“No, Uncle Hector,” Alastair said wearily. “I was meeting with the sheriff over something quite new.”
Hector grunted and looked unconvinced, but it might have been that he was too drunk to have understood.
“It was a bad case, that. You ought to have won. I’m not surprised you still think about it.”
Oonagh filled her glass with wine from the decanter on the table and passed it across to Hector. He took it with a glance at her but he did not drink it straightaway.
“Alastair does not win or lose cases, Uncle Hector,” she said gently. “He decides whether there is sufficient evidence to prosecute or not. If there isn’t, there would be no point in bringing it to court. It would only waste public money.”
“And subject the person, most probably innocent, to a harrowing ordeal and public shame,” Monk added rather abruptly.
Oonagh flashed him a look of quick surprise. “Certainly, and that also.”
Hector looked at Monk as if he had only just remembered his presence.
“Oh yes… you’re the detective, aren’t you. Come to make sure of the case against that nurse. Pity.” He looked at Monk with acute disfavor. “I liked her. Nice girl. Courage. Takes a lot of courage for a woman to go out to a place like the Crimea, you know, and look after the wounded.” There was distinct hostility in his face. “You’d better be sure, young man. You’d better be damned sure you’ve got the right person.”
“I shall be,” Monk said grimly. “I am more dedicated to that than you can possibly know.”
Hector stared at him, then at last almost reluctantly began to drink Oonagh’s wine.
“There isn’t any doubt, Uncle Hector,” Quinlan said irritably. “If you were a little closer to sober you’d know that.”
“Would I!” Hector was annoyed. He put down the glass, very nearly spilling it. It was only saved by Eilish, on the other side, reaching forward and pulling a spoon handle out of the way. “Why would I?” Hector demanded, ignoring Eilish. “Why would I know that, Quinlan?”
“Well, apart from the fact that if it was not her then it was one of us,” Quinlan said, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile, “she was the only one who had any reason. The brooch was found in her case.”
“Books,” Hector said with satisfaction.
“Books?” Quinlan was derisive. “What are you talking about? What books?”
A flash of temper crossed Hector’s face, but he changed his mind about letting go of it. “Company books,” he said with a smile. “Ledgers.”
There was a moment’s silence. Kenneth put down his knife and fork.
“Miss Latterly didn’t know anything about our company books, Uncle Hector,” Oonagh said quietly. “She only arrived in Edinburgh that morning.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Hector agreed crossly. “But we do.”
“Naturally we do,” Quinlan agreed. Monk thought he only just avoided adding “you fool.”
“And one of us knows whether they are right or wrong,” Hector went on doggedly.
Kenneth’s face was pink. “I do, Uncle Hector. It is my job to keep them. And they are right… to the farthing.”
“Of course they are,” Oonagh said frankly, looking first at Kenneth, then at Hector. “We all know you are distressed over Mother’s death, but you are beginning to speak irresponsibly, Uncle Hector. That does not do any of us justice. It would be a good idea if you were to stop discussing that subject before you say something we shall all regret.” Her eyes were very steady on his. “Mother would not have wished us to quarrel with each other, or make hurtful remarks like that.”
Hector looked numbed, as if for a moment he had forgotten Mary’s death, and then suddenly the whole weight of grief struck him again. The color fled from his face and he seemed about to collapse.
Eilish leaned towards him to give him physical support, which seemed necessary to keep him upright in his chair, and immediately Baird rose and came around to him, half lifting him up.
“Come on, Uncle Hector. Let me take you to your room. I think you had better lie down for a while.”
A look of fury crossed over Quinlan’s face as Eilish and Baird between them helped Hector to his feet and led him, shambling erratically, out of the room. They could hear their footsteps lurching across the hall, and Eilish’s voice in encouragement, and then Baud’s deeper tones.
“I’m so sorry,” Oonagh apologized, looking at Monk. “I am afraid poor Uncle Hector is not as well as we would wish. This has all struck him very hard.” She smiled gently, tacitly seeking Monk’s understanding. “I am afraid he sometimes gets confused.”
“ ‘Not as well,’ “ Quinlan said viciously. “He’s blind drunk, the old ass!”
Alastair shot him a look of warning, but refrained from saying anything.
Deirdia rang the bell for the servants to clear away the dishes and bring the next course.
They were finished with dinner and back in the withdrawing room before Oonagh found her opportunity to speak privately with Monk. They were all in the room, but so discreetly that it seemed unnoticed by anyone else, she led him farther and farther from the others until they were standing in front of the large window, now closed against the rapidly chilling night, and out of earshot of anyone. He was suddenly aware of the perfume of her.
“How is your errand progressing, Mr. Monk?” she said softly.
“I have learned little that might not have been expected,” he replied guardedly.
“About us?”
There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not a woman to whom he would lie, or wished to over this.
“Naturally.”
“Have you discovered where Deirdra spends so much money, Mr. Monk?”
“Not yet.”
She pulled a small, rueful face, full of apology, and something else beyond it, deep within her which he could not read.
“She manages to go through enormous amounts, quite unexplained by the running of this house, which has been largely in my mother’s hands until her death, and of course mine.” She frowned. “Deirdra says she spends it on clothes, but she is exceptionally extravagant, even for a woman of fashion and some social position to maintain.” She took a deep breath and looked at Monk very squarely. “It is causing my brother Alastair some concern. If… if you should find out, in the course of your investigations, we would be most grateful to learn.” The ghost of a smile curved her lips. “We would express that gratitude in whatever manner was appropriate. I do not wish to insult you.”
“Thank you,” he said frankly. He was obliged to admit, his pride could be quite easily offended. “If I should learn the answer to that, which I may do, I will inform you directly I am certain.”
She smiled, in a moment’s candid understanding, and a moment later fell back into ordinary, meaningless chatter.
He took his leave shortly before a quarter to eleven, and was in the hall waiting for McTeer to emerge through the green baize door when Hector Farraline came lurching down the stairs and slid the last half dozen steps to land clinging to the newel post, his face wearing an expression of intense concentration.
“Are you going to find out who killed Mary?” he said in a whisper, surprisingly quiet for one so inebriated.
“Yes,” Monk replied simply. He did not think rational argument or explanation would serve any purpose, only prolong an encounter which was going to be at least trying.
“She was the best woman I ever knew.” Hector blinked and his eyes filled with a terrible sadness. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was never beautiful, like Eilish, but she had the same sort of quality about her, a light inside, a sort of fire.” He gazed across the hall past Monk, and for a moment his glance caught the huge portrait of his brother, which until now Monk had noticed only vaguely. The old man’s Up curled and his face filled with a vortex of emotions, love, hate, envy, loathing, regret, longing for things past, even pity.
“He was a bastard, you know-at times,” he said in little more than a whisper, but his voice shook with intensity. “The handsome Hamish, my elder brother, the colonel. I was only a major, you know? But I was a better soldier than he ever was! Cut a fine figure. Knew how to speak to the ladies. They adored him.”
He slid down to sit on the lowest step. “But Mary was always the best. She used to walk with her back so straight, and her head so high. She had wit, Mary. Make you laugh till you wept… at the damnedest things.” He looked regrettably close to weeping now, and impatient as he was, Monk felt a twinge of pity for him. He was an old
