Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

Crawford seized a pen and paper and wrote furiously for several moments, then passed the paper across to Monk.

“There you are, young man. That is the precise prescription, which ye’ll not be able to fill, because I’ve no signed it. And that is the name and address of the apothecary who made it up usually. I daresay they always had the same one.”

“Is it unusual for a double dose of medicinal strength to be fatal?”

“Aye, there’s very little in it. It must be measured exact.” He held up his finger and thumb to show a hair’s breadth between them. “That’s why it’s put in a suspension in glass vials. One vial per dose. Can’t make a mistake.”

Monk considered trying to elicit a little information from him about the other members of the family, and judged it would be pointless.

Crawford watched him with guarded eyes, full of both suspicion and amusement.

“Thank you,” Monk said curtly, folding the slip of paper and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll call upon Mr. Landis.”

“Have not known him make a mistake,” Crawford said cheerfully. “And never known an apothecary who admitted to one either.” He laughed with genuine amusement.

“Nor I,” Monk conceded. “But someone either put two doses into one, or substituted a lethal dose for a medicinal one. He may be able to tell me something of use.”

“Why wouldn’t they simply have given her two of the usual doses?” Crawford said argumentatively.

“They could have.” Monk smiled back. “Was she the sort of woman who would have taken two? I assume you did warn her that two would be lethal?”

The amusement vanished from Crawford’s eyes.

“O’ course I did!” he said. “Are you accusing me of incompetence?”

Monk looked at him with undisguised satisfaction. “I’m trying to learn if it was likely Mrs. Farraline would have taken two doses, rather than one that had been tampered with.”

“Aye, well now you know! Go and see Mr. Landis. He’ll no doubt tell you how it could be done. Good day to you, sir.”

“Well, you could distill it.” Landis screwed up his face thoughtfully. “Reduce the liquid till it was the same amount as a single dose. But you’d have to have the right equipment for that, or something that would serve. Hardly use the kitchen while the cook was busy. Be noticed. Too chancy. Not the sort of thing to have to do on the spur of the moment.”

“What else?” Monk asked. “How would you do it?”

Landis looked at him sideways. “On the spur of the moment? That’s hard to say. Don’t think I would. I’d wait a bit until I had a better idea. Has to be instant though, doesn’t it!”

“She was only there one day.”

“Buy some digitalis and substitute a double-strength dose for the ordinary one. Are you sure she didn’t carry digitalis with her? Woman was a nurse, wasn’t she? Perhaps she had some already, against an emergency-no, that won’t do. Doctor, perhaps, not a nurse. Stole it?”

“What for?”

“Ah, there you have me; unless she was waiting for a chance like this? That’d make her a cold-blooded woman all right.” Landis pulled a face. “Mind, that’s possible. Had a nasty poisoning with digitalis a few months ago here in Edinburgh. Man poisoned his wife. Ugly case. Terrible woman, tongue like a viper, but doesn’t excuse poisoning her, of course. Would have got away with it too, if he’d just given her a little less. Not easy to trace, digitalis. Looks like ordinary heart failure, if you get the amount exactly right. The poor devil overdid it. Made them suspicious.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Not been much use, have I? Sorry.”

“I suppose you didn’t sell any digitalis that day to a woman who could answer her description?” Monk asked, feeling suddenly a little sick. Of course Hester had not bought it, but what if someone like her had? “A little taller than average, thin, square shoulders, brown hair, intelligent face, rather strong, pronounced features, but a very good mouth.”

“No,” Landis said with certainty.

“You are quite sure? You could swear to it?”

“With no trouble at all. Didn’t sell any that day to anyone.”

“What about that week, to anyone else in the Farraline household?”

“No, not to anyone except Dr. Mangold and to old Mr. Watkins. Known them both for years. Nothing to do with the Farralines.”

“Thank you,” Monk said with sudden enthusiasm. “Thank you very much. Now, sir, can you tell me the names and whereabouts of all the other apothecaries within reasonable radius of Ainslie Place?”

“Of course I can,” Landis agreed with a frown of puzzlement. He reached for a paper and wrote down several lines of information, then gave them to Monk, wishing him luck.

Monk thanked him profusely and strode out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

He received in essence the same answer from every other shop he tried. No one recognized his description of Hester, and none of them had sold digitalis to any member of the Farraline household, or indeed to anyone not known to them personally.

He pursued the other sources of information, the public house, the street peddlers and crossing sweepers, the errand and delivery boys and the news vendors, but all he learned was very general gossip that seemed to serve no purpose. The Farralines were extremely well thought of, and had long been generous to the city and the various worthy causes. Hamish had been ill for some time before his death eight years before, but his reputation was high without being unnatural. Hector was spoken of with tolerance and a pity for Mary, while respecting her that she gave him a home. Indeed, she seemed to be respected for just about everything she did, and more essentially for what she was, a lady of dignity, character and judgment.

Alastair also was held in both respect and something amounting to awe. He held high office and wielded considerable power. That he did it discreetly was to his credit. He had conducted himself with dignity during the recent case involving a Mr. John Galbraith, who had been accused of defrauding investors out of a very great deal of money, but the issue was very clouded. Those bringing the charge were of a very dubious honor. The evidence was tainted. The Fiscal had had the courage to throw the case out.

The rest was just gossip of the most ordinary sort. Quinlan Fyffe was very clever, an incomer from Stirling, or perhaps it was Dundee. Not yet a popular man. Mclvor, for all his name, was English. Pity Miss Oonagh had not seen fit to marry an Edinburgh man. Miss Deirdra was very extravagant, so it was said, always getting new dresses, but absolutely no taste at all. Miss Eilish stayed in bed till all hours of the day. She might be the most beautiful woman in Scotland; she was also the laziest.

It was all quite useless, and not even very interesting. Monk thanked the various sources and gave up.

Sunday luncheon at Ainslie Place was a less formal affair than dinner had been. Monk arrived just as the family was returning from the high kirk, all dressed in black. The women were in huge skirts like upturned bells, fur-trimmed capes hugged about them and black-ribboned bonnets narrowing vision and protecting the face from the splattering rain. The men wore tall hats and black overcoats, Alastair’s with an astrakhan collar. They walked in pairs, side by side, unspeaking until they were in the hall, Monk immediately behind them. The funereal McTeer took their coats and welcomed them. He also took Alastair’s hat and stick, leaving Baird, Quinlan and Kenneth to place their own in the stand or the rack appropriately.

“Good day, Mr. Monk,” he said grimly, taking Monk’s hat and coat. Monk had never carried a stick since the Grey case. “A verra cold day, sir, and bound to get worse. It’ll be a hard winter, I’m thinking.”