William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

long straight nose, the full mouth, almost perfectly shaped. Each feature was good, and yet the whole had too much power in it for ordinary beauty. Had she taken over the mantle of leadership on Mary’s death? Was she protecting the family honor, or one individual member’s weakness or evil?
    Even if he found out who it was, he might never know that.
    If?
    Coldness enveloped him. He had unwittingly voiced the fear he had denied so scrupulously ever since he had come to Edinburgh. He dismissed it violently.
    It was one of the Farralines. It had to be.
    He turned from Oonagh to Alastair, sitting beside her, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the stationmaster giving his evidence. He looked haunted, as though the burden of the public trial of his family’s tragedy were more than he could bear. As Monk had seen once or twice before, it seemed to be his sister upon whom he leaned for support rather than his wife. Deirdra was there, certainly, and sitting next to him, but his body was inclined to the left, closer to Oonagh, and his right shoulder was half turned, excluding Deirdra.
    Deirdra stared straight ahead of her, not ignoring Alastair so much as simply more interested in the proceedings. There was barely any concern or anxiety in her face with its calm brow, tip-tilted nose, and sturdy chin. If she suspected any impending tragedy, she was a consummate actress.
    Kenneth was not in the room, nor had Monk expected him to be. He would be called to testify, and therefore was not permitted in yet, in case he overheard something that in some way altered what he would say. It was the law. Eilish was here, like a silent flame. Baird, on the far side of Oonagh, was also turned a little away, not obviously, simply a withdrawing of himself. He did not look at Eilish, but even from the far side of the room, Monk felt the iron control he was exerting on himself not to.
    Quinlan Fyffe was absent, presumably because he too would be called.
    The stationmaster finished his evidence and Argyll declined to question him. He was excused and replaced by the doctor who had been sent for and had certified that Mary Farraline was indeed dead. Gilfeather was very kind to him, seeking not to embarrass him for having diagnosed the death as due to ordinary heart failure and in no way worthy of further investigation. Even so, the man was uncomfortable and answered in monosyllables.
    Argyll rose and smiled at him, then sat down without saying anything at all.
    It was late in the afternoon. Court was adjourned for the day.
    Monk left immediately, hurrying to find Rathbone and learn his judgment of how the day had gone. He saw him on the steps and caught up with him just as he and James Argyll climbed into a hansom cab.
    Monk stopped at the curb and swore vehemently. His better sense knew perfectly well that Rathbone could tell him nothing he did not know for himself, and yet he was infuriated not to have been able to speak to him. He stoodstill for several minutes, too angry to think what to do next.
    “Were you looking for Oliver, or just for the cab, Mr. Monk?”
    He turned around sharply to find Henry Rathbone standing a few feet away. There was something in the anxiety in his gentle face, and vulnerability in it, which robbed him of his rage and left only his fear, and the need to share it.
    “Rathbone,” he replied. “Although I don’t suppose he could have told me anything I haven’t seen for myself. Were you in the court? I didn’t see you.”
    “I was behind you,” Henry Rathbone replied with a faint smile. “Standing. I was too late for a seat.” They started to walk and Monk fell in step beside him. “I hadn’t realized there would be so much public interest. It is the least attractive side of people, I think. I prefer people individually; in a crowd I find they so often take on each other’s least admirable qualities. A pack instinct, I suppose. The scent of fear, of something wounded—” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re right,” Monk said grimly. “And Gilfeather is good.” He did not add the rest of the thought. It was unnecessary.
    They walked in a strangely companionable silence for several yards. Monk was surprised. The man was Rathbone’s father, and yet he felt a liking for him as if he had known him for years and the relationship had always been comfortable. Instead of resenting Hester’s liking for him, he was pleased. There was something in Henry Rathbone’s face, his rather awkward