The Sins of the Wolf

by Anne Perry

They stood in the withdrawing room in Ainslie Place. Everyone was present. Even Alastair had contrived not to be in court or his offices. And presumably the printing was running itself, at least for the day.

  “We assumed you would return this morning,” Oonagh said, regarding Monk carefully. She looked tired—the fair skin under her eyes was paper thin—but as always her composure was complete.

  Alastair looked from Monk to Oonagh and back again. Eilish was in an agony of suspense. She stood beside Quinlan as if frozen. Baird was in the farther side of the room, eyes downcast, face ashen.

  Kenneth stood by the mantelshelf with a slight smirk on his face, but it was hard to tell if it was not predominantly relief. Once he smiled at Quinlan, and Eilish shot him such a look of loathing he blushed and turned away.

  Deirdra sat in an armchair looking unhappy, and beside her, Hector Farraline was also sunk in gloom. For once he seemed totally sober.

  Alastair cleared his throat. “I think you had better tell us what you discovered, Mr. Monk. It is pointless standing here doubting and fearing, and thinking ill of each other. Did you find this croft of Mother’s? I confess I knew nothing of it, not even of its existence.”

  “No reason why you should,” Hector said darkly. “Nothing to do with you.”

  Alastair frowned, then decided to ignore him.

  They were all looking at Monk, even Baird, his dark eyes so full of pain, and the knowledge of pain, that Monk could have no doubt he knew exactly what Arkwright would have said, and that it was the truth. He hated doing this. But it was not the first time he had liked someone who was guilty of a crime he deplored.

  “I found the man who is living in the croft,” he said aloud, looking at no one in particular. Hester was standing beside him silently. He was glad of her presence. In some way she shared his sense of loss. “He claimed that he sent money to Mr. McIvor.”

  Quinlan gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

  Eilish started, as if to speak, but said nothing. Her face looked as if she had been struck.

  “But I did not believe him,” Monk continued.

  “Why not?” Alastair was amazed. “That won’t do.”

  Oonagh touched his sleeve, and as if understanding some unspoken communication, he fell silent again.

  Monk answered the question anyway.

  “Because he could offer no explanation as to how he contrived the payments. I asked him if he rode to Inverness, a day’s ride on a good horse, across two ferries, and put a purse on a train to Edinburgh….”

  “That’s absurd,” Deirdra said contemptuously.

  “Of course,” Monk agreed.

  “So what are you saying, Mr. Monk?” Oonagh asked very steadily. “If he did not pay Baird, then why is he still there? Why has he not been thrown out?”

  Monk took a deep breath. “Because he is blackmailing Mr. McIvor over a past association, and is living there freely as the price of his silence.”

  “What association?” Quinlan demanded. “Did Mother-in-law find out about it? Is that why Baird killed her?”

  “Hold your tongue!” Deirdra snapped at him, moving closer to Eilish and glaring at Baird, as if praying for him to deny it, but one look at his face was enough to know that would not happen. “What association, Mr. Monk? I presume you have proof of all you are saying?”

  “Don’t be fatuous, Deirdra,” Oonagh said bitterly. “The proof is in his face. What is Mr. Monk talking about, Baird? I think you had better tell us all, rather than have some stranger do it for you.”

  Baird looked up and his eyes met Monk’s for a long, breathless moment, then he acquiesced. He had no alternative. He began in a low, tight voice, harsh with past hurt and present pain.

  “When I was twenty-two I killed a man. He abused an old man I respected. Made mock of him, humiliated him. We fought. I did not intend to, at least I don’t think I did … but I killed him. He struck his head against the curb. I served three years in prison for it. That was when I met Arkwright. When I was set free I left Yorkshire and came north to Scotland. I made my way quite successfully, and put the past behind me. I had all but forgotten it, until one day Arkwright turned up and threatened to tell everyone unless I paid him. I couldn’t—I had barely enough means for myself, and I would have had to explain to Oonagh….” He said her name as if she were a stranger, some figure that represented authority. “Of course I couldn’t. I hesitated for days, close to despair.”

