The Sins of the Wolf

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 (he 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.”

Chapter 11

“What 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.

“It means that you are neither innocent nor guilty,” Rathbone replied, pulling a face. “It is not a verdict we have in England. Argyll explained it to me.”

“They think I am guilty, but they are not really quite sure enough to hang me,” Hester said with a catch in her voice. “Can they try me again?”

“It means they think you’re guilty, but they can’t damned well prove it,” Monk put in bitterly. He turned to Rathbone, his lip curled. “Can they try her again?”

“No. In that respect it is the same as a verdict of not guilty.”

“But people will always wonder,” Hester said grimly, her face very pale. She was perfectly aware of what it meant. She had seen the expressions of the people in the gallery, even those who were truly uncertain of her guilt. Who would hire as a nurse a woman who might be a murderess?

The fact that she also might not was hardly a recommendation.

No one answered immediately. She looked at Monk, not that she expected comfort from him, but possibly because she did not. His face would reflect the worst she would find, the plain and bitter truth.

He stared back at her with such a blazing anger that for a moment she was frightened. Even during the trial of Per-cival in the Moidore case, she had never seen such a barely controllable rage in him.

“I wish I could say otherwise,” Rathbone said very softly. “But it is a very unsatisfactory conclusion.”

Callandra and Monk both spoke at once, but her voice was lost in his, which was harsh, furious, and immeasurably more penetrating. Whatever she said was never heard.

“It is not a conclusion. For the love of God, what is the matter with you?” He glared at them all, but principally at Rathbone and Hester. “We don’t know who killed Mary Farraline! We must find out!”

“Monk…” Rathbone began, but again Monk overrode him with a snarl of contempt.

“It is one of the family.”

“Baird Mclvor?” Callandra asked.

“I have doubts,” Henry Rathbone began. “It seems…”

“Unsatisfactory?” Monk asked with sarcasm, mimicking Oliver’s earlier comment. “Very. No doubt they’ll find him ‘not proven’ also, if it ever gets to trial. At least I hope so. I think it was that sniveling little beggar Kenneth. He embezzled from the company books, and his mother caught him.”

“If he has covered his tracks, and from his confidence I have no doubt he has,” Oliver argued, “then we’ll never prove it.”

“Well, you won’t if you run off back to London and leave Mclvor to face trial… and maybe hang for it,” Monk snapped back at him. “Is that what you intend?”

Rathbone looked temporarily nonplussed. He stared at Monk with acute dislike.

“Do we gather from your remark that you intend to remain, Mr. Monk?” Henry Rathbone asked, his mild face pinched with concern. “Is that because you believe you can accomplish something you have not done so far?”

A faint flush of anger and self-consciousness colored Monk’s lean cheeks.

“We have a great deal more to pursue than we did even a day ago. I’m going to remain here until I have seen the end of it.” He looked at Hester with a strange, mixed expression in his face. “You don’t need to be so frightened. Whether they can prove it or not, they’ll charge someone else.” His voice still sounded angry.

She felt absurdly, unreasonably hurt. It was unfair. He seemed to be blaming her because the matter was unresolved, and she was frightened, and only with the greatest difficulty prevented herself from bursting into tears. Now that the worst fear was over, the sense of anticlimax, the confusion and relief, and the continued anxiety were almost more than she could bear. She wanted to be alone, where she could allow herself to stop the pretense and not care in the slightest what anyone else thought. And at the same time she wanted company, she wanted someone to put his arms around her and hold her closely, tightly, and not to let her go. She wanted to feel the warmth of someone, the breathing heartbeat, the tenderness. She certainly did not want to quarrel, least of all with Monk.

And yet because she was so vulnerable, she was furious with him. The only defense was attack.

“I don’t know what you are so upset about,” she said. “No one accused you of anything, except perhaps incompetence! But they don’t hang you for that!” She turned to Callandra. “I am going to remain as well. For my own sake, as well as anyone else’s, I am going to find out who killed Mary Farraline. I really-”

“Don’t be absurd!” Monk cut across her. “There’s nothing you can accomplish here, and you may well be a hindrance.”

‘To whom?” she demanded. Anger was so much easier than the fear and need she really felt. “You? I would have thought, on your showing so far, you would be grateful for any help you could obtain. You don’t know whether it was Baird Mclvor or Kenneth. You just said as much. At least I knew Mary, you didn’t.”

Monk’s eyebrows rose. “And what help is that? If she said something useful, don’t tell me you have waited until now to reveal it.”

“Don’t be stupid! Of course-”

“This conversation is not furthering our cause,” Henry Rathbone interrupted them. “I think, if you will forgive me saying so, it is well time we exercised a little more logical thought and rather less emotion. It is only natural that after such a fearful experience we may all be excused a little self-indulgence, but it really will serve us ill in learning who is responsible for Mrs. Farraline’s death. Perhaps we should retire to our beds and resume our discussion in the morning?”

“An excellent idea.” Callandra rose to her feet. “We are all too tired to think usefully.”

“There is no decision to make,” Monk said irritably. “I shall go back to the Farraline house and continue my investigations.”

“How will you explain yourself?” Rathbone asked with pursed lips. “They may not find personal curiosity an acceptable excuse.”

Monk regarded him with loathing. “They are acutely vulnerable at the moment,” he replied slowly and with sarcastic patience. “It is now apparent to everyone that one of the family is guilty. They will each be pointing the finger at the other. It should not be beyond my ability to convince at least one of them that they require my services.”

Oliver’s eyebrows rose very high. “At least one? Do you plan to work for several of them? That should provoke an interesting situation, to say the least of it!”

“All right… one of them,” Monk conceded waspishly. “I’m sure Eilish is not guilty, and she will be very keen to prove that Mclvor is not either, since she is in love with him. I think it is not impossible she will prefer him to her