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“A ragged school?” He was stu
She mistook his amazement for ignorance.
“There are a lot of people in Edinburgh who can neither read nor write, Mr. Monk. Actually this is not a ragged school in the legal sense. We don’t teach children. There are others doing that. We teach adults. Perhaps you didn’t realize what a handicap it is to a man not to be able to read his own language? To be able to read is the doorway into the rest of the world. If you can read, you can make the acquaintance of the best minds of the present, no matter where they live, and all the past as well!” Her voice rose with enthusiasm. “You can listen to the philosophy of Plato, or you can go on adventures with Sir Walter Scott, see the past unfold before you, explore India or Egypt, you can-” She stopped abruptly, then continued in a lower tone. “You can read the newspapers and know what the politicians are saying, and form some judgment for yourself whether it is true or not. You can read the signs in the streets and shop windows, and on labels and medicine bottles.”
“I understand, Mrs. Fyffe,” he said quietly, but with a sincerity that was totally new to him where she was concemed. “And I know what ragged schools are. It is simply an explanation which had not occurred to me.”
Then she laughed aloud. “How very candid of you. You thought I had some assignation? In Cowgate? Really, Mr. Monk! With whom, may I ask? Or you thought I was a master thief, perhaps, come to divide the spoils with my accomplices? A sort of female Deacon Brodie?”
“No…” It was a long time since a woman had embarrassed him in this way, but honesty compelled him to admit he deserved it.
“You had better come in, all the same.” She turned back to the door. “Unless that is all you wanted to know? Had you better not prove me truthful?” There was mockery in her voice, and underneath the amusement it was charged with emotion.
He agreed, and followed her into the narrow corridors of the tenement. She climbed up rickety stairs, along another corridor, the man Robbie a few steps behind, his cudgel at his side. They mounted more stairs and finally came into a large room overlooking the street. It was clean, especially for such a place, and by now he was used to the general smell of such a region. There was no furniture at all except one frequently repaired wooden table, and on it was a pile of books and papers, several inkwells and a dozen or so quills, a penknife for recutting the nibs, and several sheets of blotting paper. Her students were a collection of some thirteen or fourteen men of all ages and conditions, but everyone dressed in clean clothes, although ragged enough to have earned the school its epithet. Their faces lit with enthusiasm when they saw her, then closed in sudden, dark suspicion as Monk came in behind her.
“It’s all right,” she assured them quickly. “Mr. Monk is a friend. He has come to help tonight.”
Monk opened his mouth to protest that that was not so, then changed his mind and nodded agreement.
Soberly they all sat on the floor, mostly cross-legged, and balancing books on their knees, and papers on top of the books, with others on the floor between them, they slowly and painstakingly wrote their alphabets. Frequently they looked at Eilish for help and approval, and in total solemnity she gave it, offering a correction here, a word of praise there.
After two hours of writing, they moved to reading, their reward for labor. With many stumbles and a lot of encouragement, one by one, they lurched through a chapter of Ivanhoe. Their elation at the end of it, at twenty-five to four in the morning, as they thanked her, and Monk, was abundant reward for Monk’s own weariness. Then they filed out for an hour’s sleep before starting the long day’s work.
When the last of them had gone, Eilish turned to Monk wordlessly.
“The books?” he asked, although he knew the answer and did not care in the slightest if it robbed Farraline & Company of its entire profits.
“Yes of course they are from Farralines,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “Baird gets them for me, but if you tell anyone, I shall deny it. I don’t think there is any proof. But you wouldn’t do that anyway. It has nothing to do with Mother’s death, and won’t either exonerate or condemn Miss Latterly.”
“I didn’t know Baird could get to the company accounts.” That would explain why he had been so nervous.
“He can’t,” she agreed with amusement “I want books, not money. And I wouldn’t steal money, even if I did need it. Baird prints extra books, or declares the print runs short. It has nothing to do with accounting.”
That made sense.
“Your uncle Hector said someone had been falsifying the accounts.”
“Did he?” She sounded only slightly surprised. “Well, maybe they have. It must be Ke
He was about to say that he had to, in order to guard the prosecution, but he was weary of lies, especially useless ones, and this was not the night for more of them. He had had to reverse all his judgments of Eilish. She was anything but shallow or lazy, and far from stupid. Of course she had to sleep half the morning; she gave up most of the night. And gave it to those who returned her no public or financial reward for it And yet she was obviously more than pleased with what she received. In this bare lamplit room she glowed with a deep joy. Now he knew why she walked with her head high and her step proud, where the secret smile came from and the thoughts that were removed from the family conversations.
And he knew why Baird Mclvor loved her above his own wife.
Actually he knew in that moment also that Hester would have liked her, even admired her.
“I’m not trying to prove that Miss Latterly killed your mother,” he said impulsively. “I’m trying to prove that she did not.”
She looked at him curiously. “For money? No. Do you love her?”
“No.” Then instantly he wished he had not denied it so quickly. “Not in the way you mean,” he added, feeling his face burn. “She is a great friend, a very deep friend. We have shared many experiences in the pursuit of justice in other cases. She…”
Eilish was smiling. Again there was a faint hint of mockery in her eyes.
“You don’t need to explain, Mr. Monk. In fact, please don’t. I don’t believe you anyway. I know what it is to love when you really don’t want to at all.” Without warning the laughter vanished totally from her face and deep pain replaced it. Perhaps pain had been closer to the surface all the time. “It changes all your plans and alters everything. One moment you are playing on the shore, the next the tide has you, and struggle as you might, you ca
“You are speaking of your own feelings, Mrs. Fyffe. I am a friend of Miss Latterly. I don’t feel in the least like that about her.” He said all the words clearly and vehemently, and he knew from her face that she did not believe him. He was angry, and there was a curious choking in his throat. He felt absurdly disloyal. “It is perfectly possible to be friendly with someone without a feeling anything like the one you describe,” he said again.
“Of course it is,” she agreed, moving to the door. “I will walk with you as far as the Grassmarket, to see you are safe.”
It was ludicrous. He was a powerful man, armed with a stick, and she was a slender woman, six inches shorter and built like a flower. She made him think of an iris in the sun. He laughed outright.
She led the way down the dim stairs back to the way out, talking to him over her shoulder as he followed.
“How many times have you been struck on the way, Mr. Monk?”