The Sins Of The Wolf Part 17

Where on earth was Eilish Fyffe going alone, and on foot, at eleven o'clock at night?

He waited until she was well past him, across the gra.s.s of the circle to the far side of Ainslie Place, where she was about to disappear either east into St. Combe Street or south into Glenfinlas Street. Then he ran quickly and soundlessly after her, arriving at the corner just in time to see her pa.s.s under the lamp at the beginning of Charlotte Square.

Had she an a.s.signation? It seemed not only the obvious conclusion but the only one. Why else would she be out alone, and obviously wis.h.i.+ng not to be seen?

She was moving rapidly past the square. It was only two very short blocks before it ended in a big junction with Princes Street and Lothian Road, Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street. Where on earth was she going? He had never cared much for her, but now his opinion took a rapid and decisive turn for the worse.

She crossed the junction without a glance either way, still less behind her, and continued at a fast walk along Lothian Road. To their left were the Princes Street Gardens, and looming over them, brooding and medieval, the huge ma.s.s of the mound with the castle clinging to its top.

Monk kept an even hundred yards behind her, and was almost taken by surprise when she turned left and disappeared into Kings Stables Road. He was familiar with the way. It was his own route home, were he to walk. Not long and it would lead into the Gra.s.smarket, and then Cowgate. Surely she could not be going that way? What would these dark, crowded buildings and narrow alleys possibly hold for a lady like Eilish?

His mind was still turning over the contradictions and impossibilities of it when suddenly he was engulfed in sharp, numbing pain and a black hole opened up in front of him.

He regained his senses, still on the pavement, propped up against the wall, his head aching abominably, his body cold and his temper volcanic. Eilish was nowhere to be seen.

The following day he returned to Ainslie Place in a vicious and desperate frame of mind, and set up vigil as soon as it was dark.

However it was not Eilish he saw, but a scruffy-looking man in soiled and very worn clothes approaching number seventeen nervously, looking from right to left as if he feared observation.

Monk moved farther back into the shadows, then remained absolutely motionless.

The man pa.s.sed under a streetlamp and for a moment his face was visible. It was the same man Monk had seen several days before, not with Eilish, but with Deirdra. The man fished out a watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and put it back.

Curious. He did not look like a man who would be able to read a watch, far less own one.

Several minutes pa.s.sed by. The man fidgeted in acute discomfort. Monk stood without moving even the angle of his head. Along the footpath the lamps made little pools of light. Between was a no-man's-land of gathering mist and shadows. It was growing colder. Monk was beginning to feel it in his motionless state. It ate into his bones and crept up through the soles of his feet.

Then suddenly she was there. She must have come around through the areaway gate, into the street from the side-not Eilish, but the small, urgent figure of Deirdra. She did not even glance down the street or to the gra.s.s center of the Place, but went straight to the man. They stood close together for several minutes, heads bent, talking in voices so low that from where he stood Monk could not even hear a murmur.

Then suddenly Deirdra shook her head vigorously, the man touched her arm in a gentle rea.s.suring gesture, and she turned and went back inside the house. He departed the way he had come.

Monk waited until long after midnight, growing colder and colder, but no one else came or went in the Farraline house. He could have kicked himself for not having followed the man.

Two more cold and increasingly desperate days followed in which Monk learned nothing useful, indeed nothing that common sense could not have deduced for him. He wrote at some length to Rathbone, detailing everything he had learned so far, and when he returned to his lodgings about noon on the third day there were two letters for him, one from Rathbone outlining the general provisions of Mary Farraline's will. She had left her very considerable property, both real and personal, more or less equally among the children. Alastair had already inherited the house and most of the business on the death of his father. The second letter was from Oonagh, inviting him to attend a large civic dinner that evening and apologizing for the invitation's being so extremely late.

Monk accepted. He had nothing left to lose. Time was treading hard on his heels, and fruitless nights spent watching the Farraline house had yielded nothing. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish had appeared again.

