William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

instantly.
    Hester had opened her mouth to speak, but no one knew what she was going to say. She took one look at Monk’s face, then at the faces of the assembled company, and changed her mind. “I shall remain in Edinburgh,” she said obediently. Had Monk been less consumed by his own forthcoming task, he might have been suspicious of the sudden collapse of her argument, but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.
    They remained for dinner: a good meal, punctiliously served. But there was a gloom over the whole house, not only of recent death, but now of newborn fear, and conversation was stilted and meaningless. Hester and Monk tooktheir leave early, without the necessity or artificiality of excuses.
    The journey north was long and extremely tedious for Monk, because he was chafing to be there. No one in Edinburgh had been able to tell him how to proceed into Easter Ross after he should reach Inverness. As far as the ticket clerk was concerned, it was an unknown land, cold, dangerous, uncivilized, and no sensible person would wish to go there. Stirling, Deeside and Balmoral were all excellent places for a holiday. Aberdeen, the granite city of the north, had its qualities, but beyond Inverness was no-man’s-land, and you went there at your own risk.
    The long journey took nearly all the daylight hours, as it was now deepest autumn. Monk sat morosely and turned over and over in his mind all he knew of the death of Mary Farraline and the passions and characters of her family, He came to no conclusion whatever, only that it was one of them who had killed her; almost certainly Baird McIvor, because he had embezzled the rents from the croft. But it seemed such a futile reason, so incredibly petty for a man who seemed moved by so much stronger emotions. And if he loved Eilish, as he seemed to so apparently, how would he have brought himself to kill her mother, whatever the temptation?
    When he disembarked at Inverness it was already too late to think of proceeding farther north that night. Resentfully he found lodgings, and immediately inquired of the landlord about travel to the Port of Saint Colmac on the next day.
    “Oh,” the landlord said thoughtfully. He was a small man by the name of MacKay. “Oh aye, Portmahomack, ye mean? That’ll be the ferry ye’ll be wanting.”
    “The ferry?” Monk said dubiously.
    “Aye, ye’ll be wanting to go over to the Black Isle, and then across the Cromarty Firth over by Alness and uptowards Tain. It’s a long way, mind. Can ye no do your business in Dingwall, maybe?”
    “No,” Monk replied reluctantly. He could not even remember if he could ride a horse, and this was a harsh way to find out. His imagination punished him already.
    “Oh well, needs must when the devil drives,” MacKay said with a smile. “That’ll be out Tarbet Ness way. Fine lighthouse that is. See it for miles on a dark night, so ye can.”
    “Can I take a horse on the ferry?” Then the instant he had asked, MacKay’s face told him it was a foolish question. “Well, can I hire one on the other side?” he said before MacKay could answer.
    “Aye, that ye can. And ye can walk to the ferry here that will take you to the Black Isle. Just yonder by the shore there. Ye’ll be a southerner, no doubt?”
    “Yes.” Monk did not debate it. Instinct told him that a Borderer, like himself, from Northumberland, whose men had fought the Scots in raid and battle and foray for close on a thousand years, might be unwelcome, even as far north as this.
    MacKay nodded. “Ye’ll be hungry,” he said sagely. “It’s a tidy journey from Edinburgh, so they say.” He pulled a face. It was a foreign land to him, and he was well content to leave it so.
    “Thank you,” Monk accepted.
    He was served a meal of fresh herrings rolled in oatmeal and fried, with bread still warm from the oven, butter, and oatmeal-covered cheese named Caboc, which was delicious. He went to bed and slept deeply, with barely the stirring of dreams.
    The morning; was windy and bright. He rose immediately and instead of eating breakfast at MacKay’s hostelry, he took bread and cheese with him and set out to find the ferry across to the Black Isle, which he had been informed was not literally an island but a large isthmus.
    The passage was not broad—it might at some stage conceivablybe bridged—but the tide was swift from the Moray Firth into the smaller Beauly Firth and the wide bay within swept around to the left far out of