Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

Her heart sank, and she found it difficult to control her sense of despair so it did not show in her face or spill in tears down her cheeks.

“I have already spoken with Mr. Rathbone,” Argyll was saying to her.

With a tremendous effort she mastered herself and looked back at him calmly.

“He has told me that Miss Nightingale is prepared to testify for you.”

“Oh?” Her heart leapt and without warning hope came back with a ridiculous pain. All sorts of things that she held dear seemed possible again, things for which she had already endured the parting, at least in her mind: people, sights, sounds, even the habits of thinking of tomorrow, having time for which to plan. She found her body shaking; her hands on the table trembled and she had to grip them so hard the nails dug into the flesh to keep them still enough that he would not see. “That must be good…”

“Oh it is excellent,” he agreed. “But showing the qualities of your character will not be sufficient if we cannot also show that someone else had both the opportunity and the motive to murder Mrs. Farraline. However, in discussing the matter with Mr. Monk…”

It was absurd how mention of his name made her stomach turn over and her breath catch in her throat.

He continued as if he had noticed nothing.

“… it seems as if Mr. Kenneth Farraline may have tampered with the company books in order to finance his affair with someone whom the family obviously consider unsuitable. How unsuitable and why, and how deeply he is entangled with her, whether there is a child or not, just what hold she has over him, we have yet to learn. I have dispatched Mr. Monk posthaste to uncover that If he is as excellent as Mr. Rathbone assures me, it should not take him above two days. Though I confess I wonder why he has not made it his business to learn it before now.”

Her heart was tight in her throat. “Because unless you can prove that he has embezzled from the company, the fact that he has a mistress is irrelevant,” she said gravely. “A great many men do, especially young, well-bred men who have no other involvements. In fact, I would hazard a guess it is more common than not.”

His eyes widened in momentary surprise, then in undisguised admiration for her candor and her courage. He was a man whose admiration was not easily stirred.

“Of course you are right, Miss Latterly. And that is my task. It will require some legal endeavor to obtain audit for the company books, and I propose to put Mr. Hector Farral-ine in the witness-box in order to obtain it. Now if you please, we shall go through the order of the witnesses Mr. Gilfeather will call for the prosecution and what we may expect them to say.”

“Of course.”

He frowned. “Have you attended a criminal trial, Miss Latterly? You speak almost as if you are familiar with the procedure. Your composure is admirable, but this is not the time to mislead me, even in the name of dignity.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Yes, Mr. Argyll, I have attended several, in the cause of my occasional assistance to Mr. Monk.”

“Assistance to Mr. Monk?” he questioned. “Is there something of importance I have not been told?”

“I don’t think it is of importance.” She pulled a slight face. “I cannot imagine that the jurors, or the public, would find it respectable, and certainly not mitigating.”

‘Tell me,” he demanded grimly.

“I first met Mr. Monk when he was investigating the murder of a Crimean officer named Joscelin Grey. Because of Mr. Grey’s involvement with my late father, I was able to give Mr. Monk some assistance,” she explained obediently, although she found her voice shaking. Funny how memory made that time now seem so dear. The quarrels dimmed into episodes which now seemed almost amusing. She could no longer feel the anger or the contempt she had for him then.

“Continue,” Argyll pressed. “You speak as though it were not a single instance.”

“It wasn’t. I used my nursing experience to obtain a position with Sir Basil Moidore when Mr. Monk was investigating the death of Sir Basil’s daughter.”

Argyll’s black eyebrows rose. “In order to assist Mr. Monk?” he said with unconcealed amazement. “I had not realized your devotion was so deep.”

She felt a tide of color burn up her face.

“It was not a devotion to Mr. Monk,” she said tartly. “It was the desire to see some sort of justice done. And it was my devotion to Lady Callandra which made me obtain a position in the Royal Free Hospital in order to learn more of the death of Nurse Barrymore. And the fact that I had known her in the Crimea, and formed a considerable regard for her. I became involved with General Carlyon’s death because I was asked to by his sister, who is a friend of mine.” She looked him very directly in the face, defying him to doubt her.

An almost imperceptible touch of color stained his cheeks, but there was still amusement in his eyes.

“I see. So you are indeed very familiar with the rules of evidence and the procedure of trial?”

“I… I think so.”

“Very weD, forgive me for having seemed to patronize you, Miss Latterly.”

“Of course,” she said graciously. “Please continue.”

The following day Monk spent from dawn until slightly before midnight investigating Kenneth Farraline and writing his findings to give to James Argyll, a pursuit which he believed to be largely pointless.

Rathbone had a wretched day. There was almost nothing he could accomplish. He had never cared so much about the outcome of a case, or been so helpless to influence one. A dozen times he almost set out to see Argyll again, and each time he resisted with difficulty, telling himself it would serve no purpose at all. But it was only the sting to his pride of running around after another barrister, particularly when it was the one taking his place, and the certainty that Argyll would read his nervousness like a billboard, that finally stayed him.

He knew that Callandra Daviot would be in Edinburgh for the trial, which began on the next morning, so she would have to come up on that day’s train, unless she had already traveled and was here before him. By midafternoon he was at his wit’s end and had paced the floor uselessly ever since picking without appetite over what should have been an excellent luncheon.

Late in the evening he was tired, but unable to relax sufficiently to retire. There was a knock on the door of the room he had taken. He whirled around.

“Come in!” he shouted, striding towards the doorway and almost being struck as the door opened and Callandra appeared in the entrance, followed immediately by Henry Rathbone, Rathbone’s father. Of course he had told his father of the whole affair before he could read of it in the newspapers. The elder Rathbone had met Hester on several occasions and had formed a fondness for her. The sight of his tall, slightly stooped figure now, with his ascetic face and benign expression, was ridiculously comforting. And at the same time it awoke in the younger man emotions of both dependence and fierce protection he would rather not have been burdened with in the circumstances.

“Please excuse me, Oliver,” Callandra said briskly. “I realize it is late, and I am possibly interrupting you, but I could not contain myself until morning.” She came in as he stepped back, smiling in spite of himself. Henry Rathbone followed immediately after, searching Oliver’s face.

“Come in,” Rathbone invited, closing the door behind him. He very nearly said that they were not interrupting anything at all, then pride prevented him from such an admission. “Father! I had not expected you. It is good of you to have come.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Henry Rathbone dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Of course I came. How is she?’