by Anne Perry
“I imagine the police may think that sufficient,” Monk responded. “At least for trial. What else they find, or need, is their affair.”
“Is that what you are going to do?” Eilish was desperate; it stared out of her anguished face and rang in the rising pitch of her voice. “Just accuse, and leave it to the police? Baird is one of the family. We’ve lived with him in this house, known him every day for years, shared our dreams and our hopes with him. You can’t just—just say he’s guilty—and abandon him.” She looked wildly from one to another of them, all except Quinlan, ending with Oonagh, perhaps to whom she had always turned in times of need.
“We are not abandoning him, my dear,” Oonagh said quietly. “But we have no alternative to facing the truth, however terrible it is for us. One of us killed Mother.”
Unintentionally Eilish looked again at Hester, then blushed scarlet.
“That won’t work, my sweet,” Quinlan said sourly. “Of course it is still possible. ‘Not proven’ is a vicious verdict, but they cannot try her again, whatever they think. And let us face facts, her reason hardly matches Baird’s. He could have slipped the brooch into her bag … she could hardly have embezzled Mother-in-law’s rents.”
“For God’s sake, Baird, why don’t you say something?” Deirdra burst out after her long silence. She went to Eilish and put her arm around her. “Can’t you see what this is doing to all of us?”
“Deirdra, please control your language,” Alastair reproved almost automatically.
Monk was amused. If Alastair had the faintest idea of his wife’s midnight activities, he would be grateful it was so relatively mild. Monk would swear she knew a great deal that was more colorful than that from her mechanic friend.
“There seems only one way.” Hester spoke for the first time since the charge had been made against Baird. Everyone looked at her with some surprise.
“I don’t know what it can be.” Alastair frowned. “Do you know something that we don’t?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Quinlan said. “Mother-in-law would hardly confide her business to Miss Latterly on one day’s acquaintance, and not tell at least Oonagh, if not all of us.”
“Miss Latterly?” Alastair turned to her.
“One of us must go to the croft in Ross-shire and learn what has happened to the rents,” she replied. “I have no idea how far it is, but it hardly matters. It must be done.”
“And which of us will you trust?” Deirdra asked dryly. “I can think of no one.”
“Monk, of course,” Hester replied. “He has no interest whatever in the answer one way or the other.”
“As long as it is not you,” Quinlan added. “I think his interest in the case is now quite obvious to all. He came here originally talking what, at the kindest, was much less than the truth, what less kindly but more accurately was a complete lie.”
“Would you have helped him for the truth?” she asked.
Quinlan smiled. “Of course not. I am not accusing, merely pointing out that Mr. Monk is not the paragon of honesty you seem to imagine.”
“I don’t imagine it,” she said crossly. “I simply said he has no interest in which of you is lying or what happened to the rents.”
“What a charming turn of phrase you have.”
Hester blushed hotly.
“Please!” Deirdra interrupted them, turning to Monk. “All this is beside the point now. Mr. Monk, would you learn the particulars from Quinlan and travel north to Easter Ross, find the person who leases the croft and what they have done with the rents, to whom they were paid. I imagine it will be necessary to bring with you some burden of proof, documents, or whatever it may be. Probably a sworn testimony …”
“An affidavit,” Alastair supplied. “I presume there will be notaries public, or justices of the peace, even up there.”
“Yes,” Monk said immediately, although he was irritated he had not suggested it himself, before Hester had. Then as quickly he wondered how he was going to find the fare. He lived precariously as it was. Callandra provided for him in lean times, when his clients were few, or poor, in return for his sharing the interesting cases with her. It was her form of both friendship and philanthropy, and her occasional excitement and touch of danger. But she had gone home, and he could not ask her for a contribution towards this. She had already paid him for his part in Hester’s defense, sufficient to take him to Scotland and to secure his lodgings, both here and in London during his absence. She had not known such a prolonged trip would be necessary.
“How far is it?” he said aloud. It galled him intensely to have to ask.
Alastair’s eyes widened. “I have no idea. Two hundred miles? Three hundred?”
