The Sins of the Wolf (35 page)

“Please excuse me, Oliver,” Callandra said briskly. “I realize it is late, and I am possibly interrupting you, but I could not contain myself until morning.” She came in as he stepped back, smiling in spite of himself. Henry Rathbone followed immediately after, searching Oliver’s face.

“Come in,” Rathbone invited, closing the door behind
him. He very nearly said that they were not interrupting anything at all, then pride prevented him from such an admission. “Father! I had not expected you. It is good of you to have come.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Henry Rathbone dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Of course I came. How is she?”

“I have not seen her since the night before she left London,” Rathbone replied. “I am not her barrister here in Edinburgh. They will only allow Argyll in now.”

“So what are you doing?” Callandra demanded, too restless to sit in either of the large armchairs available.

“Waiting,” Rathbone answered bitterly. “Worrying. Racking my brain to think of anything we have left undone, any possibilities we could still pursue.”

Callandra drew in her breath, then said nothing.

Henry Rathbone sat down and crossed his legs. “Well, pacing the floor is not going to help. We had better approach the matter logically. I presume there is no possibility this poison was administered accidentally, or intentionally by Mrs. Farraline herself? All right, there is no need to lose your temper, Oliver. It is necessary to establish the facts.”

Rathbone glanced at him, smothering his impatience with difficulty. He knew perfectly well that his father did not lack emotion or care, indeed he felt painfully; but his ability to suppress his feelings and concentrate his brain irritated him, because he was so far from that kind of control himself.

Callandra sat down on the other chair, staring at Henry hopefully.

“And the servants?” Henry continued.

“Ruled out by Monk,” Rathbone replied. “It was one of the family.”

“Remind me again who they are,” Henry directed.

“Alastair, the eldest son, the Procurator Fiscal; his wife, Deirdra, who is building a flying machine …”

Henry looked up, awaiting an explanation, his blue eyes mild and puzzled.

“Eccentric,” Rathbone agreed. “But Monk is convinced she is otherwise harmless.”

Henry pulled a face.

“Eldest daughter Oonagh McIvor; her husband, Baird, who is apparently in love with his sister-in-law, Eilish, and is taking books from the company for her to use in her midnight occupation of teaching a ragged school. Eilish’s husband, Quinlan Fyffe, married into the family and into the business. Clever and unappealing, but Monk knows of no reason why he should have wished to kill his mother-in-law. And the youngest brother, Kenneth, who seems our best hope at the moment.”

“What about the daughter in London?” Henry asked.

“She cannot have been guilty,” Rathbone reasoned with a sharp edge to his voice. “She was nowhere near Edinburgh or Mary, or the medicine. We can discount her and her husband.”

“Why was Mary going to visit her?” Henry asked, ignoring Rathbone’s tone.

“I don’t know. Something to do with her health. She is expecting her first child and is very nervous. It’s natural enough she should wish her mother to be there.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Do you think it would matter?” Callandra asked urgently.

“No, of course not.” Rathbone dismissed it with a sharp flick of his hand. He stood leaning a little against the table, still unwilling to sit down.

Henry ignored his reply. “Have you given any thought as to why Mrs. Farraline was killed at that precise time, rather than any other?” he asked.

“Opportunity,” Rathbone replied. “A perfect chance to lay the blame on someone else. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Perhaps,” Henry agreed dubiously, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingertips together in a steeple. “But it seems to me also very possible that something
provoked it at this precise time. You do not kill someone simply because a good opportunity presents itself.”

Rathbone straightened up, at last a tiny spot of instinct caught inside him.

“Have you something in mind?”

“Surely it is worth giving close examination to anything that happened within three or four days immediately before Mrs. Farraline set out for London?” Henry asked. “The murder may have been an opportunist act after years of desire, but it may also have been precipitated by something that happened very shortly before.”

“Indeed it may,” Rathbone agreed, moving away from the table. “Thank you, Father. At last we have another avenue to explore. That is, if Monk has not already done it and found it empty. But he said nothing.”

“Are you sure you cannot see Hester?” Callandra asked quickly.

“Yes I am sure, but I shall be in court, of course, and I may be permitted a few moments then.”

“Please …” Callandra was very pale. Suddenly all the emotion they had been trying so hard to smother beneath practical action, intelligence and self-control poured into the silence in the warm, unfamiliar room, with its anonymous furnishings and smell of polish.

Rathbone stared at Callandra, then at his father. The understanding between them was complete; all the fear, the affection, the knowledge of loss hanging over them, the helplessness were too clear to need words.

“Of course I’ll tell her,” Rathbone said quietly. “But she knows already.”

“Thank you,” Callandra said.

Henry nodded his head.

The morning of the trial was cold, sharp and threatening rain. Oliver Rathbone walked briskly from the rooms he had taken just off Princes Street, up the steps of the mound towards the castle, then up Bank Street and sharp left onto
the High Street. Almost immediately he was faced with the great Cathedral of St. Giles, half hiding Parliament Square, on the farther side of which was Parliament House, unused now since the Act of Union, and the High Court of Justiciary.

He crossed the square. No one knew or recognized him. He passed newspaper sellers not only pressing their news of today but promising all sorts of scandal and revelation for the next issue. The murderess of Mary Farraline was on trial. Read all about it. Learn the secrets known only to a few. Incredible stories for the price of a penny.

He walked past them impatiently. He had heard all these things before, but they had not hurt when it was only a client. It was to be expected and brushed aside. When it was Hester it had a power to wound in quite a new way.

