William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

alien. It is not that he or she has supped, and needs forgiving, but never was the person one thought. The whole relationship was a mirage, a lie, unwitting perhaps, but still a lie.
    “Have you asked him?” he said gently.
    She looked very white. “Yes. He simply says that he did not steal anything but it is a subject he cannot speak of. I … I believe him, of course, but I don’t know what to make of it. Why would he not speak of it, when Quinlan accuses him of something so terrible? What is worth pursuing now, when his”—she gulped—“his life may be at stake?”
    The only answer that came to Monk’s mind was that it could be some secret even uglier than the accusation, or one that substantiated it. He did not say so to her.
    “I don’t know, but I promise you I shall do all I can to find out. And if Baird is innocent then he will be proved so.”
    “Kenneth?” she whispered. “I can’t bear to believe that either.”
    Hester said nothing, although Monk knew she was aching to speak. Perhaps for once she also could think of no words that would not make it worse.
    McTeer appeared, his face set in lines of imminent disaster, and immediately Eilish stepped back and began a formal good-bye.
    Monk responded appropriately, and turned to leave, only to find Hester speaking to Eilish with total disregard for McTeer. He could not hear what she was saying, her voice was so low, but Eilish gave her a look of intense gratitude, and then a moment later they were out in the street.
    “What did you say to her?” he demanded. “There is no point giving her any hope. It may very well have been McIvor.”
    “Why?” she said crisply, her chin coming up. “What on earth would he do such a thing for? He liked Mary, and the rent of one croft is hardly worth killing anyone for.”
    He gave up in exasperation and began walking briskly back towards Princes Street and the route to the jeweler’s. She was too naive to understand, and too willful to be told.
    That night at dinner, Monk arrived in his usual immaculate dress, and Hester came looking, in his opinion, a complete fright, having nothing with her other than the gray-blue dress in which she had stood trial. They were armed with information which altered everything with respect to Baird McIvor and Kenneth. The jeweler had informed them that it was not Mary Farraline who had commissioned the diamond pin at all, in spite of the fact that it was on her account. It was Kenneth. He had at the time assumed it was an errand, and had not questioned it, much to his chagrin when he had learned later, from Mary herself, that she had not requested it, and had indeed never seen it. Of course the matter was settled now, as far as he was concerned. What had passed between Kenneth Farraline and his mother he had no idea.
    As usual McTeer met them at the door and ushered them into the withdrawing room, where this time the entire family was assembled, almost as if they might have known a revelation awaited them—although perhaps, in the circumstances,that was not surprising. Hester had been released, if not cleared of the charge, and Quinlan had openly accused Baird McIvor. It was inconceivable that the case could rest as it was. Even if the police pressed it no further, it was beyond imagination that the Farralines themselves could leave matters as they stood.
    As always it was Oonagh who acknowledged them first, but Alastair, looking pale and grim-faced, was only a moment behind.
    “Good evening, Miss Latterly,” he said with studied politeness. “It is good of you to come with such generosity. A lesser woman might have borne a grudge.”
    It crossed Monk’s mind that that remark might have been a question as much as a statement. Alastair had a haunted look in the depths of his eyes, as well he might, knowing either his brother or his dearest sister’s husband was guilty of murder, and the murder of his mother at that. Monk did not envy him. As he stood in the gracious withdrawing room with its tall windows and sweeping curtains, the fire blazing in the hearth and the generations of family mementos and embroideries, he felt a sharp touch of pity for Alastair. What if it were Baird McIvor? Alastair and Oonagh had grown up together, sharing their dreams and their fears in a way the other siblings had not. If it were Oonagh’s husband, Alastair would feel it almost as
deeply
as she. And he would be the one person from whom she might not hide her grief, her