“It isn’t so far,” Deirdra contradicted him. “Two hundred at most. But we will provide your fare, Mr. Monk. After all, it is our business which takes you there, not your own.” She disregarded Alastair’s frown and Oonagh’s look of faint surprise and a flicker of black humor. She at least understood that it was to remove the final question from Hester’s innocence, not because Monk wished to assist Baird McIvor or any of the Farralines. “I expect there is a train as far as Inverness,” Deirdra continued. “After that you may have to ride, I don’t know.”
“Then as soon as I have the information, and a note of authority from you,” Monk said, for the first time looking at Quinlan, not Oonagh, for agreement, “I shall collect my belongings and take the first train north.”
“Will you travel also?” Eilish said, addressing Hester.
“No,” Monk said instantly.
Hester had opened her mouth to speak, but no one knew what she was going to say. She took one look at Monk’s face, then at the faces of the assembled company, and changed her mind. “I shall remain in Edinburgh,” she said obediently. Had Monk been less consumed by his own forthcoming task, he might have been suspicious of the sudden collapse of her argument, but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.
They remained for dinner: a good meal, punctiliously served. But there was a gloom over the whole house, not only of recent death, but now of newborn fear, and conversation was stilted and meaningless. Hester and Monk took their leave early, without the necessity or artificiality of excuses.
The journey north was long and extremely tedious for Monk, because he was chafing to be there. No one in Edinburgh had been able to tell him how to proceed into Easter Ross after he should reach Inverness. As far as the ticket clerk was concerned, it was an unknown land, cold, dangerous, uncivilized, and no sensible person would wish to go there. Stirling, Deeside and Balmoral were all excellent places for a holiday. Aberdeen, the granite city of the north, had its qualities, but beyond Inverness was no-man’s-land, and you went there at your own risk.
The long journey took nearly all the daylight hours, as it was now deepest autumn. Monk sat morosely and turned over and over in his mind all he knew of the death of Mary Farraline and the passions and characters of her family, He came to no conclusion whatever, only that it was one of them who had killed her; almost certainly Baird McIvor, because he had embezzled the rents from the croft. But it seemed such a futile reason, so incredibly petty for a man who seemed moved by so much stronger emotions. And if he loved Eilish, as he seemed to so apparently, how would he have brought himself to kill her mother, whatever the temptation?
When he disembarked at Inverness it was already too late to think of proceeding farther north that night. Resentfully he found lodgings, and immediately inquired of the landlord about travel to the Port of Saint Colmac on the next day.
“Oh,” the landlord said thoughtfully. He was a small man by the name of MacKay. “Oh aye, Portmahomack, ye mean? That’ll be the ferry ye’ll be wanting.”
“The ferry?” Monk said dubiously.
“Aye, ye’ll be wanting to go over to the Black Isle, and then across the Cromarty Firth over by Alness and up towards Tain. It’s a long way, mind. Can ye no do your business in Dingwall, maybe?”
“No,” Monk replied reluctan
tly. He could not even remember if he could ride a horse, and this was a harsh way to find out. His imagination punished him already.
“Oh well, needs must when the devil drives,” MacKay said with a smile. “That’ll be out Tarbet Ness way. Fine lighthouse that is. See it for miles on a dark night, so ye can.”
“Can I take a horse on the ferry?” Then the instant he had asked, MacKay’s face told him it was a foolish question. “Well, can I hire one on the other side?” he said before MacKay could answer.
“Aye, that ye can. And ye can walk to the ferry here that will take you to the Black Isle. Just yonder by the shore there. Ye’ll be a southerner, no doubt?”
“Yes.” Monk did not debate it. Instinct told him that a Borderer, like himself, from Northumberland, whose men had fought the Scots in raid and battle and foray for close on a thousand years, might be unwelcome, even as far north as this.
MacKay nodded. “Ye’ll be hungry,” he said sagely. “It’s a tidy journey from Edinburgh, so they say.” He pulled a face. It was a foreign land to him, and he was well content to leave it so.
“Thank you,” Monk accepted.
