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“Quite. But it would not be pleasant for the culprit.”
“I imagine not. But what makes you think there is anything wrong with the books? Has Ke
“I don’t suspect anyone in particular.” Monk said it in such a way as to leave it open whether he was speaking the truth or deliberately being evasive. Fear was a most effective catalyst from which might come all ma
Baird considered for several minutes before continuing. Monk tried to judge whether it was guilt or the desire not to be unjust to someone else which held him. On balance he thought guilt; there was still that beading of sweat on his face, and his eyes, for all their straight, steady gaze, had an evasiveness about them.
“Well, I know of no way in which I can help you,” Baird said at last. “I have little to do with the financial side of the business. I work with the paper and the binding. Quinlan works with the print itself. Ke
“And Mrs. Mclvor? I understand she is also concerned in the management. I have heard she is most gifted.”
“Yes.” His expression was beyond Monk’s ability to read; it could have been pride, or resentment, or even humor. A dozen thoughts flashed across Baird’s face, and were equally quickly gone. “Yes,” he repeated. “She has a remarkable acumen. Alastair very often takes her advice, both in business decisions and technical ones. Or to be more accurate, it is Quinlan who takes her advice on matters of print style, typeface and so on.”
“So Mr. Fyffe has nothing to do with the accounting?”
“Quinlan? No, nothing at all.” He said it with regret, and then savage self-mockery the instant after.
Monk found himself more deeply confused about him. How could a man of such emotion, self-perception and sense of irony be in love with Eilish, who seemed to have nothing to offer except physical beauty? It was so shallow, so short-lived. Even the loveliest thing on earth grows tedious if there is no art of companionship, no laughter, wit, imagination, power to love in return, even at times to provoke, to criticize, to lift by struggle, quarrel and change.
The thought brought Hester back to his mind with sharpness like a shooting pain.
“Then I had better look into it,” he said with a curtness totally unwarranted by the conversation.
Baird looked reluctant.
“That would be better than sending in auditors,” Monk went on.
It was a threat, and Baird recognized it as such.
“Oh certainly,” he said too quickly. “By all means. That would be expensive, and make people anxious that we have cause to think there is something wrong. Yes, you look into it by all means, Mr. Monk.”
Monk smiled, or perhaps it was more of a grimace. So Baird was quite happy that Monk could find nothing wrong in the books, or if he did, it was not Baird who had put it there. And yet he was afraid. For what?
“Thank you,” he accepted, and turned to go back out into the corridor again as Baird rose from his desk.
He spent all the rest of the day at the Farraline printing company, and found nothing whatever that furthered his cause. If the books had been tampered with, he had not the requisite skill to find the evidence of it. Tired, his head aching and his temper extremely short, he left at half past five and went back to his lodgings in the Grassmarket, to find a letter from Rathbone awaiting him. It was devoid of good news, simply informing him of his own progress, which was woefully little.
Monk spent over three hours of that evening standing in Ainslie Place, growing colder and more wretched, hoping Eilish would make another sortie to wherever it was she visited, somewhere beyond Kings Stables Road. But midnight came and went, and no one stirred from number seventeen.
The following night he took up the same position, by now sunk into an icy gloom. And at a little after midnight he was rewarded by seeing a shadowy figure emerge, cross the open area of the center, pass within ten feet of where he stood motionless, his body trembling with cold and excitement, and once again walk rapidly along Glenfinlas Street, past Charlotte Square towards the crossroads.
He moved after her, keeping thirty yards’ distance between them except close to junctions where she might turn and he lose sight of her. And this time he also looked back over his shoulder at regular intervals. He had no intention of being struck from behind again, and ending up senseless on the ground, with Eilish vanished into who knew where?
The night was colder than last time, a rime of frost forming on the stones of the pavement and making the air tingle on his lips and in his lungs. He was glad enough to move quickly, although the speed and ease of her pace surprised him. He had not expected so languid and lazy a woman to have the stamina.
As before, she went past the Princes Street Gardens along Lothian Road and turned left along the Kings Stables Road, passing almost under the shadow of the castle, tonight its massive, rugged outline only a denser black against the cloudy, starless sky.
She crossed Spittal Street, making towards the Grassmar-ket. Surely she could not have a tryst with anyone who lived in such an area? It was full of tradesmen, i
No, that was not true. His ability to be misled by women, beautiful women, was almost boundless. He remembered with chagrin Hermione, and how he had believed her softness of word and deed to be compassion, and it had proved to be merely a profound desire to avoid anything that might cause her pain. She chose the easier path, in anything, because she had no hunger in her soul that would drive her beyond hurt in order to win what she wished for. There was no passion in her at all, no need either to give or to receive. She was afraid of life. How more grossly mistaken could he have been in anyone?
So was Eilish deceiving the gullible Baird every bit as much as her sharper, more critical husband? And Oonagh? Had she any idea what her beloved little sister was doing?
Had Mary known?
There were still people around the Grassmarket. The sparse gas lamps casting pools of yellow light showed them standing around or leaning idly, staring about them. An occasional burst of laughter, jerky and more than a little drunk, gave indication of their state. A woman in a ragged dress sauntered past and one of the men shouted at her. She called back in a dialect so broad Monk did not understand her words, although her meaning was plain enough.
Eilish took no notice, but she did not seem afraid and her pace was steady as she passed them and continued on.
Monk remembered to look behind him, but if there was anyone following, he did not know it. Certainly there were others about. One man, black-coated, was ambling along about thirty feet behind him, but there was nothing to indicate he was following Monk, and he did not take any notice when Monk stopped for several seconds before going on again. By now the man was almost up to him.
They were approaching the corner of Candlemaker Row where Deirdra had turned off, and then the towering, cavernous slums of Cowgate, and all the steps and wynds between Holyrood Road and Canongate. Eilish had walked almost a mile and a half, and showed no signs of slowing down, still less of having reached her destination. What was even stranger, she seemed to be completely familiar with the surroundings. Never once did she hesitate or check where she was.
She crossed the George IV Bridge, and behind her Monk glanced up towards the beautiful Victorian terrace with its classical facade, like the old town from which they had come. He had thought perhaps she would turn and go up there. It was the sort of place where a lover might live, although what ma