The Sins of the Wolf (23 page)

“Because if you do,” she continued, “I have something to ask of you.”

He seized the chance.

“Of course,” he said quickly. “What is it?”

She looked down, masking her thoughts. “If—if in your … discoveries, you learn where my sister-in-law manages to spend so much money, I would … we would all be much obliged if you would advise us … at least advise me.” She looked up at him suddenly, and yet there was neither candor nor anxiety in her eyes. “I may be able to speak to her privately and forestall a great deal of unpleasantness. Could you do that? Would it be unethical?”

“Certainly I can do it, Mrs. McIvor,” he said without hesitation. It was a gauntlet thrown down, whether she cared for the answer in the slightest, and it was precisely the excuse he needed. He liked Deirdra, but he would sacrifice her in an instant if it would help him find the truth.

She smiled, humor and challenge under the cool tones of her voice and behind the composure of her features. “Thank you. Perhaps in two or three days you will return and dine with us again?”

“I shall look forward to it,” he accepted, and as McTeer appeared and handed him his hat and coat, he took his leave.

It was quite by chance as he was hesitating on the footpath, deciding whether to walk the entire distance to the Grassmarket or go east and down to Princes Street to look
for a hansom, that he glanced back towards the Farraline house and saw a small, neat figure in wide skirts emerge from near the side entrance and run down to the carriageway. He knew it must be Deirdra; no maid would have such a sweeping crinoline, and it was too small to be either Eilish or Oonagh.

The next moment he saw the other figure, coming across the road. As he passed underneath the gas lamp the light fell on him and Monk saw his rough clothes and dirty face. He was intent on the silhouette of Deirdra, going towards her eagerly.

Then he saw Monk. He froze, turned on the spot, hesitated a moment, then loped off up the way he had come. Monk waited nearly fifteen minutes, but he did not come back again, and at last Deirdra returned alone into the house.

6

O
N THE TRAIN
northwards Monk had comforted himself with the thought that Hester had endured the Crimea, so a time in Newgate would not be beyond her experience, or even markedly worse than that with which she was already familiar. Indeed, he had thought in many ways it would even be better.

He was mistaken. She found it immeasurably worse. Certainly there were elements that brought back memory so sharply her breath caught in her throat and her eyes prickled. She was intensely cold. Her body shook with it, her extremities lost sensation, and at night she was unable to sleep except for short spells because the cold woke her.

And she was hungry. Food was regular, though it was minimal, and not pleasant. That was like the Crimea, but rather better: she had no fear of being allowed to starve. The chance of disease was present, but it was so slight she gave it no thought. The fear of injury did occur to her once or twice, not from shell or bullets, of course, simply of being beaten or knocked down by wardresses who were quite open in their loathing for her.

If she became ill, she treasured no illusions that anyone would care for her, and that thought was far more frightening than she had foreseen. To be ill alone, or with malicious eyes looking on and enjoying your distress, your weakness and indignity, was a horror that brought out the cold sweat on her skin, and her heart beat faster in near panic.

That was the greatest difference. In the Crimea she had
been respected by her colleagues, adored by the soldiers to whom she had dedicated so much. Such love and purpose can be food to the hungry, warmth in the hardest winter, and anesthetic to pain. It can even blind out fear and spur on exhaustion.

Hatred and loneliness cripple everything.

And then there was time. In the Crimea she had worked almost every moment she was awake. Here there was nothing to do but sit on the cot and wait, hour after hour, from morning till night, day after day. She could do nothing herself. Everything rested with Rathbone or Monk. She was endlessly idle.

She had resolved not even to think of the future, not to project her mind forward to the trial, to picture the courtroom as she had seen it so many times before from the gallery when watching Rathbone. This time she would be in the dock, looking down on it all. Would they try her in the Old Bailey? Would it be the same courtroom she had been in before, feeling such compassion and dread for others? She rolled her fear around in her mind, although she had sworn she would not, testing it, trying to guess how different the reality would be from the imagining. It was like touching a wound over and over again, to see if it really hurt as much as you had thought, if it was any better yet, or any worse.

How often had she criticized injured soldiers for doing just that? It was both stupid and destructive. And here she was doing exactly the same. It was as if one had had to look at one’s own doom all the time, deluding oneself that it might change, that it might not have been as it had seemed.

And there was the other idea at the back of her mind, that if she absorbed all the pain now, in some way when it really happened she would be prepared.

Her misery was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and the door swinging open. There was no privacy
here; it was both totally isolated and yet open at any time to intrusion.

The wardress she hated most stood glaring at her, her pale hair drawn back in a knot on her head so tightly it dragged the skin around her eyes. Her face was almost expressionless. Only a tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth betrayed both her contempt and the satisfaction she had in showing it.

“Stand up, Latterly,” she ordered. “There’s someone ’ere ter see yer.” She invested the announcement with both surprise and anger. “Yer lucky. Better make the best of it. Can’t be long now till yer goin’ ter trial, then there won’t be people comin’ and goin’ all hours.”

“I shan’t be here to care,” Hester said tartly.

The wardress’s thin eyebrows rose.

