The Sins of the Wolf

There was a murmur of sympathy around the room and someone spoke his approval aloud.

The judge ignored this.

“I will not trouble you to relive your emotions at the railway station, Mrs. Murdoch,” Gilfeather continued. “It would distress you for no purpose, and that is the furthest thing from my intention. If you would be so kind as to tell us what transpired after you returned to your home, with your husband, knowing that your mother had died. Do not hurry, and choose your words exactly as you please.”

“Thank you, you are most kind,” she said shakily.

Monk, staring at her, thought how unlike her sisters she was. She had not the courage of either of them, nor the passion of character. She might well be far easier for a man to live with, less demanding, less testing of patience or forbearance, but dear heaven she would also be infinitely less interesting. She was uncertain, timid, and there was a streak of self-pity in her that Oonagh would have found intolerable.

Or was it all an act, an outer garment designed to appeal to the court? Did she know who had killed her mother? Was it even conceivable, in a wild moment of insanity, that they had all conspired together to murder Mary Farraline?

No, that was absurd. His wits were wandering.

She was telling Gilfeather how she had unpacked Mary’s cases and found her clothes and the list of items, and in so doing had failed to find the gray pearl pin.

“I see.” Gilfeather nodded sagely. “And you expected to find it?”

“Certainly. The note said that it should be there.”

“And what did you do, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“I spoke to my husband. I told him it was missing and asked his advice,” she replied.

“And what did he advise you should do?”

“Well, of course the first thing we did was to search thoroughly again, through everything. But it was quite definitely not there.”

“Quite. We now know that Miss Latterly had it with her. This is not in dispute. What then?”

“Well-Co

Behind Argyll, Rathbone swore under his breath.

“Yes?” Gilfeather encouraged.

“He said we should be wise to call in our own doctor to give another opinion as to how my mote had died.”

“I see. And so you did exactly that?”

“Yes.”

“And whom did you call, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“Dr. Ormorod, of Slingsby Street.”

“I see. Thank you.” He turned with a disarming smile to Argyll. “Your witness, sir.”

“Thank you, thank you indeed.” Argyll uncurled himself from his chair and stood up.

“Mrs. Murdoch…”

She regarded him warily, assuming that he was essentially inimical.

“Yes sir?’

“These clothes and effects of your mother’s that you unpacked… I take it that you did it yourself, rather than having your maid do it? You do have a maid, I imagine?”

“Of course I do!”

“But on this occasion, possibly because of the uniquely tragic circumstances, you chose to unpack them yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There was a rustle of disapproval around the room. One of the jurors coughed sharply. The judge frowned, seeming on the edge of speech, then at the last moment restrained himself.

“Wh-why?” Griselda looked nonplussed. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, Mrs. Murdoch,” Argyll repeated, standing grim and motionless, every eye fixed on him. “Why did you unpack your mother’s belongings?”

“I-I did not wish the maid to,” Griselda said chokingly. “She-she was…” She stopped, knowing that the sympathy of the court would finish it for her.

“No, madam, you have misunderstood me,” Argyll said carefully. “I do not mean why did you not have the maid do it. The answer to that, I am sure, we all understand perfectly, and would probably have felt the same in your position. I mean, why did you unpack them at all? Why did you not simply leave them packed, ready to return them to Edinburgh? It was tragically obvious she would no longer need them in London.”

“Oh.” She let out her breath in a sigh, her face very pale except for the faint splash of pink burning in her cheeks.

“One wonders why you unpacked them with such care when it was now quite irrelevant I would not have done so in your position. I would have left them packed, ready to return.” Argyll’s voice dropped to a low rumble, and yet every word was hideously clear. “Unless, of course, I was looking for something myself?”

Griselda said nothing, but her discomfort was now only too apparent.

Argyll relaxed a little, leaning forward.

“Was the diamond brooch on this list of contents, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“Diamond brooch? No. No, there was no diamond brooch.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, of… of course I am sure. Just the gray pearl and the topaz and the amethyst necklace. Only the gray pearl one was missing.”

“Do you still have that list, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“No… no. No I don’t I… I don’t know what happened to it.” She swallowed. “What does it matter? You know Miss Latterly had the brooch. The police found it in her belongings.”

“No, Mrs. Murdoch,” Argyll corrected. “That is not true. The police found it in the home of Lady Callandra Daviot, where Miss Latterly had discovered it and had already taken it to her hostess in order to have it returned to Edinburgh. She had reported the matter to her solicitor and obtained his advice.”

Griselda looked confused-and considerably shaken.

“I don’t know about that. I only know it was missing from my mother’s effects and Miss Latterly had it. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything, madam. You have answered my questions admirably and with great frankness.” There was only a thread of sarcasm in his voice, but the doubt had been raised. It was enough. Now everyone wondered exactly why Griselda Murdoch had gone through her mother’s possessions, and many thought they knew the answer. It was not a flattering one. It was the first rift in family solidarity, the first suggestion that there could be greed or distrust.

Argyll sat down with an air of satisfaction.

Behind him, Rathbone felt as if the first salvo of return shot had at last been fired. It had hit the mark, but the wound was trivial, and Gilfeather knew that as well as they did. Only the crowd had seen blood and the air was tingling sharp again with the sudden scent of battle.

The final witness of the day was Mary Farraline’s lady’s maid, a quiet, sad woman dressed in unrelieved black, devoid of even the simplest piece of mourning jewelry.

Gilfeather was very polite with her.

“Miss McDermot, did you pack the clothes of your late mistress for her trip to London?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“Did you have a list of all that you put in the cases, for the maid at the other end, whom Mrs. Murdoch would sup-ply?”

“Yes sir. Mrs. Mclvor wrote it out for me to work from.”

“Yes, I understand. Was there a diamond brooch included?”

“No sir, there was not.”

“You are quite sure?”

“Yes sir, I’d swear to it.”

“Quite so. But there was a gray pearl brooch of unusual design?”

“Yes sir, there was.”

Gilfeather hesitated.

Rathbone stiffened. Was he about to ask if everything she had packed had been returned with Mary’s luggage? It would clear Griselda of the slur.

But he declined. Perhaps he too was uncertain if she might have taken something. It would only have to be the slightest memento, and its loss would seem theft to this straining crowd, eager for drama and guilt of any sort.

Rathbone leaned back in his chair and, for the first time, smiled. Gilfeather had made a mistake. He was vulnerable after all.

“Miss McDermot,” Gilfeather resumed. “Did you meet Miss Latterly that day when she came to the house in Ainslie Place in order to escort Mrs. Farraline to London?”