  “I remember….” Eilish whispered, staring at him with anguish, as though even now she yearned to be able to comfort him and heal the past.

  Quinlan made a noise of impatience and turned away.

  “Mary knew,” Baird continued, his voice rasping with hurt. “She knew something was troubling me more than I could bear, and in the end I told her….”

  He did not even notice Eilish stiffen and a sudden surprise and pain in her face. He did not seem to realize it was different, no longer an agony for the past, or for him, but a hurt for herself.

  Quinlan smiled. “Told her you’d served time in prison,” he said with blatant disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Alastair looked grim, doubt written plain in his expression. “Really, Baird, that’s asking too much. Could you prove it?”

  “No—except that she gave me permission to lease the croft to Arkwright, for his silence.” Baird looked up and met Alastair’s eyes for the first time.

  It was an absurd story. Why would a woman like Mary Farraline accept a man with such a past—and even help him? And yet Monk found himself at least half believing it.

  Quinlan gave a sharp bark of laughter.

  “Come on, Baird, that isn’t even clever,” Kenneth said with a smile, letting his foot slide off the fender and sitting down in the nearest chair. “I could think of a better excuse than that.”

  “No doubt you have—frequently,” Oonagh said dryly, regarding her younger brother with contempt. It was the first time Monk had seen an expression of contention or open criticism on her face, and it surprised him. The peacemaker was rattled at last. He looked at her puckered mouth, the anxiety marked deep between her brows, but still could only guess what emotions burned inside her. He could make no hazard as to whether she had known or even suspected her husband had such a shadowed past.

  Or was that what she had sought to do all the time? Was that the blindingly obvious thing he had always missed, that Oonagh loved her husband, in spite of his obsession with her younger sister, and that she sought to protect him from both his reckless past and his tortured present.

  Quite suddenly he saw her in a different light, and his admiration for her leaped beyond the mere courage and composure she had shown to something of classical magnitude; she was a woman who bore herself with silence and generosity almost immeasurable.

  Instinctively he turned to Eilish, to see if she had the remotest conception of what she had done, however unwittingly. But all he could see was disillusion and the scalding pain of rejection. In his desperation Baird had turned not to her, but to her mother. She was excluded. He had not even trusted her with it afterwards. He would not have. She had learned it publicly, from a stranger.

  And little as he admired it, in that instant he knew exactly what she felt, all the loneliness, the confusion, the feelings of unworthiness, the longing to strike back and hurt just as much. Because he knew now what else had happened in the lifeboat so long ago. He had tried so hard, and yet someone else had been the hero. Someone else had retrieved his mistake and saved the man on the doomed ship. In his mind’s eye he could see the boy, a year or two older, standing balanced on the slippery deck, hurling the rope at risk of being pitched overboard, drenched to the skin, lashing it fast, heaving the man out of that awful chasm.

  No one had said anything to him, no one had blamed him, and yet his ears rang with the other boy’s praises, not just his skill, but his courage. That was what hurt, his quickness of thought, his self-denial and his courage, the qu
alities Monk had wanted above all.

  It was the same with Eilish. Above all she had wanted to be loved and trusted.

  They were each of them regarding Monk now; the judgment awaited.

  Quinlan had decided, but then he had from the beginning. “If you believe all that, you’re a fool,” he said bitterly. “We’d do better to call the police before Monk does. Or do you plan to pay him off as well? It’s too late to avoid scandal, if that has occurred to anyone?” He looked around with wide eyes. “One of us did it. No one can escape that.”

  “Scandal,” Deirdra said thoughtfully, her face intent. “Is it not possible that Baird is telling the truth, and Mother-in-law paid off this Arkwright to avoid scandal?”

  There was a long silence. Oonagh turned to Baird.

  “Why didn’t you say that?” she asked him.

  “Because I don’t believe it is true,” he said, answering her very directly, his dark eyes staring into hers. “Mary was not the sort of person to do that.”