“Think yer goin’ ’ome, do yer? That’ll be the day! They’ll ’ang yer, my fine lady, by yer skinny white neck, until ye’re dead. No point nobody comin’ te see ye then!”

Hester looked at her slowly, carefully, meeting her eyes.

“I’ve seen too many people hanged, and found innocent afterwards, to argue with you,” she said clearly. “The difference is that that doesn’t bother you. You want to see someone hanged, and the truth doesn’t interest you.”

A dull red color washed up the woman’s face and the heavy muscles in her neck tightened. She took half a step forward.

“You watch yer mouth, Latterly, or I’ll ’ave yer! You just remember who ’olds the keys ’ere—an’ it ain’t you. I got power—and yer’ll be glad enough to ’ave me on yer side—when the end comes. I seen a lot o’ people think ’emselves brave—till the night before the rope.”

“After a month in your charge, the rope may not seem so bad,” Hester said bitterly, but inside her stomach was knotted and her breath came unevenly. “Who is my visitor?”

She had hoped it would be Rathbone. He was her lifeline to sanity, and hope. Callandra had been twice, but somehow Hester found herself very emotional when she saw her. Perhaps
it was Callandra’s very obvious affection and the depth of her concern. Hester had felt uncontrollably lonely after she had gone. It had taken all the willpower she possessed not to give in to a fit of weeping. It was primarily the thought of the wardress’s returning, and her contempt and satisfaction, that prevented her.

Now beyond the wardress’s powerful shoulder she could see not Rathbone but her brother Charles. He looked pale and profoundly unhappy.

Suddenly memory overwhelmed her. She was almost drowned in the recollection of his face when she had arrived home from the Crimea after her parents’ deaths and Charles had met her at the house to tell her the full extent of the tragedy, not only the death by suicide of their father, but the broken heart so shortly afterwards which had taken their mother also, and the financial ruin left behind. He had just the same, familiar look of embarrassment and anxiety now. He looked curiously emotionally naked, and seeing him, Hester felt like a child again.

He came in past the wardress, walking a little around her, his eyes intent on Hester.

Hester was standing, as she had been bidden. Charles’s eyes glanced around the cell, taking in the details of the bare walls, the single deep window high above the level of anyone’s sight, the gray sky beyond the bars. Then he looked at the cot with its built-in commode. Lastly he looked at Hester, in her plain blue-gray nursing dress. He looked at her face reluctantly, as if he could not bear to see what must be there in it.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice husky.

She had been going to tell him, unburden herself of the loneliness and the fear, but looking at his tiredness, his red-rimmed eyes, and knowing he could do nothing whatever to help, except hurt as well and feel guilty because he was powerless, she found it impossible. She did not even consider it.

“I’m perfectly well,” she said in a clear, precise voice.
“No one could say it is pleasant, but I have survived a great deal worse without coming to any harm.”

His whole body relaxed and some of the tension eased out of his face. He wanted to believe her and he was not going to question what she said.

“Yes—yes, of course you have,” he agreed. “You are a remarkable woman.”

The wardress had been waiting to give him instructions to recall her, but she felt excluded by the exchange, and she withdrew and slammed the door without speaking again.

Charles jumped at the sound, and swung around to see the blank, iron barrier, handleless on the inside.

“It’s all right,” Hester said quickly. “She’ll be back when your time is up.”

He looked at her, forcing himself to smile, but it was a sickly gesture.

“Do they feed you properly? Keep you warm enough? It feels cold here to me.”

“It’s not bad,” she lied. “And really it isn’t so important. There must be many people who never have better.”

He was struggling for something to say. Polite conversation seemed so ridiculous, and yet he dreaded the realities.

Hester took the decision for him, otherwise the whole visit would have come and gone and they would never have said anything that mattered.

“Monk has gone up to Edinburgh to find out what really happened,” she began.

“Monk? Oh, that policeman you were … acquainted with. Do you—” He stopped, changed his mind about what he had been going to say.

“Yes,” she finished for him. “I think he has as good a chance as anyone of learning the truth. In fact, better. He won’t accept lies, and he knows I did not kill her, so he will keep on asking and watching and thinking until he finds out who did.” She felt better for putting it into words. It had been said to convince Charles, but it had lifted her at least as much.

“Are you sure?” he said anxiously. “You couldn’t have made a mistake, could you? You were tired, unfamiliar with the patient….” He looked acutely apologetic, his face pink, his eyes desperately earnest.

She wanted to be furious with him, but her anger died in pity and long familiarity. What was the point in hurting him? He was going to suffer enough as it was.

“No,” she said quickly. “There was one vial of medicine for each dose. I gave her one vial. She wasn’t some vague little old lady who didn’t know what she was doing, Charles. She was interesting, funny, wise, and very much aware of everything. She wouldn’t have allowed me to make a mistake, even if I had been in a frame of mind to do so.”

He frowned. “Then you mean someone else killed her deliberately?”

It was a very ugly thought, but inescapable.

“Yes.”

“Could the apothecary have made up a wrong medicine altogether?” He struggled for a more acceptable answer.

“No—I don’t think so. That was not the first one to be taken. If the whole lot had been wrong, the first one would have killed her. And who put the brooch in my bag? That certainly wasn’t the apothecary.”