“And is that all?”
“The only other thing is the company books.”
“We’ve no evidence to raise it,” Rathbone pointed out. “You said Hector Farraline is as tight as a newt most of the time. His drunken ramblings, even if he’s right, won’t be enough to demand an audit. Is he fit to put in the witness-boxT’
“God knows.”
They had stopped, having reached the building where James Argyll had his offices.
“I’m coming in,” Monk stated.
“I really don’t think…” Rathbone began, but Monk had marched ahead of him through the doors and up the stairs and there was nothing for him to do but follow.
The office was quite small, and not nearly as imposing as Rathbone had expected, being lined with shabby books on three sides, the fourth having a small fireplace with a hotly burning fire and paneled in wood of some African origin.
But the man himself was an entirely different matter. He was tall with powerful shoulders and muscular body, but it was his face which commanded attention. In his youth he must have been very dark, what was referred to as a black Celt, with fine eyes and olive complexion. Now what was left of his hair was grizzled gray, and his deeply lined face was full of humor and intelligence. When he smiled he had marvelous teeth.
“You must be Mr. Oliver Rathbone,” he said, looking past Monk. His voice was deep and his accent was savored with relish, as if he were proud of being a Scot. He held out his hand. “James Argyll at your service, sir. I feel we have a great challenge in front of us. I have your letter stating that Miss Florence Nightingale is prepared to travel to Edinburgh to appear as a character witness for the defense. Excellent, excellent.” He waved to one of the leather chairs and Monk sat in it. Without being asked, Rathbone took the other, and Argyll resumed his own seat.
“Did you have an agreeable journey?” he asked, looking at Rathbone.
“We have no time for chatter,” Monk cut across him. “All we have to fight with are Miss Latterly’s reputation and what we can make of Miss Nightingale. I presume you are well acquainted with her role in the war and how she is greatly regarded? If you were not before, you should be now.”
“I am, Mr. Monk,” Argyll said with unconcealed amusement. “And I am also aware that so far, it is all we have with which to fight. I presume you have still uncovered nothing factually relevant within the Farraline household? We will naturally consider the possible value of innuendo and suggestion, but as you will be aware by now, if you were not before, the family is well thought of in Edinburgh. Mrs. Mary Farraline was a woman of remarkable character, and Mr. Alastair is the Procurator Fiscal, a position close to that of your own Crown Prosecutor.”
Monk took the irony and knew it was well deserved.
“You are saying that to make an unsubstantiated attack would count against us?”
“Yes, without question.”
“Can we get the company books audited?” Monk leaned forward.
“I doubt it, unless you have evidence of embezzlement, and that it is likely to be connected with Mrs. Farraline’s murder. Have you?”
“No… one can hardly count old Hector’s ramblings.”
Argyll’s expression sharpened. ‘Tell me more about old Hector, Mr. Monk.”
In precise detail and without interruption, Monk recounted what Hector had said to him.
Argyll listened intently.
“Will you put him in the box?” Monk finished.
“Aye… I think I may,” Argyll said thoughtfully. “If I can manage to do it without warning.”
“Then he may be too drunk to be any use,” Rathbone protested, sitting upright.
“And if I warn the family, they may make sure he is too drunk to stand up at all,” Argyll pointed out. “No, surprise is our only weapon. Not good, I grant you, but all we have.”
“What will you do?” Rathbone asked. “Elicit something which will necessitate your calling him as if by chance?”
Argyll’s mobile mouth curved upward in appreciation. “Precisely. And I gather you have also obtained another Crimean colleague to appear for Miss Latterly?”
“Yes. A doctor who will speak very highly of her.”
Monk stood up impatiently and swung away from the chair to pace the floor.
“None of that is any use if we cannot suggest who else killed Mrs. Farraline. She didn’t die by accident, nor did she kill herself. Someone gave her a lethal dose, and someone put that pearl brooch in Hester’s baggage, certainly to implicate her. You can’t create doubt it was Hester unless you can point to someone else.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Monk,” Argyll said quietly. ‘That is where we still look to you. I think we may safely assume it was one of the family. You have effectively ruled out the servants, so Mr. Rathbone has told me.”
“Yes, they can all account for their time in each other’s company,” Monk agreed. “And more importantly, there seems no earthly reason for any of them to have harmed her.” He drove his hands into his pockets savagely. “It was one of the family, but I have no more idea now of which one than I had when I stepped off the train, except I don’t believe it was Eilish. I think our best chance is Kenneth. He has a mistress the family doesn’t approve of, and he is the company bookkeeper. He is also one of the weaker ones. You ought to be able to rattle him in the witness-box, if you are any good at your job.”
Rathbone winced at Monk’s abruptness, but he shared his emotion. He would tie Kenneth into a knot he’d never undo, if only he had the chance. Damn the differences between English and Scots law. Frustration churned inside him so violently he found it hard to keep still. He did not blame Monk for his restlessness or his manner.
Argyll leaned back in his chair, resting his fingertips together and staring at Monk without anger. “I’ll be better at it, Mr. Monk, if you can find me cause to have those company books examined. I think young Mr. Kenneth may very well have embezzled a bawbee here and there to keep his mistress… but we’ll need more than a suggestion if we are to say that to the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh.”
“I’ll get it for you,” Monk said grimly.
Argyll raised his black eyebrows. “Legally, if you please. It will be no use to us otherwise.”
“I know that,” Monk said between his teeth. “There won’t be a mark on him, nor will he have cause for a complaint of any sort. Just do your part.”
Rathbone winced again.
Monk shot another glance at Argyll, then without speaking again opened the door and went out.
Hester had passed the journey from London to Edinburgh in the guard’s van, in a state which was certainly not sleep, or anything like the rest that sleep should bring, and yet it had all the qualities of a dream. There was no sense of direction, she could as easily have been traveling south as north, and this time there was no footwarmer. She was manacled to the wardress, who sat rigid with anxiety, her face set like iron. Every time Hester closed her eyes she expected to see Mary Farraline when she opened them again, and hear her soft, cultured Highland voice with the Edinburgh intonation recounting some memory from the past, filled with humor and enjoyment.
She was the last to disembark from the train, and by the time she and the wardress stepped out onto the platform, most of the other passengers were moving towards the gates up into the street.
The police escort was there, four large constables holding truncheons and looking nervously from left to right.
“Come on, Latterly,” the wardress said sharply, yanking at Hester’s manacled hands. “No dithering around, now!”
“I’m not going to escape!” Hester said with wry contempt.
The wardress gave her a filthy look, and it was several seconds before Hester realized why. Then as the constables closed in around her, and there was an angry shout from a few yards away, suddenly she understood. They were here not to prevent her escape but to protect her.
A woman screamed.
“Murderess!” someone yelled hoarsely.
“Hang ‘er!” another shouted out, and a surge of bodies buffeted the constables and they lurched forward, unwittingly almost knocking Hester off her feet.
A dozen yards away a newsboy was calling out about the trial.
“Burn her!” a voice shouted quite clearly and chillingly, a woman’s voice, shrill with hatred. “Burn the witch! Put