He was served a meal of fresh herrings rolled in oatmeal and fried, with bread still warm from the oven, butter, and oatmeal-covered cheese named Caboc, which was delicious. He went to bed and slept deeply, with barely the stirring of dreams.
The morning; was windy and bright. He rose immediately and instead of eating breakfast at MacKay’s hostelry, he took bread and cheese with him and set out to find the ferry across to the Black Isle, which he had been informed was not literally an island but a large isthmus.
The passage was not broad—it might at some stage conceivably be bridged—but the tide was swift from the Moray Firth into the smaller Beauly Firth and the wide bay within swept around to the left far out of sight.
The ferryman looked at him dubiously when he asked to be taken across.
“There’s a fair wind, the day.” He squinted eastwards, frowning.
“I’ll help,” Monk offered instantly, then could have bitten his tongue. He had no idea whether he could row or not. He had absolutely no memory of water or boats. Even when he had gone back home to Northumberland, as soon as he was out of hospital after the accident, and woken in the night to find his brother-in-law with the lifeboat, it stirred no recollection of boats in him.
“Aye, well that’ll maybe be needed,” the ferryman agreed, still not moving from the spot.
Monk could not afford to anger the man. He had to cross the straits today; riding around the long coastline by Beauly, Muir-of-Ord, Conon Bridge and Dingwall would take him an entire day longer.
“Then shall we begin?” Monk said urgently. “I need to reach Tarbet Ness tonight.”
“Ye’ll be having a long ride.” The ferryman shook his head, looking at the sky, then back at Monk. “But ye might make it. Looks like a fair day, in spite of the wind. Might drop when the tide turns. Sometimes does.”
Monk took that as an acceptance and made to step into the boat.
“Ye’ll no be wanting to see if there’s anyone else, men?” the ferryman asked. “It’ll be half the fare if ye’re willing to lend a hand yourself?”
Monk might have argued, closer to home, that the fare should have been less if he were prepared to row, whether there was anyone else or not, but he did not wish to provoke ill feeling.
“Aye, well, come on then.” The ferryman extended his hand to help Monk. “We’d best be going. There’ll maybe be someone on the Black Isle who wants to come to Inverness.”
Monk took his hand and stepped into the small boat. As soon as his feet touched the boards and the whole thing rocked with his added weight, he felt a wave of memory so sharp he hesitated in mid-motion, his balance spread between the boat and the quay. It was not visual, but emotional; a fear and a sense of helplessness and embarrassment. It was so powerful he almost withdrew.
“What’s the matter wi’ ye?” The ferryman looked at him warily. “Ye’re no seasick, are ye? We’ve no even set out yet!”
“No, I’m not,” Monk said sharply. He forbore from giving any explanation.
“Aye, well if ye are”—the ferryman was dubious—“ye’ll please throw up over the side.”
“I’m not,” Monk repeated, hoping it was true, and let himself down into the boat, sitting down in the stern rather hard.
“Well, if ye’re going to help, ye’ll no do it there.” The ferryman frowned at him. “Have ye never been in a wee boat before?” He looked as if he doubted it severely.
Monk stared at him. “It was remembering last time that made me hesitate. The people I knew then,” he added, in case the man thought he was afraid.
“Oh, aye?” The ferryman made room in the seat beside him and Monk moved over, taking the other oar. “I may be daft doing this.” The ferryman shook his head. “I’m hoping I’ll no regret it when we’re out in the current. But I don’t want you trying to move over then, or we’ll likely both end up in the water. An’ I canna swim!”
“Well, if I have to save you, I’ll expect my fare back,” Monk said dryly.
“No if ye’re the one that upsets us.” The ferryman looked him squarely in the eye. “Now hold your hush, man, and bend your back to the oar.”
Monk obeyed, principally because it took all his attention to keep in rhythm with the ferryman, and he was intent not to make more of a fool of himself than he had already.
For more than ten minutes he rowed steadily, and was beginning to be satisfied with himself. The small boat skimmed over the water with increasing ease. He began to enjoy it. It was pleasant to use his body for a change from the pent-up anguish of mind over the previous weeks, and the necessity of sitting in the crowded courtroom, completely uselessly. This was not so difficult. The day was bright and the sunlight off the water almost dazzling, giving the sky and water a unity of blue brilliance which was curiously liberating, as if its very endlessness were a comfort, not a fear. The wind in his face was cold, but it was sharp and clean, and the salt smell of it satisfied him.