He dressed very carefully, but his mind was too absorbed in rehearsing every piece of information he had to be nervous as to his elegance or social acceptability. How could Hester have been idiotic enough to get herself into this appalling situation? The few impressions she had given him were useless. What if Deirdra and Eilish were both conducting clandestine affairs with men from the heart of the slums? What if Mary knew? It made no sense to murder her because of it. If she had not made it public already, then she was not going to. A family quarrel, no matter how fierce, was not cause for murder by anyone but a lunatic.

If Eilish had been the victim, that would be readily explainable. Either Quinlan or Baird McIvor might have excellent cause. Or even Oonagh, if Baird was really in love with her.

But that made little sense either. It could hardly be Baird she was creeping along Kings Stables Road at night to see.

He arrived at the huge hall in which the dinner was to be held with his letter from Oonagh in his hand, ready to show to any doorman who might question his right to be there, but his a.s.surance must have been sufficient and no one accosted him.

It was a dazzling occasion. Chandeliers blazed from every ceiling. He could imagine them being lowered and footmen with tapers spending hours lighting them before winding them back up again. Every niche in the gorgeous ceilings seemed to be ablaze. Fiddlers played a nameless accompaniment while guests milled around nodding and smiling and hoping to be recognized by all the right people. Servants mixed discreetly offering refreshments, and a resplendent liveried doorman announced the arrival of those whom Society considered important.

It was easy to see Eilish. Even in black she seemed to radiate a warmth and a light. Her hair was a more gorgeous ornament than the tiaras of d.u.c.h.esses, and her pale skin against the black of her gown seemed luminous.

From the gallery where Monk was standing he soon observed Alastair's pale head, and the moment after, Oonagh. Even from above, where he could see only an angle of her face, she carried with her an aura of calm and a sense of both power and intelligence.

Had Mary been like that? That was what the drink-sodden Hector had suggested. Why would anyone murder such a woman? Greed for the power she exercised, or the purse strings? Jealousy because she had the innate qualities which would always make her the natural leader? Fear, because she knew something which was intolerable to someone else, that threatened their happiness, even their continued safety?

But what? What could Mary have known? Did Oonagh know it now, albeit without being aware of its danger to her?

Mercifully Hector was absent, and so, as far as Monk could see, was Kenneth. There was nothing to be gained remaining alone. Reluctantly, more tense than he could account for, he straightened up and went down the steps into the throng.

At dinner he was seated next to a large woman in a burgundy and black dress with skirts so huge no one could get within a yard and a half of her. Not that Monk wished to. He would like to have been spared the obligation of conversation also, but that was more than he was granted.

Deirdra was sitting opposite at the farther side of the table, and several times he caught her eye and smiled. He was beginning to think it was a waste of his time, although he knew at least one reason why Oonagh had invited him. She wished to know if he had progressed in discovering where Deirdra spent her money. Did she already know, and was she only looking for him to provide proof so she could confront Deirdra, and perhaps precipitate the quarrel Mary had been killed in order to avoid?

Looking across the table at Deirdra's warm, intelligent, stubborn face, he did not believe it. She might be what some people would refer to as immoral, apparently she was extravagant, but he did not believe she had murdered Mary Farraline, certainly not over something as easily curbed as extravagance.

But he had been wrong before, especially where women were concerned.

No-that was unfair. He had been wrong as to their strength, their loyalty, even their ability to feel pa.s.sion or conviction-but not their criminality. Why did he doubt himself so deeply?

Because he was failing Hester. Even as he sat there eating a sumptuous meal amid the clatter of cutlery, the c.h.i.n.k of gla.s.ses, the blaze of lights and murmur of voices, the rustle of silks and creak of stays, Hester was in Newgate Prison awaiting trial, after which, if she were found guilty, they would hang her.

He felt a failure because he was failing.

"... most becoming gown, Mrs. Farraline," someone was saying to Deirdra. "Most unusual."

"Thank you," Deirdra acknowledged, but without the pleasure Monk would have expected her to show at such a compliment.

"Charming," the large lady next to him added with a downward turn of her ungenerous mouth. "Quite charming. I am very fond of those lines, and jet beading is so elegant, I always think. I had one very like it myself, very like it indeed. Cut a little differently around the shoulder, as I recall, but the design of the st.i.tching was just the same."

