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“All right,” she said with a catch in her voice. “The Heavy Brigade-win or lose.”
Chapter 8
Rathbone had written to Monk telling him which train he would take, without mentioning that it would be the same one on which Hester would be brought. Therefore when they pulled into Edinburgh’s Waverley Station on a gray morning he was fully expecting to see Monk on the platform. A small part of him even hoped he would have some news, however slight, something which would provide a new thread to follow. Time was desperately short, and all he had so far were a few possible motives for other people, which a competent prosecutor would thrust aside as malicious and born of despair. They might or might not be malicious, but the despair was certainly there. He alighted onto the platform carrying his case and made his way towards the gates, oblivious of the people bumping against him.
He was not looking forward to meeting the Scottish lawyer, James Argyll. His reputation was formidable. Even in London his name was mentioned with admiration. Heaven knew what Callandra was paying him. He was not in the least likely to take any advice from Rathbone, and Rathbone had no idea whether he believed Hester i
“Rathbone? Rathbone, where the devil are you going?”
Rathbone swung around and came face-to-face with Monk, dressed immaculately and looking grim and angry. He knew without asking that there was no good news.
“To meet Mr. James Argyll,” Rathbone said tartly. “He seems to be our only hope.” He raised his eyebrows, opening his eyes wide. “Unless you have uncovered something you have not yet told me?” He was being sarcastic, and they both knew it Without words Monk had understood as well as he that neither of them had any practical ideas to follow, and the same desperation choked in each of them, the same sense of panic rose and made them breathless. They each felt towards the other the desire to hurt, to find fault. It was one of the many masks of fear. Behind them on the platform there was a commotion as people were pushing each other and craning to look, not forwards as might be expected, but back towards the rear of the platform where the guard’s van stood.
“Oh God!” Rathbone said wretchedly.
“What?’ Monk demanded, his face white.
“Hester…”
“What? Where?”
“In the guard’s van. They’ve brought her up.”
Monk looked as if he were about to strike him.
“It’s the way they always do it,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “You must know that Come on. There’s no point in standing here gaping with the rest of the crowd. We can’t help her.”
Monk hesitated, loath simply to leave. The shouting and the catcalls were getting worse.
Rathbone looked up the platform towards the exit, then back down its length where a crowd was gathering. He was in an agony of indecision.
“Train murderess on trial!” a newsboy called out. “Read all about it here! Here, sir, ye want one? Pe
There was a constable wending his way alone towards them, shouldering people aside.
“Now then, now then! On about your business. There’s nothing to see. Just some poor woman come to stand trial. It’ll all come out then. On your way, please! Come on, move along there.”
Rathbone made up his mind, turning and starting off again towards the way out.
“When does the trial start?” Monk asked, matching him stride for stride, and at last the other passengers also scrambling with loss of dignity, and corresponding loss of temper.
“Impudent beggar!” an elderly man said furiously, but neither Monk nor Rathbone heard him. “Watch where you’re going, sir! I really don’t know… as if the police weren’t enough. One can hardly travel decently anymore…”
“What are you basing the defense on?” Monk demanded as he and Rathbone strode through the gate and out towards the street. “That way.” He indicated the steps up to Princes Street.
“I’m not,” Rathbone said bitterly. “It’s all up to Argyll.”
Monk knew what the letter had said, and all the reasons, but it did nothing to ease his fear.
“For God’s sake, doesn’t Hester have anything to say about it?” he demanded as they burst out into Princes Street, nearly knocking over a pretty woman with a child in tow.
“I beg your pardon,” Rathbone said abruptly to her. “Not a great deal, I imagine. I haven’t met the man yet, I have only corresponded with him, and that was kept to the formalities. I have no idea whether he even believes she is i
“You bloody incompetent!” Monk exploded, swinging around to face him. “You mean you have hired a lawyer to defend her without even knowing if he believes in her?” He grasped Rathbone by the lapels, his face twisted with fury.
Rathbone slapped him away with surprising violence. “I did not hire him, you ignoramus! Lady Callandra Daviot hired him. And belief in her i
Monk opened his mouth to retaliate, then realized the truth of the remark and let it go.
Rathbone smoothed down his lapels.
“Well, what are you standing there for?” Monk said acidly. “Let us go and see this man Argyll, and find out if he is any good.”
“There is no point in being a crack shot if you have no ammunition,” Rathbone said bitterly, turning to face the way they had been going and resuming his journey. He knew Argyll’s address was in Princes Street itself, and had been advised it was easy walking distance from the station. “If you have no idea who did kill Mary Farraline, at least tell me who could have, and why. I presume you have something since you last wrote. It is three days.”
Monk’s face was tight and very pale as he fell in step with Rathbone again. For several moments they walked in silence, then finally he spoke, his voice rasping.
“I’ve been over the apothecaries again. I can’t find the source of the digitalis, for Hester or anyone else…”
“So you wrote.”
“Apparently there was a digitalis poisoning a few months ago here in Edinburgh. It received some attention. It may have given our killer the idea.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “That’s interesting. Not much, but you are right, it may have prompted the idea. What else?”
“Our best chance still seems the bookkeeper. Ke
“Not unusual,” Rathbone said dryly. “And hardly a crime. What of it?”
Monk kept his temper with momentary difficulty. “She’s expensive, and he is the company bookkeeper. Old Hector Farraline says the books were tampered with…”
Rathbone stopped and swung around.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Because it happened some time ago, and Mary already knew about it.”
Rathbone swore.
“Very helpful,” Monk said acidly.
Rathbone glared at him.
Monk continued walking. “The weakest point in this case seems to be the questions of timing. Hester could not have purchased the digitalis here in Edinburgh-at least it is almost impossible. And she could not have seen the pearl brooch until she was already in the train on the way back. She could only have done it if she had brought the digitalis with her from London, which is absurd.”
“Of course it’s absurd,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But I’ve seen people hanged on evidence as poor-when public hatred is deep enough. Haven’t you sense, man?”
Monk swung around to face him. “Then you’ll have to change the public mood, won’t you.” It was not a question but a demand. “That’s what you’re paid for. Make them see Hester as a heroine, a woman who gave up her own family and happiness to minister to the sick and injured. Make them see her in Scutari, passing all night along the rows of wounded with a lamp in her hand, mopping brows, comforting the dying, praying-anything you like. Let them see her braving shot and shell to reach the wounded without thought for herself… then returning home to fight the medical establishment for better conditions here… and losing her post for her impertinence, so she has to nurse privately, moving from post to post.”