The Sins of the Wolf (46 page)

“I am in control of the printing, and make all printing decisions,” Quinlan replied.

“I see. Are you aware, sir, that several of your books have been stolen over the last year or more?”

There was a sharp stir of interest in the court. Quinlan looked incredulous.

“No sir, I was not aware of it. And to tell you the truth, I am disinclined to believe it now. Such a loss would have been apparent.”

“To whom, sir?” Argyll asked. “To you?”

“No, not to me, but certainly …” He hesitated only a second or so, but a look of brilliance came into his eyes, a flash of thought. “To Baird McIvor. He manages that area of the company.”

“Precisely so,” Argyll agreed. “And he did not report such a loss to you?”

“No sir, he did not!”

Again Gilfeather half rose, but the judge waved him back.

“Would you be interested to know,” Argyll said carefully, “that it was your wife who took them, sir, with Mr. McIvor’s assistance?”

There was a gasp from the gallery. Several jurors turned towards Eilish, then towards Baird.

Quinlan stood motionless, the blood rushing scarlet up his face, then receding again, leaving him ashen. He started to say something, but his voice died away.

“You did not know this,” Argyll said unnecessarily. “It would seem at a glance to make no sense, but she had a most excellent reason….”

There was a sigh of breath around the entire room., then utter silence.

Quinlan stared at Argyll.

Argyll smiled, just a slow lift of the corners of his mouth, his eyes brilliant.

“She teaches people to read,” he said distinctly. “Grown men who labor by day and come to learn from her by night how to read and write their names, to read street signs, warnings, instructions, who knows, perhaps in time even literature and the Holy Bible.”

There was a sharp rustle of movement in the gallery. Eilish sat white-faced, her eyes wide.

The judge leaned forward, frowning.

“I assume you must have some proof of this extraordinary allegation, Mr. Argyll?”

“I quibble with your word
allegation
, my lord.” Argyll
stared up at the bench. “I do not see it as any kind of charge. I think it is a most praiseworthy thing to do.”

Quinlan leaned forward over the edge of the witness-box, his fingers gripping the rail.

“It might be, if that were all it was,” he said fiercely. “But McIvor is inexcusable. I always knew he lusted after her.” His voice was rising and growing louder. “He tried to seduce her from any kind of morality or honor. But that he should use this excuse for it—and to corrupt her honesty as well—is beyond pardon.”

There was a whisper around the room. The judge banged his gavel sharply.

Argyll cut in before there could be any direction from the bench or Gilfeather could protest.

“Are you not leaping to conclusions, Mr. Fyffe?” he asked with a lift of surprise displayed for the judge’s sake. “I did not say that Mr. McIvor had done more than procure the books for her.”

Quinlan’s face was still white, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. He regarded Argyll with contempt.

“I know you did not. Do you take me for a fool, sir? I’ve watched him for years, staring at her, making excuses to be with her, the whispers, and laughter, the sudden falling into silence, the moods of temper and depression when she ignored him, the sudden elation when she did not.” Again his voice was becoming shrill. “I know when a man is in love with a woman and when his desire has consumed him beyond his control. He has at last devised a way to gain her trust—and God knows what else!”

“Mr. Fyffe …” Argyll began, but he did not seriously attempt to stop him.

“But I recognize what I should have guessed before now,” Quinlan went on, staring at Argyll and ignoring the rest of the court. “It is amazing how blind one can be until one’s attention is forced to that which is painful.”

At last Gilfeather rose to his feet.

“My lord, this is all most regrettable, and I am sure the
court feels for Mr. Fyffe’s shock and dismay, but it is entirely irrelevant as to who murdered Mary Farraline. My learned friend is only wasting time and attempting to divert the jury’s attention from the issue.”

“I agree,” the judge said, and closed his mouth in a thin hard line.

But before he could add any further ruling, Quinlan turned to him, his eyes blazing.

“It is not irrelevant, my lord. Baird McIvor’s behavior is very relevant indeed.”

Gilfeather made as if to protest again.

Argyll gestured with his hands, intentionally ineffectual.

Rathbone said a prayer under his breath, his hands clenched, his body aching with the strain. He dared not look at Hester. He had forgotten Monk as if he had never existed.

In the box Quinlan stood upright, his face white, two sharp furrows at the bridge of his nose.

“The family solicitor asked me to go through certain of Mrs. Farraline’s papers, relating to her estate—”

“Yes, sir?” the judge interrupted.

“I frequently handled her financial affairs,” Quinlan replied. “My brother-in-law Alastair is too busy with his own commitments.”

“I see. Proceed.”

“I have discovered something which has shocked and appalled me,” Quinlan said. “And also explained many circumstances previously beyond my understanding.” He swallowed hard. He had the attention of every person in the room, and he knew it.

Gilfeather frowned, but made no attempt to interrupt.

“And this discovery, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked.

“My mother-in-law owned a property, a family inheritance, in the far north, a croft—a smallholding, to be precise—in Ross-shire. It is not of great worth, only twenty-five acres or so and a house, but quite sufficient to provide one or two people with an adequate living.”

“I do not find that shocking or appalling, Mr. Fyffe,” the judge said critically. “Pray explain yourself, sir.”

Quinlan glanced at him, then once again faced the court.

“The property has been leased out for at least six years, through the agency of Baird McIvor, but no money from it, whatsoever, has ever reached Mrs. Farraline’s accounts.”

There was a gasp from the court. Someone cried out. One of the jurors jerked forward. Another searched for Baird McIvor in the gallery. One bit his lip and looked up at Hester.