One gentleman looked at her with surprise. It was an odd thing to remark, and not altogether polite.

"Last year," the large lady added with finality.

On a wild impulse, a flicker of thought, Monk asked an inexcusable question.

"Do you still have it, ma'am?"

She gave an inexcusable answer.

"No...I disposed of it."

"How wise," Monk retorted with sudden viciousness. "That gown"-he glanced at her ample figure-"is more becoming to your...station." He had so nearly said "age"; everyone else had, in their minds, said it for him.

The woman turned puce, but said nothing. Deirdra also blushed a light shade of pink, and Monk knew in that moment, although he could not yet prove it, that whatever Deirdra spent her money on, it was not gowns, as she had claimed. She bought hers secondhand, and presumably had a discreet dressmaker alter them to fit her and change them just enough that they were no longer completely identifiable.

She stared at him across the salmon mousse and cuc.u.mber and the remains of the sorbet, her eyes pleading.

He smiled and shook his head fractionally, which was ridiculous. He had no reason to keep her secret.

When he encountered Oonagh later, he met her eyes and told her he was investigating the matter but as yet had found no conclusive evidence. The lie troubled him not in the slightest.

In the morning post there was a letter from Callandra. Monk tore it open and read: My dear William,I am afraid the news from here is all of the very worst. I have visited Hester as often as I am permitted. She has great courage, but I can see that the strain is telling on her profoundly. I had foolishly imagined that her time in the Scutari hospital would have inured her to at least some of the hards.h.i.+ps that Newgate would offer. Of course it is wildly different. The physical portion is relatively negligible. It is the mental suffering, the endless tedium of day after day with nothing to do but let her imagination conjure the worst. Fear is more debilitating than almost anything else.In Scutari she was endlessly needed, respected, even loved. Here she is idle and the object of hatred and contempt from warders who have no doubt of her guilt.I hear from Oliver that you have made no significant progress in learning who else may have killed Mary Farraline. I wish I could offer some a.s.sistance. I have asked Hester over and over for every memory or impression she might have, but nothing has come to mind which she has not already told you.I am afraid the worst news of all is something we should have foreseen, but I regret we did not. Not that we could have helped it, even had we known from the outset. Since the crime was committed while the train was in Scotland, whoever is guilty, they have demanded that Hester be tried in Edinburgh. We have no grounds whatever upon which to contest it. She will be returned to stand trial in Edinburgh High Court, and Oliver will not be able to do anything more than offer his personal a.s.sistance. Since he is qualified only to practice English Law, he cannot appear for her.Of course I shall make provision for the best Scottish lawyer I can find, but I confess I feel deeply distressed that Oliver cannot do it. He has the unparalleled advantage that he believes entirely in her innocence.Still, we must not lose courage. The battle is not yet over, and as long as it is not, we have not lost-nor shall we.My dear William, spare nothing to learn the truth, neither time nor money are of the least importance. Write to me for anything at all you might need.

Yours faithfully, Callandra Daviot He stood in the bitter autumn sunlight with the white paper a blur in front of him; his body was shaking. Rathbone could not defend her. He had never even thought of that-but now that Callandra wrote it, it seemed so obvious. He had not realized until now just how much he had been counting on Rathbone's skill, how the lawyer's past victories had weighed unconsciously on his mind, making him hope the impossible. Now, with one blow, that was ended.

It was minutes before his mind cleared. A dray stopped in the street outside. The cellarman shouted and the driver swore. The sound of the horses stamping on the cobbles and the rattle of wheels came up clearly through the window ajar.

Someone in the Farraline house had tampered with Mary's medicine, with the knowledge it would kill her. Someone had put her pearl brooch in Hester's bag. Greed? Fear? Revenge? Some motive not yet guessed at?

Where did Eilish go down the Kings Stables Road? Who was the rough, uncouth man who waited for Deirdra, and whom she met with such intense and secret conversation before running back into the house? A lover? Surely not, not in such clothes. A blackmailer? More probable. Over what? Her extravagance. Did she gamble, pay off old debts, keep a lover, a relative, an illegitimate child? Or was the extravagance simply to pay off a blackmailer? One thing, it was not to buy fas.h.i.+onable dresses. She had unquestionably lied about that.