Then without any warning they were out of the lee of the headland and into the current and the tide sweeping in from the Moray Firth and into the Beauly, and he almost lost the oar. Involuntarily he caught sight of the ferryman’s face, and the wry humor in the man’s eyes.
Monk grunted and clasped the oar more firmly, bending his back and heaving as powerfully as he could. He was disconcerted to find that instead of shooting forward and outrowing the ferryman, turning the boat on a slew, he merely kept up and the boat plowed through the water across the current towards the far distant shore of the Black Isle.
He tried to compose his mind and consider what he might find when he arrived at Mary Farraline’s croft. There did not seem many possibilities. Either there was no resident tenant, and therefore there would be no rents, and Baird McIvor had merely been either lazy or incompetent, or there was a tenant, and Baird had never collected the rents—or he had, and for some reason not given them to Mary.
Presumably he had kept them, or used them to pay some dishonorable debt, which he could not pay openly out of the money he was known to have. Another woman was the answer which leaped to mind. But surely he could not love anyone beside Eilish? Was it a past indiscretion he was paying to keep silent, both from Oonagh and Eilish? That had a ring of truth to it that was curiously unwelcome. Why, for heaven’s sake? Someone had killed Mary. Proof that it was Baird McIvor would clear Hester beyond shadow.
They were halfway across and the current was more powerful. He had to pull with all his strength, throwing his weight into each stroke, driving his feet against the boards across the bottom of the boat. The ferryman was still rowing easily in a long, slow rhythm which made it look like a natural, almost effortless movement, while Monk’s shoulders were already aching. And he still wore the same very slight smile. Their eyes met for a moment, then Monk looked away.
He began to develop a rhythm within himself, to block out th
e pain across his back with each stroke. He must be getting soft for this to cause him such discomfort. Was that recent? Before the accident, had he been different: ridden horseback perhaps, rowed on the Thames, played some sport or other? There had been nothing in his rooms to indicate so. Yet there was no surplus fat on him, and he was strong. It was just that this was an unaccustomed exercise.
Unwittingly he found himself thinking of Hester. It was quite unreasonable, and yet even while he knew it, he was angry. The loss of her would have hurt him far more than he wished. It made him vulnerable, and he resented it. He could think of courage with power and clarity; it was the one virtue he admired above all others. It was the cornerstone on which all rested. Without it everything else was insecure, endangered by any wind of fortune. How long would justice survive without the courage to fight for it? It was a sham, a hypocrisy, a deceit better unspoken. What was humility unless one possessed the courage to admit error, ignorance and futility, the strength to go back and begin again? What was anything worth—generosity, honor, hope, even pity—without courage to carry it through? Fear could devour the very soul.
And yet the loneliness and the pain were so real. And time was a dimension too easy to overlook. What was bearable for a day, two days, became monstrous when faced without end. Damn Hester!
Suddenly there was water in his face.
“Caught a crab,” the ferryman commented with amusement. “Getting tired?”
“No,” Monk said tersely, although he was nearly exhausted. His back was aching, his hands were blistered, and his shoulders felt like cracking.
“Oh, aye?” the ferryman said dubiously, but did not slacken his pace.
Monk caught another “crab,” skimming the oar over the top of the water instead of digging in, and sending the spray up into their faces, tasting it cold and salty on his lips and in his eyes.
Suddenly memory returned like a blinding moment of vision, except that the actual sight portion of it—the gray, glimmering sea and light on the waves—was gone almost before it registered in his mind. It was the cold, the sense of danger and overwhelming urgency that remained. He was frightened, his shoulders had hurt just as they did now, but he had been younger, far younger, perhaps only a boy. The boat had been bucketing all over the place, tossed on heavy waves, their crests curling white with spume. Why on earth would anyone be out in such weather? Why was he frightened? It was not the waves, it was something else.