  “Of course she was,” Alastair said, then glanced at Oonagh with abject apology, having just realized what he had said.

  “I think we had best leave this for the present,” Oonagh said decisively. “We do not know the truth….”

  Hester spoke for the first time.

  “Mrs. Farraline mentioned Mr. McIvor to me several times on the train, always with affection,” she said very quietly. “I cannot imagine she was paying blackmail simply to keep the family name out of scandal. If she were doing that, she would have loathed him, perhaps even required that he go away….”

  “Thank you for your comments, Miss Latterly,” Alastair said dryly. “But I really do not think you are sufficiently informed to—”

  Deirdra interrupted him. “Yes she is.” But before she could say anything further Alastair commanded she be silent, and he turned to Monk.

  “Thank you for your work, Mr. Monk. Do you have documented proof of what you have told us?”

  “No.”

  “Then I think, in that event, you will keep silent about it until we have made a decision as to what is wisest to do. Tomorrow is Sunday. After kirk you will take luncheon with us, and we shall then discuss this matter to its conclusion. Good day to you, Mr. Monk, Miss Latterly.”

  There was nothing to do but accept their dismissal. Monk and Hester walked together into the hall, past the great picture of Hamish, and out into the steadily falling rain.

  12

  MONK AND HESTER were easily agreed that they also would go to church on Sunday morning. Monk had no intention of worshiping. It was not a subject to which he had given any thought, but it was another opportunity to observe the Farralines. He did not ask Hester her reasons. Presumably they were similar.

  They had walked up from the Grassmarket, allowing plenty of time, having previously ascertained the time of the service, and arrived as the congregation was assembling.

  They filed in behind a stout matron, leaning on the arm of a grim-faced man carrying his hat in his hand. This couple nodded to acquaintances, and received several acknowledgments in return. Everyone looked extremely sober.

  Hester glanced around. It was difficult to recognize the Farraline women because they all wore hats, naturally. To go to church without a hat and gloves would be tantamount to arriving naked. It was easier to distinguish the men; hair color and bearing differed markedly. It did not take her long to find Alastair’s fair head with its faintly thinning patch towards the crown.

  As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned half towards them, but apparently it was to nod to the couple just ahead of them.

  “Good morning, Fiscal,” the woman said grimly. “A fine day, is it not?” It was a ritual remark. It was beginning to rain and getting rapidly colder.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Bain,” he replied. “Very agreeable. Good morning, Mr. Bain.”

  “Good morning, Fiscal.” The man inclined his head respectfully and moved on.

  “Poor creature,” the woman said as soon as they were past. “What a business for him.”

  “Hold your peace, Martha,” the man said crisply. “I’ll not have you gossiping in here of all places. And on the Sabbath too. You should not be talking in kirk at all.”

  She blushed angrily, but refused to defend herself.

  Hester bit her lip with vicarious frustration.

  Monk took her arm and led her, with some difficulty and several apologies for injured dignity and trodden toes, into the pew two rows behind the Farralines. Hester bent her head to pray, and he followed her example, at least outwardly.

  More and more people arrived, several glancing at Monk and Hester with surprise and irritation. It was some time before either of them realized that apparently they had taken a place which by custom and tacit rule belonged to someone else. They did not move.

  Monk watched, noticing how many people nodded or otherwise paid deference to Alastair. Those who spoke addressed him in a whisper, and by his office rather than his name.

  “Such a clever man,” one woman murmured to her neighbor immediately in front of Monk. “I’m glad he didn’t prosecute Mr. Galbraith. I always thought he was innocent anyway. I don’t believe a gentleman like that would ever do such a thing.”

  “And Mrs. Forbes’s son as well,” her neighbor replied. “I’m sure that was more of a tragedy than a crime.”

  “Quite. Girl was no better than she should be, if you ask me. I know that sort.”

  “Don’t we all, my dear. Had a maid like that once myself. Had to get rid of her, of course.”