It was an ugly resolution, but he decided he must follow her, or the man, and find the truth of it, whatever it was. And he must follow Eilish too. If it was a love affair with her sister's husband, or with anyone else, that also must be known, and beyond doubt.

The first night was totally fruitless. Neither Deirdra nor Eilish appeared. But the second night at a little after midnight the man in the torn coat came again, and after lingering furtively beyond the arc of light from the streetlamp, and again looking at his watch, Deirdra appeared, creeping like a shadow out of the side gate. After a brief, intense exchange, but no overt gesture of affection, they turned away from the house and, side by side, walked rapidly across the gra.s.s and down Glenfinlas Street south, exactly the same way Eilish had gone.

This time Monk kept well behind them, which was not difficult because they moved extremely rapidly. For a small woman, Deirdra had a remarkable stride, and did not seem to tire, almost as if something lay ahead of her which filled her with energy and enthusiasm. Monk also stopped and turned around several times to make sure he was not being followed. He still remembered with pain his previous foray along here after Eilish.

He could see no one, apart from two youths going in the opposite direction, a black dog scavenging in the gutter, and a drunk propped against the wall and beginning to slide down.

There was a light wind with a smell of grime and damp on it, and overhead thin clouds darkened the three-quarter moon. Between the pools of the streetlamps the s.p.a.ces melted into impenetrable shadow. The great mound of the castle towering above them and to the left showed a jagged, now-familiar line against the paler sky.

Deirdra and the man turned left into the Gra.s.smarket. The pavement was narrower here and the five-story buildings made the street seem like the bottom of a deep ravine. There was little sound but that of footsteps, m.u.f.fled by damp and echo, and the occasional shout, bang of a door or gate, and now and again horses' hooves as some late traveler pa.s.sed.

The Gra.s.smarket was only a few hundred yards long, then it turned into Cowgate until it crossed South Bridge, running parallel to Canongate, and turned into Holyrood Road. To the right lay the Pleasance and Dumbied.y.k.es, to the left the High Street, the Royal Mile, and eventually Holyrood Palace. In between was an endless maze of alleys and yards, pa.s.sages between buildings, steps up and steps down, a thousand nooks and doorways.

Monk increased his pace. Where on earth was Deirdra going? Her pace had not slackened at all, nor had she glanced behind her.

Ahead of him Deirdra and the man crossed the road and abruptly disappeared.

Monk swore and ran forward, tripping over a cobble and all but losing his balance. A dog sleeping in a doorway stirred, growled, and then lowered its head again.

Candlemaker Row. He swung around the corner and was just in time to see Deirdra and the man as they pa.s.sed the beginning of the graveyard to the right, stop, hesitate barely a moment, then go into one of the vast, shadowy buildings to the left.

Monk ran after them, reaching the spot only minutes after they had gone. At first he could see no entrance. The street walls and high wooden gates were a seamless barrier against intrusion.

But they had been here, and now they were not. Something had yielded to their touch. Step by step he moved along, pus.h.i.+ng gently, until under his weight one wooden gate swung open just enough to allow him to squeeze inside and to find himself in a cobbled yard facing a building something like a barn. Yellow gaslight streamed from the cracks around an ill-fitting door which would have let through a horse and dray, were it open.

He moved forward gingerly, feeling every step before putting his weight down. He did not want to brush against something and set off an alarm. He had no idea where he was, or what manner of place to expect, or even who else might be inside.

He reached the door in silence and peered in through the wide crack. The sight that met his eyes was so extraordinary, so wildly fanciful and absurd, he stared at it for several minutes before his brain accepted its reality. It was a huge shed, big enough to have built a boat in, except that the structure that crouched in the center of the floor was surely never intended to sail. It had no keel and no possible place for masts. It would have resembled a running chicken, but it had no legs. Its body was large enough for a full-grown man to sit inside, and the wings were outspread as if it fully intended to take off and fly. It seemed to be constructed primarily of wood and canvas. There was some kind of machinery where the heart would have been, were it a real bird.

