rankled, souring everything else? Was he really so self-obsessed?
“A wee bit dour today,” the ferryman observed. “Did ye no find what you wanted up at the port?”
“Yes… yes, I found it,” Monk replied, heaving on the oars. “It was what I expected.”
“Then it’s no to your taste, to judge from the dreich look on your face.”
“No… it’s not”
The ferryman nodded and kept his silence.
They reached the far side. Monk climbed out stiffly, paid him, and took his leave. His whole body ached abominably. Served him right for his pride. He should have let the ferryman row.
He arrived back in Edinburgh tired and without any feeling of satisfaction in his discovery. He chose to walk, in spite of the gusty wind blowing in his face and the touch of sleet now and again out of a gray sky. He strode across the Waverley Bridge, right down Market Street, up Bank Street and over the George IV Bridge and right into the Grassmarket. He ended outside Hester’s lodgings without having given a thought to why he chose there instead of Ainslie Place. Perhaps in some way he decided she deserved to learn the truth before the Farralines, or to be present when they were told it. He did not even consider the cruelty of it. She had liked Baird, or at least he had formed that impression.
He was already at her door before he realized he simply wanted to share his own disillusion, not with anyone, although there was no one else, but specifically with her. The knowledge froze his hand in the air.
But she had heard his footsteps on the uncarpeted passage and opened the door, her face filled with expectancy, and an element of fear. She saw his own disillusion in his eyes before he spoke.
“It was Baird.…” It was almost a question, not quite. She held the door for him to go in.
He accepted without the impropriety of it crossing his mind. The thought never occurred to him.
“Yes. He was in prison. Arkwright, the man on the croft, knew it; in fact, I imagine the bastard served with him.” He sat down on the bed, leaving the one chair for her. “I expect Mclvor let him use the croft to keep him silent, and when Mary found out, he killed her for the same reason. He could hardly have the Farralines, and all Edinburgh, know he was an old lag.”
She looked at him gravely, almost expressionlessly, for several seconds. He wanted to see some reaction in her, a reflection of his own hurt, and he was about to speak, but he did not know what to say. For once he did not want to quarrel with her. He wanted closeness, an end to unhappy surprises.
“Poor Baird,” she said with a little shiver.
He was about to ridicule her sentiment, then he remembered with a jolt that she had tasted prison herself, bitterly and very recently. His remark died unspoken.
“Eilish is going to be destroyed,” she said quietly, but still there seemed a lack of real horror in her.
“Yes,” he agreed vehemently. “Yes she is.”
Hester frowned. “Are you really sure it was Baird? Just because he was in prison doesn’t necessarily mean he killed Mary. Don’t you think it is possible, if this Arkwright creature was blackmailing him, that he might have told Mary, and she helped him by letting him use the croft that way?”
“Come on, Hester,” he said wearily. “You’re clutching at straws. Why should she? He’d misled them all, lied to them about his past. Why should she do what was virtually paying blackmail for him? She may have been a good woman, but that calls for a saint.”
“No it doesn’t,” she contradicted him. “I knew Mary, you didn’t.”
“You met her on one train journey!”
“I knew her! She liked Baird. She told me that herself.”
“She didn’t know he was an old lag.”
“We don’t know what he did.” She leaned forward, demanding he listen. “He may have told her, and she still liked him. We knew about a time when he was very upset and went off by himself. Maybe this was when Arkwright turned up. Then he told Mary about it, and she helped him, and he was all right. It’s quite possible.”
“Then who killed Mary?”
Her face closed over. “I don’t know. Kenneth?”
“And Baird playing with the chemicals?” he added.
A look of scorn filled her face. “Don’t be so naive. No one else saw that but Quinlan, and he’s green with jealousy. He’d lie about Baird as quick as look at you.”
“And hang him for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“Of course. Why not?”
He looked at her and saw certainty in her eyes. He wondered if she ever doubted herself, as he did. But then she knew her past, knew not only what she thought and felt now, but what she had always thought, and done. There was no secret room in her life, no dark passages and locked doors in the mind.
“It’s monstrous,” he said quietly.
She searched his face. “It is to you and me.” Her voice was soft. “But to him, Baird has stolen what should be his. Not his wife-but his wife’s love, her respect, her admiration. He can’t accuse him of that, he can’t punish him for it. Perhaps he feels that is monstrous too.”
“That…” he began, and then stopped.
She was smiling, not with anything like laughter, but a wry, hurting perception.
“We had better go and tell them what you found out.”
Reluctantly he rose to his feet. There was no alternative.
They stood in the withdrawing room in Ainslie Place. Everyone was present. Even Alastair had contrived not to be in court or his offices. And presumably the printing was running itself, at least for the day.
“We assumed you would return this morning,” Oonagh said, regarding Monk carefully. She looked tired-the fair skin under her eyes was paper thin-but as always her composure was complete.
Alastair looked from Monk to Oonagh and back again. Eilish was in an agony of suspense. She stood beside Quinlan as if frozen. Baird was in the farther side of the room, eyes downcast, face ashen.
Kenneth stood by the mantelshelf with a shght smirk on his face, but it was hard to tell if it was not predominantly relief. Once he smiled at Quinlan, and Eilish shot him such a look of loathing he blushed and turned away.
Deirdra sat in an armchair looking unhappy, and beside her. Hector Farraline was also sunk in gloom. For once he seemed totally sober.
Alastair cleared his throat. “I think you had better tell us what you discovered, Mr. Monk. It is pointless standing here doubting and fearing, and thinking ill of each other. Did you find this croft of Mother’s? I confess I knew nothing of it, not even of its existence.”
“No reason why you should,” Hector said darkly. “Nothing to do with you.”
Alastair frowned, then decided to ignore him.
They were all looking at Monk, even Baird, his dark eyes so full of pain, and the knowledge of pain, that Monk could have no doubt he knew exactly what Arkwright would have said, and that it was the truth. He hated doing this. But it was not the first time he had liked someone who was guilty of a crime he deplored.
“I found the man who is living in the croft,” he said aloud, looking at no one in particular. Hester was standing beside him silently. He was glad of her presence. In some way she shared his sense of loss. “He claimed that he sent money to Mr. Mclvor.”
Quinlan gave a little grant of satisfaction.
Eilish started, as if to speak, but said nothing. Her face looked as if she had been struck.
“But I did not believe him,” Monk continued.
“Why not?” Alastair was amazed. “That won’t do.”
Oonagh touched his sleeve, and as if understanding some unspoken communication, he fell silent again.
Monk answered the question anyway.
“Because he could offer no explanation as to how he contrived the payments. I asked him if he rode to Inverness, a day’s ride on a good horse, across two ferries, and put a purse on a train to Edinburgh…”
“That’s absurd,” Deirdra said contemptuously.
“Of course,” Monk agreed.
“So what are you saying, Mr. Monk?” Oonagh asked very steadily. “If he did not pay Baird, then why is he still there? Why has he not been thrown out?”