  “His father was a fine man too.” Her eyes returned to Alastair. “Such a pity.”

  The organ was playing meditatively. Over to the left someone dropped a hymnbook with a crash. No one looked.

  “I didn’t know you knew them.” There was a lift of interest in the woman’s voice in front of Hester, as she half turned her head to hear the better, should her neighbor choose to elaborate.

  “Oh yes, quite well.” The neighbor nodded, the feathers in her hat waving. “So handsome, you know. Not like his miserable brother, who drinks like a fish, they say. Never had the talent either. The colonel was such an artist, you know.”

  An old gentleman to the right glared at them and was ignored.

  “An artist? I never knew that. I thought he owned a printing company.”

  “Oh he did! But he was a fine artist too. Drew beautifully, and a great hand with his pen. Caricatures, you know? The poor major is a wretched creature beside him. No talent for anything, except sponging from the family, since the colonel died.”

  Hester leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder.

  She turned around, startled, expecting to be told yet again not to speak in the kirk.

  “Would you like a stone?” Hester offered.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “A stone,” Hester repeated clearly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “To throw,” Hester replied. And then, in case she had missed the point, “At Hector Farraline.”

  The woman blushed scarlet. “Well really!”

  “Hold your tongue, you fool!” Monk whispered, poking Hester with his elbow. “For God’s sake, woman, do you want to be recognized?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “ ‘Not proven’ !” he said sharply, but so quietly she barely heard him. “Not innocent!”

  The color burned up her face, and she turned away.

  The service began. It was extremely sober and pious, with a long sermon on the sins of undue levity and light-mindedness.

  Sabbath luncheon at Ainslie Place was not the rich fare it would have been in a family of such means in London. The servants had also attended the kirk, and although the food was plentiful, it was also cold. No comment was made. The day itself was considered sufficient explanation. Alastair, as head of the family, said a brief prayer before anyone presumed to eat, and then the vegetables were served to complement cold meats. For some time everyone avoided the subject of Mary’s croft
, the rents, Arkwright, or any question of Baird’s culpability in that or any other matter.

  Baird himself seemed to have closed his mind and his emotions, like a man who has already accepted his own death.

  Eilish looked desolate. She was still beautiful. No grief could take that from her, but the fire that had lit her countenance before had vanished as if it had never been.

  Deirdra had dark rings of sleeplessness under her eyes, and she constantly looked from one to another of her family as if seeking anything she might do to ease their pain, and found nothing at all.

  Oonagh sat white-faced. Alastair was profoundly unhappy. Hector reached for the wine as often as usual, but seemed to remain stubbornly sober. Only Quinlan appeared to find even a glimmer of satisfaction in anything.

  “You cannot put it off forever,” he said at last. “Some decision has to be made.” He glanced at Monk. “I assume you are going to return to London? If not tomorrow, then some time soon. You don’t intend to remain in Edinburgh, do you? We have no more crofts, to pay for your silence.”

  “Quinlan!” Alastair said furiously, banging his clenched fist on the table. “For heaven’s sake, man, have a little decency!”

  Quinlan’s eyebrows rose. “Is this matter decent? Your ideas differ from mine, Fiscal. I think it’s thoroughly indecent. What are you proposing? That we conspire together to keep silence over it and let the shadow hang forever over Miss Latterly?” He swiveled in his chair. “Will you allow that, Miss Latterly? It will make it uncommonly difficult for you to obtain another nursing post. Unless of course it is with someone who wishes the patient’s decease?”

  “Of course I should like it resolved,” Hester answered him, while the rest of the company looked on in horrified silence. “But I do not wish anyone to stand in the dock in my place simply to accomplish that, if they are no more guilty than I am. There is a certain case against Mr. McIvor, but I do not find it compelling.” She turned to Alastair. “Is it compelling, Procurator Fiscal? Would you prosecute with the evidence you have so far?”

  Alastair blushed, and then paled. He swallowed hard. “They would not expect me to handle the case, Miss Latterly. I am too close to it.”