But more incredible, if anything could be, was Deirdra Farraline, dressed in old clothes, a leather ap.r.o.n over her gown, thick leather gloves over her small, strong hands, her hair sc.r.a.ped back out of her eyes. She was bent forward earnestly laboring over the contraption, tightening screws with delicate, intense efficiency. The man who had come for her was now stripped to his s.h.i.+rtsleeves and was pus.h.i.+ng and heaving at another piece of structure which he seemed to be intending to attach to the rear of the bird, by which to extend its tail by some eight or nine feet.

Monk had little enough to lose. He pushed the door open far enough for him to squeeze through and get inside. Neither of the two workers noticed him, so engrossed were they in their labors. Deirdra bent her head, her tongue between her teeth, her brow drawn down in the power of her thought. Monk watched her hands. She was quick and very certain. She knew exactly what she was doing, which tool she wanted and how to use it. The man was patient, and skilled also, but he appeared to be working under her direction.

It was fully five minutes before Deirdra looked up and saw Monk standing in the doorway. She froze.

"Good evening, Mrs. Farraline," he said quietly, moving forward. "Pardon my technical ignorance, but what are you making?" His voice was so normal, so devoid of any criticism or doubt, he might have been discussing the weather at some polite social function.

She stared at him, her dark eyes searching his face for ridicule, anger, contempt, any of the emotions she expected, and finding none of them.

"A flying machine," she said at last.

It was a remark so preposterous no explanation seemed adequate, or even worth attempting. Her companion stood with a spanner in his hand, waiting to see whether she needed support, protection or silence on his part. He was quite clearly embarra.s.sed, but Monk judged it was for her reputation, not his own, and certainly not for their project.

All kinds of questions raced through Monk's head, none of them relevant to Hester's dilemma.

"It must be expensive," he said aloud.

She looked startled. Her eyes widened. She had been ready to counter with defense of the possibility of flying, the necessity to try, the previous ideas and drawings of da Vinci or of Roger Bacon, but the cost was the last thing she had imagined he would mention.

"Yes," she said at last. "Yes, of course it is."

"More expensive than a few fas.h.i.+onable dresses," he went on.

That brought a rush of color to her cheeks as she realized his thoughts.

"It is all my own money," she protested. "I've saved by buying secondhand clothes and having them made over. I never took anything from the family. I know someone has falsified the company books, but I never had a farthing from them. I swear it! And Mary knew what I was doing," she rushed on. "I can't prove it, but she did. She thought it was quite mad, but she enjoyed it. She thought it was a wonderful piece of insanity."

"And your husband?"

"Alastair?" she said incredulously. "Good heavens, no. No." She came towards him, her face puckered with anxiety. "Please, you must not tell him! He would not understand. He is a good man in so many ways, but he has no imagination, and no sense of...of ..."

"Humor?" he suggested.

A flash of temper lit her face, then after a second softened into amus.e.m.e.nt.

"No, Mr. Monk, not humor either. And you may laugh, but one day it will fly. You don't understand now, but one day you will."

"I understand dedication," he said with a twisted smile. "Even obsession. I understand the desire to do something which is so powerful that all other desires are sacrificed to it."

The man moved forward a step, the spanner held firmly in his hand, but at least for the moment he judged Monk const.i.tuted no danger to her, and he remained silent.

"I swear I did not harm Mary, Mr. Monk, nor do I know who did." Deirdra took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Nothing," Monk replied, amazed at his own answer. He had spoken before he had weighed the matter; his reply was instinctive and emotional. "Providing you give me all the help you can to learn who did kill Mrs. Farraline."

She looked at him with dawning perception in her eyes, and as far as he could judge, not so much anger as amazement.

"You are not here for the prosecution, are you?"

"No. I have known Hester Latterly for a long time, and I will never believe she poisoned a patient. She might kill someone in outrage, in self-defense, but never for gain."

The color drained out of her face; her eyes shadowed.

"I see. That means one of us did...doesn't it?"

"Yes."