Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

“I have not seen her since the night before she left London,” Rathbone replied. “I am not her barrister here in Edinburgh. They will only allow Argyll in now.”

“So what are you doing?” Callandra demanded, too restless to sit in either of the large armchairs available.

“Waiting,” Rathbone answered bitterly. “Worrying. Racking my brain to think of anything we have left undone, any possibilities we could still pursue.”

Callandra drew in her breath, then said nothing.

Henry Rathbone sat down and crossed his legs. “Well, pacing the floor is not going to help. We had better approach the matter logically. I presume there is no possibility this poison was administered accidentally, or intentionally by Mrs. Farraline herself? All right, there is no need to lose your temper, Oliver. It is necessary to establish the facts.”

Rathbone glanced at him, smothering his impatience with difficulty. He knew perfectly well that his father did not lack emotion or care, indeed he felt painfully; but his ability to suppress his feelings and concentrate his brain irritated him, because he was so far from that kind of control himself.

Callandra sat down on the other chair, staring at Henry hopefully.

“And the servants?” Henry continued.

“Ruled out by Monk,” Rathbone replied. “It was one of the family.”

“Remind me again who they are,” Henry directed.

“Alastair, the eldest son, the Procurator Fiscal; his wife, Deirdra, who is building a flying machine…”

Henry looked up, awaiting an explanation, his blue eyes mild and puzzled.

“Eccentric,” Rathbone agreed. “But Monk is convinced she is otherwise harmless.”

Henry pulled a face.

“Eldest daughter Oonagh Mclvor; her husband, Baud, who is apparently in love with his sister-in-law, Eilish, and is taking books from the company for her to use in her midnight occupation of teaching a ragged school. Eilish’s husband, Quinlan Fyffe, married into the family and into the business. Clever and unappealing, but Monk knows of no reason why he should have wished to kill his mother-in-law. And the youngest brother, Kenneth, who seems our best hope at the moment.”

“What about the daughter in London?’ Henry asked.

“She cannot have been guilty,” Rathbone reasoned with a sharp edge to his voice. “She was nowhere near Edin-buigh or Mary, or the medicine. We can discount her and her husband.”

“Why was Mary going to visit her?” Henry asked, ignoring Rathbone’s tone.

“I don’t know. Something to do with her health. She is expecting her first child and is very nervous. It’s natural enough she should wish her mother to be there.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Do you think it would matter?” Callandra asked urgently.

“No, of course not.” Rathbone dismissed it with a sharp flick of his hand. He stood leaning a little against the table, still unwilling to sit down.

Henry ignored his reply. “Have you given any thought as to why Mrs. Farraline was killed at that precise time, rather than any other?” he asked.

“Opportunity,” Rathbone replied. “A perfect chance to lay the blame on someone else. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Perhaps,” Henry agreed dubiously, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingertips together in a steeple. “But it seems to me also very possible that something provoked it at this precise time. You do not kill someone simply because a good opportunity presents itself.”

Rathbone straightened up, at last a tiny spot of instinct caught inside him.

“Have you something in mind?”

“Surely it is worth giving close examination to anything that happened within three or four days immediately before Mrs. Farraline set out for London?” Henry asked. “The murder may have been an opportunist act after years of desire, but it may also have been precipitated by something that happened very shortly before.”

“Indeed it may,” Rathbone agreed, moving away from the table. “Thank you, Father. At last we have another avenue to explore. That is, if Monk has not already done it and found it empty. But he said nothing.”

“Are you sure you cannot see Hester?” Callandra asked quickly.

“Yes I am sure, but I shall be in court, of course, and I may be permitted a few moments then.”

“Please…” Callandra was very pale. Suddenly all the emotion they had been trying so hard to smother beneath practical action, intelligence and self-control poured into the silence in the warm, unfamiliar room, with its anonymous furnishings and smell of polish.

Rathbone stared at Callandra, then at his father. The understanding between them was complete; all the fear, the affection, the knowledge of loss hanging over them, the helplessness were too clear to need words.

“Of course I’ll tell her,” Rathbone said quietly. “But she knows already.”

“Thank you,” Callandra said.

Henry nodded his head.

The morning of the trial was cold, sharp and threatening rain. Oliver Rathbone walked briskly from the rooms he had taken just off Princes Street, up the steps of the mound towards the castle, then up Bank Street and sharp left onto the High Street. Almost immediately he was faced with the great Cathedral of St. Giles, half hiding Parliament Square, on the farther side of which was Parliament House, unused now since the Act of Union, and the High Court of Justiciary.

He crossed the square. No one knew or recognized him. He passed newspaper sellers not only pressing their news of today but promising all sorts of scandal and revelation for the next issue. The murderess of Mary Farraline was on trial. Read all about it. Learn the secrets known only to a few. Incredible stories for the price of a penny.

He walked past them impatiently. He had heard all these things before, but they had not hurt when it was only a client. It was to be expected and brushed aside. When it was Hester it had a power to wound in quite a new way.

He went up the steps, and even there, amid the black-gowned barristers, he was unknown. It was surprisingly disorienting. He was accustomed to recognition, even considerable respect, to younger men moving aside for him in deference, muttering to each other of his past successes, hoping to emulate them one day.

Here he was merely another spectator, albeit one who might sit near the front and occasionally pass a note to the counsel for the defense.

He had already made arrangements and obtained permission to see Hester for a few moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.

“Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” the clerk said stiffly. “If you will come this way, sir, I’ll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment.” And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial-or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.

He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray which she used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.

For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.

“G-good morning, Oliver,” she said almost steadily.