of. I … I believe him, of course, but I don’t know what to make of it. Why would he not speak of it, when Quinlan accuses him of something so terrible? What is worth pursuing now, when his”—she gulped—“his life may be at stake?”
The only answer that came to Monk’s mind was that it could be some secret even uglier than the accusation, or one that substantiated it. He did not say so to her.
“I don’t know, but I promise you I shall do all I can to find out. And if Baird is innocent then he will be proved so.”
“Kenneth?” she whispered. “I can’t bear to believe that either.”
Hester said nothing, although Monk knew she was aching to speak. Perhaps for once she also could think of no words that would not make it worse.
McTeer appeared, his face set in lines of imminent disaster, and immediately Eilish stepped back and began a formal good-bye.
Monk responded appropriately, and turned to leave, only to find Hester speaking to Eilish with total disregard for McTeer. He could not hear what she was saying, her voice was so low, but Eilish gave her a look of intense gratitude, and then a moment later they were out in the street.
“What did you say to her?” he demanded. “There is no point giving her any hope. It may very well have been McIvor.”
“Why?” s
he said crisply, her chin coming up. “What on earth would he do such a thing for? He liked Mary, and the rent of one croft is hardly worth killing anyone for.”
He gave up in exasperation and began walking briskly back towards Princes Street and the route to the jeweler’s. She was too naive to understand, and too willful to be told.
That night at dinner, Monk arrived in his usual immaculate dress, and Hester came looking, in his opinion, a complete fright, having nothing with her other than the gray-blue dress in which she had stood trial. They were armed with information which altered everything with respect to Baird McIvor and Kenneth. The jeweler had informed them that it was not Mary Farraline who had commissioned the diamond pin at all, in spite of the fact that it was on her account. It was Kenneth. He had at the time assumed it was an errand, and had not questioned it, much to his chagrin when he had learned later, from Mary herself, that she had not requested it, and had indeed never seen it. Of course the matter was settled now, as far as he was concerned. What had passed between Kenneth Farraline and his mother he had no idea.
As usual McTeer met them at the door and ushered them into the withdrawing room, where this time the entire family was assembled, almost as if they might have known a revelation awaited them—although perhaps, in the circumstances, that was not surprising. Hester had been released, if not cleared of the charge, and Quinlan had openly accused Baird McIvor. It was inconceivable that the case could rest as it was. Even if the police pressed it no further, it was beyond imagination that the Farralines themselves could leave matters as they stood.
As always it was Oonagh who acknowledged them first, but Alastair, looking pale and grim-faced, was only a moment behind.
“Good evening, Miss Latterly,” he said with studied politeness. “It is good of you to come with such generosity. A lesser woman might have borne a grudge.”
It crossed Monk’s mind that that remark might have been a question as much as a statement. Alastair had a haunted look in the depths of his eyes, as well he might, knowing either his brother or his dearest sister’s husband was guilty of murder, and the murder of his mother at that. Monk did not envy him. As he stood in the gracious withdrawing room with its tall windows and sweeping curtains, the fire blazing in the hearth and the generations of family mementos and embroideries, he felt a sharp touch of pity for Alastair. What if it were Baird McIvor? Alastair and Oonagh had grown up together, sharing their dreams and their fears in a way the other siblings had not. If it were Oonagh’s husband, Alastair would feel it almost as deeply as she. And he would be the one person from whom she might not hide her grief, her disillusionment, her intolerable sense of shame. No wonder he stood close to her now, as if he would touch her, were it not so obvious, and so intrusive of a wound not yet delivered.
Hester had already deflected the remark generously, turning it into a mere exchange. They were invited in, offered wine. Eilish caught Monk’s eye. She looked painfully embarrassed, knowing that at least some people would associate her with her husband’s accusations. And galling as it was, Hester probably owed him her freedom, even though it was brought about by Argyll’s questions.
Quinlan was standing at the farther end of the room, his lean face, with its long nose and chiseled lips, deep in thought. He was watching Hester, amusement in his eyes. Perhaps he was wondering how she would approach him, what she would find to say. Monk felt a rush of loathing towards the man, not for Hester’s sake—she was well able to take care of herself, or if she were not it was her own fault for being here—but for Eilish, who could not escape.
Baird stood by the fireplace, as far as possible from Quinlan. He looked pale, as if he had not eaten or slept, and there was a haunted air about him, as though he were preparing to fight but had no hope of winning.
Kenneth sat on the arm of one of the easy chairs, regarding Hester with undisguised interest.
They had been indulging in polite conversation about nothing that mattered, but the room seemed to crackle with the underlying silence, the waiting for someone to broach the only subject that mattered. Finally it was Alastair who did it.
“Oonagh says you went to find out about the other brooch which no one has seen. I can’t imagine why.” A curious look came into his eyes, doubt, incredulity, hope. “Surely you don’t think one of the servants took it … do you? Isn’t it merely lost? Mother does seem to have been somewhat careless …” He left the remark hanging in unfinished silence. No one had yet explained the gray pearl brooch, and somehow it seemed crass to mention the subject at all now, in front of Hester.
