Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

Alastair surveyed Monk with cool, very blue eyes. His expression did not change except for the slightest tightening of the curves of his lips.

“How do you do, Mr. Monk,” he replied. “Welcome to Edinburgh. I cannot see the necessity of your journey, myself. It seems overcautious to me. But I am glad that the prosecution in London regards the matter as of sufficient importance to dispatch someone up here to make certain of things. I have no idea what they are afraid of. There can be no defense.”

Monk bit back the response that rose in him. He must never, for an instant, forget why he was here. Only the truth was important, whatever it cost to find it. “I can think of none,” he agreed, his voice unexpectedly harsh. “I imagine they may well be desperate when they anticipate the prospect of facing a jury.”

Alastair smiled bleakly. A flicker in his face betrayed that he had heard the edge to Monk’s tone and taken it for horror at the crime. It must never occur to him that Monk’s outrage was not against Hester, but on her behalf.

“I imagine it will be a formality,” he said grimly. “Enough to satisfy the law that she has been represented.”

Oonagh turned to a dark-haired man standing some distance back from the rest of them. His features were quite different in character, the very shape of his head broader and less angular. He could have been a member of the family only by marriage. His expression was brooding, his face full of unexpressed emotion.

“My husband, Baird Mclvor,” Oonagh said with a charming smile, though still looking at Monk. “He manages the family company, since my father’s death. Perhaps you already knew that?” It was only a rhetorical question, to remind them all of Monk’s purpose.

“How do you do, Mr. Mclvor,” Monk responded.

“How do you do,” Baird replied. His voice was precise, a little sibilant, his diction perfect, but Monk instantly caught a shadow of regional flavor, and in a moment realized it was Yorkshire. So Baird Mclvor was not only an Englishman, but from that wild and proudest of counties, almost a small country to itself. Hester had not mentioned that. Perhaps her ear had not placed the intonation. Like most women, she was more interested in relationships.

Next Oonagh turned to a man of barely average height and long face like her own, but even fairer hair which surrounded his head in an aureole of close curls. Superficially he resembled the Farralines, but the differences were easy to see, the less generous mouth with carefully chiseled lips, and the ruler-straight nose. And there was something different in his manner as well, a confidence born of intellect, not status or power. Curious how such fractional things, the angle of a head, a furrow between the brows, a hesitation, a measuring as if of a potential threat, could give away a man’s origins even before he spoke.

“This is my brother-in-law, Quinlan Fyffe,” Oonagh said, looking first to him and then back at Monk. “He is a master at printing, fortunately for us, and brilliant at business of every sort.” She did not use the slight condescension an English gentlewoman would have towards trade; she spoke of it with admiration. But then the Farralines were not gentry-they had made their own wealth, and presumably were proud of their skills. Her father had begun the company, not merely as owner but as proprietor. She would have no false vanity about idleness and the superiority of those who could afford to spend their lives in leisure.

“How do you do, Mr. Fyffe,” Monk acknowledged.

“And Quinlan’s wife, my sister Eilish,” Oonagh continued, smiling at the younger woman with gentleness, and then glancing back at Quinlan and touching his arm. It was an odd, familiar gesture, as if she were in some way again giving her sister to him, or perhaps reminding him of the event.

After what Mrs. Forster had said, Monk regarded Eilish with interest, and was prepared to be disappointed, even condescending. One glance at her swept away all such indifference. Her beauty was not merely a matter of flawless features, it had a radiance, almost a luminescence, that touched the imagination, and a grace that stirred all manner of half-forgotten dreams. Looking at her, Monk was not sure if he even liked it; it was disturbing, self-sufficient, lacking in the vulnerability which usually appealed to him in feminine beauty. He liked a certain imperfection-it made a woman seem fragile, attainable. But he could not possibly dismiss her either. When one had seen Eilish Farraline, one could not forget her.

She looked at him with very little curiosity, as if her attention were not fully engaged. It occurred to him that perhaps she was too absorbed in herself to occupy her thoughts with anyone else.

The moment the introductions had been effected they were interrupted by the entrance of the nominal mistress of the house. Deirdra Farraline was small and dark with a vitality powerful enough to make her rather scruffy black gown seem irrelevant and her lack of jewelry an oversight of no importance. She had none of the extraordinary beauty of her sister-in-law, but hers was a face that pleased Monk the moment he saw her. There was warmth in her, and humor, and he felt he might discover yet more admirable qualities in her, upon acquaintance.

“Good evening, Mr. Monk,” she said as soon as she had been introduced. “I hope we shall be of assistance to you.” She smiled at him, but looked beyond him almost immediately, something else upon her mind. “Has anyone seen Kenneth? It really is too bad of him!”

“Don’t wait,” Alastair said tartly. “He can catch up with us when he arrives, or go without. His behavior these days is totally thoughtless. I shall have to speak to him.” His face tightened. “One would have thought in the circumstances he would have shown a little family loyalty. It is more than time we found out who this woman is he is pursuing, and if she is suitable.”

“Don’t worry about it now, my dear,” Oonagh said quietly. “You have more than enough to attend to. I’ll speak with Kenneth. I daresay he did not like to bring her here just at the moment.”

He looked at her with a flash of relief, then smiled. It altered his whole face. With a little imagination Monk could visualize the youth he had been and see something of the closeness between brother and sister. He glanced at Oonagh, and wondered if in fact she were the older, in spite of appearance to the contrary.

“Very well,” Deirdra said hastily. “McTeer informs me dinner is served. Let us go through to the dining room. Mr. Monk?’

“Thank you,” he accepted, pleased that it was she who had asked him.

The meal was good, but not lavish, and Alastair presided at the head of a long, oak refectory table with gravity, as suited the occasion, but perfectly adequate courtesy. Kenneth did not appear, and Monk saw no sign of Hector Farraline, whom Hester had described. Parhaps he was too inebriated to attend.

“Maybe I missed the explanation,” Quinlan began as the soup was cleared away and the beef served. “But what is it you have come to Edinburgh to accomplish, Mr. Monk? We know nothing of that wretched woman, beyond what she told us herself, which presumably is lies anyway.”

A shudder of anger crossed Oonagh’s face, but she controlled it almost immediately.

“You have no cause to say that, Quin,” she reproved. “Do you really suppose I would have sent Mother with someone who had no proof of her identity or her qualifications?”

Pure malice gleamed for an instant in Quinlan’s face, then he hid it beneath respect “I am quite sure, my dear Oonagh, that you would not knowingly have sent her anywhere at all with a murderess, but it seems indisputable that you did so unknowingly.”

“Oh that’s beastly!” Eilish burst out, glaring at him.