your impressions?”
She turned and looked at him with surprise. Then slowly she mastered her emotions and replied.
“The eldest son is Alastair. He is the Procurator Fiscal-”
He cut across her. “I don’t want facts. I can find them for myself, woman. I want your feelings about the man. Was he happy or miserable? Was he worried? Did he love his mother or hate her? Was he afraid of her? Was she a possessive woman, overprotective, critical, domineering? Tell me something!”
She smiled wanly.
“She seemed generous and very normal to me…”
“She’s been murdered, Hester. People don’t commit murder without a reason even if it is a bad one. Somebody either hated her or was afraid of her. Why? Tell me more about her. And don’t tell me what a charming person she was. People sometimes murder young women because they are too charming, but not old ones.”
Hester’s smile grew a little wider.
“Don’t you think I’ve lain here trying to think why anyone would kill her? Alastair did seem a little anxious, but that could have been over anything. As I said, he is the Procurator Fiscal…”
“What is a Procurator Fiscal?” This was not a time to stand on his pride and blunder on in ignorance.
“Something like the Crown Prosecutor, I think.”
“Hmm.” Possibilities arose in his mind.
“And the youngest brother, Kenneth, was bound on an appointment the family knew little of. They assumed he was courting someone and they had not met her.”
“I see. What else?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Quinlan, that is Eilish’s husband-”
“Who is Eilish? Did you say Eilish? What kind of a name is that?”
“I don’t know. Scottish, I presume. She is the middle daughter. Oonagh is the eldest. Griselda is the youngest.”
“What about Quinlan?”
“He and Baird Mclvor, Oonagh’s husband, seemed to dislike each other. But I don’t see how any of that could lead to murder. There are always undercurrents of likes and dislikes in any family, most particularly if they all live under one roof.”
“God forbid!” Monk said with feeling. The thought of living so closely with other people appalled him. He was jealous of his privacy and he did not wish to account for himself to anyone at all, least of all someone who knew him intimately.
She misunderstood him.
“No one would murder for the freedom to leave.”
“Wasn’t the house hers?” he asked instantly. “What about the money? No, don’t bother to answer. You wouldn’t know anyway. Rathbone will find that out. Tell me exactly what you did from the time you arrived at the house until you left. When were you alone? Where was the dressing room or wherever the medicine case was left?”
“I’ve already told Oliver all that,” she protested.
“I want it from you,” he said coldly.
She complied without further argument, sitting on the edge of the cot, and carefully in exact detail, telling him all she could remember. From the ease of her words, and the fact that she did not hesitate, he knew she had rehearsed it many times. It made him acutely aware of how she must have lain in the cell in the dark, frightened, far too intelligent not to be fully aware of the magnitude of the danger, even of the possibility they might never learn the truth, or that if they did it would be too late to save her. She had seen it happen. Monk himself had failed before.
By God he would not fail this time, no matter who it cost.
“Thank you,” he said at length, rising to his feet. “Now I must go. I must catch the train north.”
She stood up. Her face was very white.
He wanted to say something which would ease her fear, something to give her hope-but it would be a lie, and he had never lied to her.
She drew in her breath to speak, and then changed her mind.
He could not leave without saying something-but what?
What was there that would not be an insult to her courage and her intelligence?
She gave a little sniff. “You must go.”
On impulse he took her hand and raised it to his lips, and then let it go and strode the three steps to the door. “I’m ready!” he shouted, and the next moment the key clanged in the lock and the door swung open. He left without looking backwards.
When Monk left the office, Oliver Rathbone hesitated only a few moments before making his decision that he would, after all, go and see Charles Latterly. Hester had begged him not to tell her family when it had been only a charge of theft, which they had both hoped would be dealt with, and dismissed, within a matter of days at the very most But now it was murder, and the evening newspapers would carry the story. He must reach him before that, in common humanity.
He already knew the address, and it was a matter of five minutes to find a hansom cab and instruct the driver. He tried to think of some decent way to break the news. Even though his intelligence told him there was none, it was an easier problem to consider than what he would do next to prepare for Hester’s defense. He could not possibly allow anyone else to conduct it, and yet the burden of such a responsibility was already heavy on him, and not twelve hours had passed yet since Daly’s arrival in his office with the news.
It was ten minutes past five in the afternoon. Charles Latterly had just arrived home from his day’s business. Rathbone had never met him before. He alighted from the cab, instructed the driver to wait however long was necessary until he should be ready to leave, and went up to the front door.
“Yes sir?” the butler said with polite inquiry, his skilled eye summing up Rathbone’s status as a gentleman.
“Good evening,” Rathbone replied briskly. “My name is Oliver Rathbone and I am Miss Hester Latterly’s barrister-at-law. I require to see Mr. Latterly on a matter of business which, I regret to say, cannot wait.”
“Indeed, sir? Perhaps if you would be good enough to come into the morning room, sir, I will acquaint Mr. Latterly with your arrival and the urgency of your business.”
“Thank you.” Rathbone stepped in, but instead of going to the morning room when the butler opened the door for him, he remained in the hall. It was a pleasant room, comfortable, but even at a casual and somewhat hasty glance, he could see the signs of wear and subtly reduced circumstances. He was reminded with a stab of pity of the ruin and suicide of Mr. Latterly senior, and the death from distress shortly afterwards of his wife. Now he had brought news of a new tragedy, even worse than the last.
Charles Latterly came out of the door to the right of the back of the hall. He was a tall, fair man in his late thirties or early forties, his hair thinning a little, his face long and, at this time, pinched with apprehension.
“Good evening, Mr. Rathbone. What can I do for you, sir? I do not recall that we are acquainted, but my butler informs me you are my sister’s attorney-at-law. I was not even aware she had occasion for such a person.”
“I am sorry to disturb you without warning, Mr. Latterly, but I bring most distressing news. I have no doubt whatever that Miss Latterly is totally without blame of any kind, but there has been a death-an unnatural death-of one of her patients, an elderly lady traveling by train from Edinburgh to London. I am sorry, Mr. Latterly, but Hester has been charged with murdering her.”
Charles Latterly stared at him as if he did not understand the meaning of the words.
“She was neglectful?” he said, blinking his eyes. “That is not like Hester. I do not approve of her profession, if you can call it such, but I believe she is more than competent in its practice. I do not believe, sir, that she has conducted herself improperly.”
“She is not charged with negligence, Mr. Latterly,” Rathbone said slowly, hating having to do this. Why could the man not have understood without his having to repeat it? Why did he have to look so injured and bewildered? “She is charged with having deliberately murdered her, in order to steal a brooch.”
“Hester? That’s preposterous!”
