William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

the left was a large stone barn or byre of some sort, and to the right a smaller house which he presumed was Mary Farraline’s croft. He could see over the rooftops the chimneys of a larger building, a manor house possibly, but that could not be what he was seeking.
    He must compose his thoughts to what he would say. He stopped under the trees and turned back the way he had come … and caught his breath. The sea stretched out below him in a silver-blue satin sheet; in the distance lay the mountains of Sutherland, the farthest peaks mounded with snow. To the west a sandbar gleamed pale in the sunlight, and beyond it was blue water stretching inland towards blue hills fading into purple on the horizon, a hundred miles or more. The sky was almost without a blemish and a skein of wild geese threaded its way slowly overhead, calling their way south.
    He turned slowly, watching their passage and pondering the miracle of it, as they disappeared. He saw the sea to the south as well, silver-white in the mounting sun, and the outline of a lone castle dark against it.
    In another mood he might have been angry at the ugliness which brought him here. Today he could only feel a weight of sadness.
    He finished the last few yards of his journey and knocked on the door.
    “Aye?” The man who came to answer him was short and stocky, with a smooth face which in no way masked his resentment of strangers.
    “Mr. Arkwright?” Monk inquired.
    “Aye, that’s me. Who are you, and what do you want here?” His voice was English, but it took Monk a momentto discern the intonation. It was mixed, softened by the Highland.
    “I’ve come from Edinburgh—” Monk began.
    “You’re no Scot,” Arkwright said darkly, backing away a step.
    “Neither are you,” Monk countered. “I said I came from Edinburgh, not that I was born there.”
    “What of it. I don’t care where you’re from.”
    Yorkshire! That was the cadence in his voice, the nature of the vowels. And Baird McIvor had come originally from Yorkshire. Coincidence?
    The lie sprang instantly to Monk’s lips.
    “I am Mrs. Mary Farraline’s solicitor. I have come to see to her affairs. I don’t know if you were informed of her recent death?”
    “Never heard of her,” Arkwright said intently, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He was lying too.
    “Which is odd,” Monk said with a smile, not of friendliness but of satisfaction. “Because you are living in her house.”
    Arkwright paled, but his face set hard. There were the shadows of a hundred other bitter struggles in him. He knew how to fight and Monk guessed he was not particular as to his weapons. There was something dangerous in the man. He found himself measuring his response. What was this alien man doing in this huge, wild, clean place?
    Arkwright was staring at Monk.
    “I don’t know whose name is on the deeds, but I rent it from a man called McIvor, and that is none of your affair, Mr. Crow.”
    Monk had not introduced himself, but he knew the cant name for a solicitor.
    Monk raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You pay rent to Mr. McIvor?”
    “Yeah. That’s right.” There was belligerence in Arkwright, and still a thread of uncertainty.
    “How?” Monk pressed, still standing well back.
    “What you mean, how? Money, o’ course. What you trunk, potatoes?”
    “What do you do, ride over to Inverness and put a purse on the night train to Edinburgh? Weekly? Monthly? It must take you a couple of days.”
    Arkwright was caught out, and the realization of it blazed in his eyes. For a second he seemed about to swing a fist at Monk, then he looked at Monk’s balance, and the leanness of his body, and decided against it.
    “None of your business,” he growled. “I answer to Mr. McIvor, not you. Anyway, you got no proof who you are, or that Mary Whatsisname is dead.” A momentary gleam of triumph lit his eyes. “You could be anybody.”
    “I could,” Monk agreed. “I could be the police.”
    “Rozzers?” But his face paled. “What for? I keep a farm. Isn’t nothing illegal in that. You ain’t a rozzer, you’re just a nosy bastard who don’t know what’s good for him!”
    “Would it interest you, or surprise you, to know that McIvor never passed on all this money that you sent to him on the train?” Monk asked sarcastically.
    Arkwright tried to leer, but there was no laughter behind it, only a strange gleam of anxiety.
    “Well, that’s his problem, isn’t it?”
    In that moment Monk