“Are you sure of this, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked, struggling to keep the rising excitement out of his voice. “I assume you have documented proof, or you would not make such a charge?”

“Of course I have,” Quinlan answered him. “The papers are all there for anyone to see. Baird handled the matter for her, and even he would not deny it. He could not. Whatever rents there were is a mystery. The property is worth several pounds a year. Nothing whatever reached her account. For her, it was as if it never existed.”

“Did you tax him with it, Mr. Fyffe?”

“Of course I did! He said it was a private agreement between himself and Mother-in-law, and not my concern.”

“And that explanation does not satisfy you?”

Quinlan looked incredulous. “Would it you, sir?”

“No,” Argyll agreed. “No, it would not. It sounds highly irregular, to put the kindest possible interpretation upon it.”

Quinlan pulled a face of contempt.

“And the circumstances it explained?” Argyll went on. “You spoke of a circumstance that you had previously not understood.”

“His relationship with Mrs. Farraline,” Quinlan replied, his eyes hard and brilliant. “Shortly before the time he obtained the right to act for her in the matter of the croft, he appeared very depressed. He was sunk in gloom and short temper, spending many hours alone, and in a frame of mind approaching despair.”

Not a person in the court moved or let out a whisper.

“Then quite suddenly his mood changed,” Quinlan continued. “After many talks with Mrs. Farraline. It is plain now that he convinced her to give him this charge on her behalf, and he used it to clear himself of whatever trouble it was that plagued him.”

Gilfeather rose to his feet.

The judge nodded to him, and turned to Quinlan.

“Mr. Fyffe, that is a conclusion which may or may not be accurate. However, you may not draw it, only present to the jury what actual evidence you possess.”

“Documents, my lord,” he replied. “The ownership deeds of the croft, Mrs. Farraline’s written permission that Mr. McIvor may act for her to receive rents, and the fact that he never paid any money to her, for that or any other reason. Is that not proof?”

“It would be adequate for most people,” the judge conceded. “But it is not my privilege, but the jury’s, to make of it what they will.”

“That is not all,” Quinlan continued, his face set like a man staring at death. “I believed, like everyone else, that it was the nurse, Miss Latterly, who murdered Mother-in-law in order to conceal the fact that she had stolen a gray pearl pin. But now I find it increasingly harder to maintain that conviction. She seems to be a woman of remarkable courage and virtue, which of course I did not know earlier.” He took a mighty breath. “And I did not connect the sight of my brother-in-law, Baird McIvor, in the laundry room, on the lady’s maid’s day off, fiddling with jars and vials of liquid, pouring one from another.”

There was a violent moment in the court. Baird shot to his feet, his face ashen. Oonagh tried to restrain him, clinging on to his arm. Alastair let out a cry of amazement.

Eilish sat white-knuckled, frozen.

“I had no idea what he was doing at the time, and no interest,” Quinlan went on in a clear, relentless voice. “Now I fear I may have witnessed something very terrible, and
my failure to grasp its meaning has cost Miss Latterly the most dreadful experience imaginable, to be charged with the murder of her patient and tried for her life.”

Argyll looked flushed, almost stunned.

“I see,” he said with a choking voice. “Thank you, Mr. Fyffe. That must have been very difficult for you to reveal, prejudicing your own family as it does. The court appreciates your honesty.” If there was sarcasm in his mind, it barely touched his lips.

Quinlan said nothing.

Gilfeather rose immediately to cross-examine. He attacked Quinlan, his accuracy, his motives, his honesty, but he failed in all. Quinlan was quiet, firm and unshakable; if anything, his confidence grew. Gilfeather quickly realized his position was only damaged by pursuing it, and with only one bitter, angry movement, he resumed his seat.

Rathbone could barely contain himself. He wished to tell Argyll a hundred things about his summing up, what to say, above all what to avoid. It was simple. To play on emotion, the love of courage and honor, not to overplay the reference to Miss Nightingale, but he had no opportunity, and on reflection, perhaps that was best. Argyll knew it all.

It was masterful; all the emotion was there, but concealed, latent rather than overt. He led them by their own passions, not his. When he sat down there was no sound in the room except the squeak as the judge sat forward and ordered the jury to retire and consider its verdict.

Then began the longest and the briefest time conceivable, between the moment when the die is cast and that when it falls.

It was one desperate, unbearable hour.

They filed back, their faces pale. They looked at no one, not at Argyll or Gilfeather, and what brought Rathbone’s heart to his mouth, not at Hester.

“Have you reached your verdict, gentlemen?” the judge asked the foreman.

“We have, my lord,” he replied.

“Is it the verdict of you all?”

“It is, my lord.”

“How do you find the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?”

“My lord, we find the case not proven.”

There was a thunderous silence, an emptiness ringing in the ears.

“Not proven?” the judge said with a lift of incredulity.

“Yes, my lord, not proven.”

Slowly the judge turned to Hester, his expression bitter.

“You have heard the verdict, Miss Latterly. You are not exonerated, but you are free to go.”

11

“W
HAT DOES IT MEAN?”
Hester asked intently, staring at Rathbone. They were in the sitting room of the lodgings Callandra had taken while in Edinburgh for the trial. Hester was to stay with her at least for this night, and the reconsideration could be made in the morning. Rathbone was sitting in a hard-backed chair, too charged with emotion to relax in one of the spacious softer ones. Monk stood by the mantelshelf, half leaning on it, his face dark, his brows drawn down in concentration. Callandra herself seemed more at ease. She and Henry Rathbone sat opposite on the sofa silently.