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“Well, she couldn’t mix it in front of her,” Deirdra said quickly. “And she couldn’t give her two doses. Mother would not have taken them.”
Monk smiled with the first real satisfaction he had felt since Rathbone had broken the news.
“You have an excellent point, Mrs. Farraline. Your mother-in-law would not have taken the double dose.”
“But she did,” Alastair said with a frown. “The police informed us of that, the day before you arrived. That is precisely what happened.”
Oonagh looked very pale, a flicker of tension between her brows. She turned from Alastair to Monk without speaking, waiting for him to explain.
Monk chose his words with intense care. Could this be the key to it all? He refused to hope, but still he found his body rigid, muscles aching.
“Was Mrs. Farraline sufficiently forgetful that she might either have accepted two doses of her medicine or have taken one herself and then allowed Miss Latterly to have given her another?” He remembered Crawford’s dismissal of such an idea and he knew what the answer would be.
Oonagh opened her mouth, but in the minute’s hesitation before she spoke, Eilish interrupted.
“No, certainly not. I don’t know what the answer is, but it is not that.”
Baird was very pale. He looked at Eilish with something so fierce in his eyes it seemed to be agony, even though it was apparently Monk to whom he was speaking.
“Then the answer must be that Miss Latterly saw the brooch in the house, before it was packed, and decided then on her plan. She must have doubled the dose before she left.”
“How?” Deirdra asked.
“I don’t know.” He was not disconcerted. “She was a nurse, after all. Presumably she knew how to make some medicines as well as give them. Any fool can pass out a vial or present it to someone.”
“Make it out of what?” Monk asked with assumed i
“Of course not,” Deirdra agreed, looking from one to another of them, her face puckered. “It doesn’t make sense, does it. I mean, it doesn’t sound remotely likely. She was only here for one day… less than that. Did she go out, does anyone know? Mr. Monk?”
“I assume you have questioned the local apothecaries?” Quinlan asked.
“Yes, and none has sold digitalis that day to any woman answering Miss Latterly’s description,” Monk replied. “Or indeed to anyone else not already known to him personally.”
“How confusing,” Quinlan said without any apparent un-happiness.
Monk felt himself begi
“I think you are missing the point,” Oonagh said very gently. “The brooch will have been packed in Mother’s traveling jewel case, which was in the carriage with them. And of course Mother had the key. Miss Latterly saw it when she was preparing the medicine, or perhaps she looked through it out of curiosity when Mother may have alighted at the station to use the convenience. There would be plenty of opportunities during a long evening.”
“But the digitalis,” Baird argued. “Where did she get that? She didn’t find that in a railway station.”
“Presumably she carried it with her,” Oonagh replied with a tiny smile. “She was a nurse. We have no idea what she had in her case.”
“On the chance of having someone to poison?” Monk said incredulously.
Oonagh looked at him with amusement and something like patience.
“Possibly, Mr. Monk. It does seem the most likely explanation. You yourself have pointed out that the other ways and means that we assumed were, after all, not possible. What else is left?”
Monk felt as if the fire had died. The light and the warmth faded all around him. It had been stupid to hope for anything so easy, and yet in spite of all intelligence, he had hoped. He realized it now with anger and self-criticism.
“Of course-” Alastair began, but was interrupted by a large man with fading red-gold hair and blurry eyes walking uncertainly in, leaving the doors gaping behind him. He looked at the walls, his gaze finishing on Monk with a lift of curiosity.
There was a moment’s total silence.
Alastair let his breath out in a sigh.
Monk caught a glimpse of Oonagh’s face, her expression fierce and unreadable for an instant before she stepped forward and took the man by the arm.
“Uncle Hector-” Her voice caught in her throat, then was smooth again. ‘This is Mr. Monk, who has come up from London in order to help us in the matter of Mother’s death.”
Hector swallowed hard, as if there were something tight around his neck and he could not free himself from it. The distress in his face was so naked it would have been embarrassing had he not been oblivious of anyone watching him.
“Help?” he said incredulously. He looked at Monk with disgust “What are you, an undertaker?” He scowled at Alastair. “Since when did we have the undertaker to di
“Oh God!” Alastair said desperately.
Ke
Deirdra looked helplessly to one, then another.
“He’s not the undertaker,” Quinlan began.
“Griselda took care of all that, Uncle Hector,” Oonagh said gently, passing him her glass of wine. “In London. I did tell you, don’t you remember?”
He took the glass and drank it all in one long gulp, then looked at her with slight difficulty in focusing.
“Did you?” He hiccupped loudly and waved his hand in embarrassment. “I don’t think I…”
“Come on, dear, I’ll have your di
Hector turned to Monk again.
“Then what the hell are you?”
Monk had an uncharacteristic moment of tact.
“I have to do with the law, Mr. Farraline. There are details to be dealt with.”
“Oh-” He seemed satisfied.
Oonagh half turned and shot Monk a look of gratitude, then gently steered Hector towards the door and out.
By the time she came back they were in the dining room and seated at the table. The meal was served, and while they were eating, Monk had the opportunity to observe them individually, conversation requiring no effort on his part.
He turned over in his mind what the errand boy had said. He looked discreetly at Deirdra Farraline. Her face still pleased him. It was thoroughly feminine, soft curves to the cheek and jaw, neat nose, good brow, and yet it was full of determination; there was nothing weak or apathetic about her. He was stupidly disappointed that she was apparently dedicated to spending her time in society and using extravagant amounts of money to impress others.
Of course she was dressed entirely in black now, as mourning required, and it became her, but looking at it with a critical eye, her gown was hardly high fashion. Indeed, he would have said by London standards it was really very ordinary. The gossip was right; she had no taste. It angered him to concede the point.
He turned to look at Eilish, unwilling to be caught staring at her. Her beauty irritated him enough as it was, without his being observed watching her. The last thing he wished was to pander to her vanity.
He need not have worried. She kept her head bent towards her plate, and only twice did she glance upward, and then it was to Baird.
Her gown was also black, naturally, but more becomingly cut, and certainly more up-to-the-minute in detail. In fact, it could not have been bettered by any London beauty, whatever the cost.
He turned to Oonagh. She was surveying the table, watching everyone to assure herself they had sufficient and were comfortable. He could afford only a moment to look at her, or she would see him. Her gown also was well cut, simple, and more fashionable than Deirdra’s. It was not just her fire and her intelligence which made it so. Whatever Deirdra spent her money on, it was not her mourning clothes.
The meal progressed with polite conversation about nothing in particular, and when it was over Ke