“No I don’t,” Monk said grimly. “I am sorry, Mr. Farraline, but the explanation for that is quite simple. Your mother never had it. It was commissioned in the first place by your brother, Kenneth, I assume in order to give to his lady friend, who is so determined never to be poor again. A very understandable resolve, not perhaps to you, but certainly to anyone who has lain awake all night because he or she was too hungry or too cold to sleep.”
Alastair pulled a face of distaste, then turned slowly to look at Kenneth.
Kenneth flushed a dull red, and his face tightened defiantly.
Monk glanced at Eilish. Her expression was a painful mixture of anguish and hope, as though she had not expected to be hurt by Kenneth’s guilt, and now that it was on the brink of reality, it caught her unaware, both wounded and abashed. She looked across at Baird, but he was sunk in gloom of his own.
Oonagh turned a questioning gaze at her younger brother.
“Well?” Alastair demanded. “Don’t just stand there glowering, Kenneth. This requires very considerable explanation. Do you admit buying this piece of jewelry and charging it to Mother? Not that there seems any point in denying it; the proof is there.”
“I admit it,” Kenneth said in a strangled voice, although there seemed as much anger in it as fear. “If you paid us decently I wouldn’t have to—”
“You are paid what you are worth!” Alastair said, the color mounting in his cheeks. “But if you were paid nothing at all beyond your keep, that would not excuse you from buying presents for your mistress on Mother’s account. Dear God, what else have you done? Is Uncle Hector right? Have you embezzled from the company accounts?”
The blood fled from Kenneth’s cheeks, but he seemed defiant as much as frightened, and there was still no remorse in him that the eye could see.
Oddly, it was Quinlan who stepped forward to speak, not Kenneth himself.
“Yes he did, months ago, over a year now, and Mother-in-law knew about it at the time. She paid it all back.”
Alastair exploded with disbelief. “Oh really, Quin! Don’t expect me to believe all that. I know how you feel about Baird, but this is absurd. Why on earth would Mother cover up Kenneth’s embezzlement and simply repay it all? I presume we are not speaking about a few pennies. That would hardly fund the life he enjoys and keep his poverty-stricken mistress in the diamonds she apparently likes so much.”
“Of course not,” Quinlan agreed with a twist of his mouth. “If you look at Mother-in-law’s will, you will find that Kenneth gets nothing at all. She took his share in settlement of his debt—both for the embezzlement and, I imagine, the brooch. She knew about that too.” His eyes stared levelly at Alastair, so absolutely without wavering, Monk wondered if this last was a lie.
Alastair said nothing.
Quinlan smiled. “Come on, Alastair. That is what Mother-in-law would have done, and you know it. She would never have precipitated a scandal by prosecuting her own son. We all knew her better than that—even Kenneth. Not when the remedy lay so easily to hand.” He shrugged very slightly. “Certainly she punished him, and redeemed the debt at the same time. If he’d done it again she’d have taken it out of his skin—she would have had him work all day and all night till it was earned again. I daresay she’d received one or two nice presents in her day….”
“How dare you—” Alastair began furiously, but Oonagh cut him off.
“I presume the sol
icitors will know this much?” she said quietly.
“Of course,” Quinlan agreed. “There is no reason given in the will, except that Kenneth himself will understand why he has no inheritance, and have no complaints.”
“How do you know this, when the rest of the family doesn’t?” Monk asked him.
Quinlan’s eyebrows rose. “Me? Because as I said before, I conducted a great deal of her affairs for her. I am extremely good at business, especially investments, and Mother-in-law knew it. Besides, Alastair is too busy, Baird has no head for it, and obviously she would be a complete fool to trust Kenneth.”
“If you know so much about the business,” Eilish challenged him in a choking voice, “how is it you knew nothing about the land in Easter Ross and that she was getting no rent from it?”
Kenneth seemed to be forgotten, at least temporarily. All eyes turned to Eilish, and then to Baird. No one took the slightest notice of Monk or Hester.
Baird looked up at them, his face wretched.
“Mary knew everything that I did, and it was done with her permission,” he said quietly. “That is all I will tell you.”
“Well, it is not enough.” Alastair swung around at him desperately. “Good God, man! Mother is dead—poisoned by someone. The police aren’t going to accept an answer like that. If Miss Latterly didn’t do it, then one of us did!”
“I didn’t.” Baird’s voice was barely a whisper between his lips. “I loved Mary, more than anyone else … except …” He stopped. Few in the room doubted he was going to say “Eilish,” not “Oonagh.”
Oonagh was very pale, but perfectly composed. Whatever emotions tore her at such a reality, they were too well concealed by time, familiarity, or sheer courage to show now.
“Of course,” Alastair said bitterly. “We would hardly expect you to say anything less. But words are immaterial now; it is only facts that matter.”
“Nobody knows the facts,” Quinlan pointed out. “We only know what Mary’s papers say, what the bankers say, and Baird’s excuses. I don’t know what other facts you think there are.”