He went up the steps, and even there, amid the black-gowned barristers, he was unknown. It was surprisingly disorienting. He was accustomed to recognition, even considerable respect, to younger men moving aside for him in deference, muttering to each other of his past successes, hoping to emulate them one day.

Here he was merely another spectator, albeit one who might sit near the front and occasionally pass a note to the counsel for the defense.

He had already made arrangements and obtained permission to see Hester for a few moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.

“Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” the clerk said stiffly. “If you will come this way, sir, I’ll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment.” And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial—or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.

He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray which
she used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.

For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.

“G-good morning, Oliver,” she said almost steadily.

How many more times would he be able to speak to her alone? Then they might part forever. There were all manner of things he wanted to say, emotional things, about caring for her, how intolerably he would miss her, the place in his life no one else would ever enter, let alone fill. He was uncertain exactly what that was, in a romantic sense, but he had no doubt at all about the love of friends, even its nature or its ineffable value.

“Good morning,” he replied. “I have met Mr. Argyll, and I am very impressed with him. I think he will not fall short of his reputation. We may have every confidence in him.” How dismally formal, and so little of what was in his mind.

“Do you think so?” she asked, watching his face.

“I do. I imagine he has given you all the appropriate advice about your conduct and your replies to him or Mr. Gilfeather?” Perhaps it was best to speak of nothing but business. It would burden her unbearably to be emotional now.

She smiled with an effort. “Yes. But I already knew it, from having heard you speak. I shall answer only as I am asked, speak clearly and respectfully, not stare too directly at anyone….”

“Did he say that?”

“No … but you would have, would you not?”

His smile was uncertain, even painful.

“I would—to you. Men do not like a woman who is too confident.”

“I know.”

“Yes …” He swallowed. “Of course you do.”

“Don’t worry. I shall behave myself meekly,” she assured him. “And he also warned me what to expect the other witnesses to say, and that the crowd will be hostile.” She gave a shaky sigh. “I should have expected that, but it is a very unpleasant thought that they have already judged me guilty.”

“We will change their minds,” he said fiercely. “They have not heard your evidence yet; they have only heard the prosecutor’s view of things.”

“I—”

But she got no further. There was a brisk knock on the door and it swung open to allow the warder in.

“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to be on your way. Got to take the prisoner up.”

There was no time for anything further. Rathbone glanced at Hester once, forced a smile to his lips, then obeyed the orders and withdrew.

The High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh was not like the Old Bailey, and Monk was reminded again with an ugly jolt that they were in a different land. Although united by many common bonds and governed by one queen and one parliament, the law of the land was different, the history and the heritage were different, and until very recently in a long national memory, they had been as often enemies as friends. The borders were drenched with the blood of both sides, and the Auld Alliance was not with England but with France, England’s foe down the centuries.

The titles were different, the clothes marginally so, and there were not twelve men to the jury, but fifteen. Only the majestic implacability of the law was unchanged. The jury had been empaneled, the prisoner charged and the proceedings commenced.

The prosecution was conducted by a huge, rambling man with a soft voice and flyaway gray hair. His face was benign and the lights shone on the bald crown of his head. Monk knew from deep instinct that his affability and gentle air of disorganization were a total sham. Behind the smile was a brain whetted to scalpel sharpness.

On the other bench, equally courteous but utterly different in attitude, was James Argyll. He looked grizzled and dangerous, like an old bear, his black eyes and sharp brows accentuating his air of intense concentration and the fact that he feared nothing and was deceived by no one.

How much was it a personal battle, with Hester’s life to win or lose as the prize? These two must have met many times before. They must know each other as one can know only an adversary tested and tried to the limit. One can never know a friend in quite that way.

Monk looked at Hester in the dock. She was very white, her eyes focused far away, as if she were in a daze. Perhaps she was. This was reality so intense it was like no other, and therefore would seem unreal. Each sense would at times be so keen she would remember every grain of wood in the dock railing and yet not hear what was said. Or hear even an intake of bream from the clerk before her, or the wardress behind, or the crackle of the fires in the two grates at each side of the room, and yet not see the people in the gallery even if they moved or jostled each other the better to see.

The judge was seated above them, an elderly man with a narrow, clever face and crooked teeth, a long nose and fine hair. He must have been handsome in his youth. Now his character was too deeply marked and his erratic temper stamped his features.

The first witness for the prosecution was Alastair Farraline. There was a hush in the court and then a slow letting out of breath as his name was called. Everyone knew he was the Procurator Fiscal, a title to elicit both fear and respect in the law. A woman in the gallery gave a little
scream of sheer pent-up emotion as he climbed to the witness-box, and the judge glared at her.

“Control yourself, madam, or I shall have you removed,” he warned grimly.

She clapped both hands over her mouth.

“Proceed,” the judge commanded.

Gilfeather thanked him and turned to Alastair with a smile.

“First of all, Mr. Farraline, may I extend to you the court’s sympathy on the loss of your mother. A lady we all held in the highest esteem.”

Alastair, pale and very upright, the light shining on his hair, tried to smile back, and failed.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Monk glanced at Hester, but she was immobile and staring at Alastair.

Immediately behind Argyll, Oliver Rathbone was so rigid that even from across the room Monk could see the fabric of his coat stretched across his shoulders.

“Now, Mr. Farraline,” Gilfeather continued. “When your mother planned this journey south into England, did you always intend to send someone with her to care for her?”