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“Mother’s property in Ross-shire,” Oonagh said. “What else?”
“The diamond brooch which apparently you never found.”
She looked a little surprised. “You think it matters?”
“I have no idea, but I shall find out. Who is your jeweler?”
“Arnott and Dunbar, of Frederick Street”
“Thank you.” He hesitated only an instant. “Will it be possible to know a little more about the property in…”
“Ross-shire,” she finished for him, her eyes wide. “If you wish to. Quinlan has naturally given the papers to the police. They took them yesterday evening. But the fact is irrefutable. Mother inherited a small croft in Easter Ross. She gave the leasing of it into Baird’s hands, and there are, it would seem, no receipts of money whatever…”
“There will be some explanation for it!” Eilish said desperately. “Baird would never simply steal it!”
“Whatever it is, I doubt it is simple,” Oonagh said dryly. “But of course, dear, we all wish to think it is not as it seems, no one more than I!”
Eilish blushed, and then went white.
“Where is Easter Ross?” Monk could not recall the county, if he had ever known anything of it. Presumably it was in the east, but to the east of where?
“Oh, beyond Inverness, I think,” Oonagh replied absently. “It is really very far north indeed. Saint Colmac, Port of Saint Colmac, or something like that. Really, it is all rather absurd; the amount ca
“People have been killed over a hand of cards,” Monk said bitterly, then as Hester glanced towards him, suddenly wondered how he knew that. He was not conscious of knowing, and yet he had spoken with certainty. It was another of those little jolts of knowledge that returned every so often, utterly without warning and with no surrounding recollection.
“I suppose so.” Oonagh’s voice was little more than a whisper. She looked towards the window. “I shall find the precise address for you, if that is what you wish. Perhaps you would dine with us this evening, and I shall have it for you then?”
“Thank you,” Monk replied, then suddenly was uncertain whether Hester had been included or not.
“Thank you,” Hester accepted, before the question could be answered by anyone else. “That would be most generous of you, especially in the circumstances.”
Oonagh drew in her breath, then decided against arguing, and smiled instead.
It was dismissal, and Monk and Hester were in the hall, waiting for the sepulchral McTeer to let them out, when Eilish came hurrying after them, grasping Monk by the arm, hardly seeming to see Hester.
“Mr. Monk! It wasn’t Baird. He would never have hurt Mother, whatever anyone thinks. He doesn’t even care all that much about money. There has to be another explanation for all this.”
Monk felt acutely sorry for her. He knew only too well the bitterness of disillusion, the moment when one realizes that the man or the woman that one has loved intensely is after all not merely imperfect but flawed, and in a way that is ugly, shallow and alien. It is not that he or she has slipped, and needs forgiving, but never was the person one thought. The whole relationship was a mirage, a lie, unwitting perhaps, but still a lie.
“Have you asked him?” he said gently.
She looked very white. “Yes. He simply says that he did not steal anything but it is a subject he ca
The only answer that came to Monk’s mind was that it could be some secret even uglier than the accusation, or one that substantiated it. He did not say so to her.
“I don’t know, but I promise you I shall do all I can to find out And if Baird is i
“Ke
Hester said nothing, although Monk knew she was aching to speak. Perhaps for once she also could think of no words that would not make it worse.
McTeer appeared, his face set in lines of imminent disaster, and immediately Eilish stepped back and began a formal good-bye.
Monk responded appropriately, and turned to leave, only to find Hester speaking to Eilish with total disregard for McTeer. He could not hear what she was saying, her voice was so low, but Eilish gave her a look of intense gratitude, and then a moment later they were out in the street.
“What did you say to her?” he demanded. “There is no point giving her any hope. It may very well have been Mclvor.”
“Why?” she said crisply, her chin coming up. “What on earth would he do such a thing for? He liked Mary, and the rent of one croft is hardly worth killing anyone for.”
He gave up in exasperation and began walking briskly back towards Princes Street and the route to the jeweler’s. She was too naive to understand, and too willful to be told.
That night at di
As usual McTeer met them at the door and ushered them into the withdrawing room, where this time the entire family was assembled, almost as if they might have known a revelation awaited them-although perhaps, in the circumstances, that was not surprising. Hester had been released, if not cleared of the charge, and Quinlan had openly accused Baird Mclvor. It was inconceivable that the case could rest as it was. Even if the police pressed it no further, it was beyond imagination that the Farralines themselves could leave matters as they stood.
As always it was Oonagh who acknowledged them first, but Alastair, looking pale and grim-faced, was only a moment behind.
“Good evening, Miss Latterly,” he said with studied politeness. “It is good of you to come with such generosity. A lesser woman might have borne a grudge.”
It crossed Monk’s mind that that remark might have been a question as much as a statement. Alastair had a haunted look in the depths of his eyes, as well he might, knowing either his brother or his dearest sister’s husband was guilty of murder, and the murder of his mother at that. Monk did not envy him. As he stood in the gracious withdrawing room with its tall windows and sweeping curtains, the fire blazing in the hearth and the generations of family mementos and embroideries, he felt a sharp touch of pity for Alastair. What if it were Baird Mclvor? Alastair and Oonagh had grown up together, sharing their dreams and their fears in a way the other siblings had not. If it were Oonagh’s husband, Alastair would feel it almost as deeply as she. And he would be the one person from whom she might not hide her grief, her disillusionment, her intolerable sense of shame. No wonder he stood close to her now, as if he would touch her, were it not so obvious, and so intrusive of a wound not yet delivered.
Hester had already deflected the remark generously, turning it into a mere exchange. They were invited in, offered wine. Eilish caught Monk’s eye. She looked painfully embarrassed, knowing that at least some people would associate her with her husband’s accusations. And galling as it was, Hester probably owed him her freedom, even though it was brought about by Argyll’s questions.