have only corresponded with him, and that was kept to the formalities. I have no idea whether he even believes she is innocent.”
“You bloody incompetent!” Monk exploded, swinging around to face him. “You mean you have hired a lawyer to defend her without even knowing if he believes in her?” He grasped Rathbone by the lapels, his face twisted with fury.
Rathbone slapped him away with surprising violence. “I did not hire him, you ignoramus! Lady Callandra Daviot hired him. And belief in her innocence is a very pleasant thing to have, but in our parlous state it is a luxury we may not be able to afford. For a start, such a thing may not exist-in Edinburgh.”
Monk opened his mouth to retaliate, then realized the truth of the remark and let it go.
Rathbone smoothed down his lapels.
“Well, what are you standing there for?” Monk said acidly. “Let us go and see this man Argyll, and find out if he is any good.”
“There is no point in being a crack shot if you have no ammunition,” Rathbone said bitterly, turning to face the way they had been going and resuming his journey. He knew Argyll’s address was in Princes Street itself, and had been advised it was easy walking distance from the station. “If you have no idea who did kill Mary Farraline, at least tell me who could have, and why. I presume you have something since you last wrote. It is three days.”
Monk’s face was tight and very pale as he fell in step with Rathbone again. For several moments they walked in silence, then finally he spoke, his voice rasping.
“I’ve been over the apothecaries again. I can’t find the source of the digitalis, for Hester or anyone else…”
“So you wrote.”
“Apparently there was a digitalis poisoning a few months ago here in Edinburgh. It received some attention. It may have given our killer the idea.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “That’s interesting. Not much, but you are right, it may have prompted the idea. What else?”
“Our best chance still seems the bookkeeper. Kenneth Farraline has a mistress…”
“Not unusual,” Rathbone said dryly. “And hardly a crime. What of it?”
Monk kept his temper with momentary difficulty. “She’s expensive, and he is the company bookkeeper. Old Hector Farraline says the books were tampered with…”
Rathbone stopped and swung around.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Because it happened some time ago, and Mary already knew about it.”
Rathbone swore.
“Very helpful,” Monk said acidly.
Rathbone glared at him.
Monk continued walking. “The weakest point in this case seems to be the questions of timing. Hester could not have purchased the digitalis here in Edinburgh-at least it is almost impossible. And she could not have seen the pearl brooch until she was already in the train on the way back. She could only have done it if she had brought the digitalis with her from London, which is absurd.”
“Of course it’s absurd,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But I’ve seen people hanged on evidence as poor- when public hatred is deep enough. Haven’t you sense, man?”
Monk swung around to face him. “Then you’ll have to change the public mood, won’t you.” It was not a question but a demand. “That’s what you’re paid for. Make them see Hester as a heroine, a woman who gave up her own family and happiness to minister to the sick and injured. Make them see her in Scutari, passing all night along the rows of wounded with a lamp in her hand, mopping brows, comforting the dying, praying-anything you like. Let them see her braving shot and shell to reach the wounded without thought for herself… then returning home to fight the medical establishment for better conditions here… and losing her post for her impertinence, so she has to nurse privately, moving from post to post.”
“Is that how you see Hester?” Rathbone asked, standing still in the middle of the footpath opposite him, his eyes wide, his lips almost in a smile.
“No, of course not!” Monk said. “She’s an opinionated, self-willed woman doing precisely what she wants to do. But that is not the point.” There was a faint color in his face as he said it, and it occurred to Rathbone that there was more truth in what Monk had said than he was prepared to admit. And Rathbone also realized with a shiver of surprise that he would not have found it difficult to put forward that picture of Hester himself.
“I can’t,” he said bitterly. “You seem to have forgotten that this is Scotland.”
Monk swore viciously, and with several words Rathbone had not heard before.
“Oh very helpful,” Rathbone said, mimicking his earlier tone exactly. “But I shall do all I can to see that Argyll uses that to the best advantage. I have achieved one thing.” He tried to sound casual, and not too smug.
“Oh good-do tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If there is something, I should like to know it!”
“Then hold your tongue long enough and I will!” They were walking again and Rathbone quickened his pace. “Florence Nightingale herself will come and testify as a character witness.”
“That’s marvelous!” Monk shouted with such exuberance two passersby pulled faces and shook their heads, supposing him intoxicated. “That’s brilliant of you… it’s…”
“Thank you. We have established that physically any member of the household could have killed Mary Farraline. What about motive?”
The elation vanished from Monk’s face. “I thought I had two____________________”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“They disappeared on examination.”
“Are you sure?”
“Perfectly. Alastair’s wife is extravagant, and goes out at night to meet a scruffy-looking individual dressed in working clothes and carrying a pocket watch.”
Rathbone stopped in disbelief. “And that’s not a motive?”
Monk snorted. “She’s building a flying machine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She is building a large machine, big enough to carry a passenger, which she hopes will fly,” Monk elaborated. “In an old warehouse in the slum quarter. All right, she’s eccentric…”
“Eccentric? Is that what you call it? I would have said insane.”
“Most inventors are a trifle strange.”
“A trifle? A flying machine?” Rathbone pulled a face. “Come on, man, she’ll be locked up if anyone finds out.”
“Probably that is why she does it in secret, and at midnight,” Monk agreed, beginning to walk again. “But from what I’ve heard of Mary Farraline, she’d have been entertained by it. She certainly wouldn’t have had her committed.”
Rathbone said nothing.
“The other one is the middle daughter, Eilish,” Monk resumed. “She also goes out at night, secretly, but alone. I followed her.” He omitted mentioning that twice he had been knocked senseless for his pains. “And I found where she goes: down in Cowgate, which is a slum tenement area.”
“Not another fantastical machine?” Rathbone said wryly.
“No, something far more elementary,” Monk replied with a tone of surprise in his voice. “She is conducting her own ragged school for adults.”
Rathbone frowned. “Why in the middle of the night? That seems a highly honorable thing to do!”
“Because presumably her pupils are at their labors during the day,” Monk said waspishly. “Added to which, she has coerced her brother-in-law, who is in love with her, into giving her books from the family company for her pupils’ use.”
“You mean pilfering?” Rathbone chose to ignore the sarcasm.
“If you like. But again, I’m damned sure Mary would have approved heartily had she known. And she might have.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t think to ask?”
“Ask whom?” Monk inquired. “Eilish would have said yes, if it mattered and she hadn’t… The only other person to ask would have been Mary.”
