William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

Farraline’s, because she described it to me in the course of conversation about what she might do in London.”
    His face darkened and he moved away from the mantelpiece and sat down in the chair opposite her, waiting patiently for her to be seated also.
    “So she was not wearing it on the train?” he asked.
    “No. That is the point. She said she had left it at home in Edinburgh because the gown it went with had been stained!”
    “It only went with one gown?” he said in surprise, but the disbelief in his voice did not carry to his eyes. Already his mind was ahead, understanding the fears.
    “Gray pearls,” she explained unnecessarily. “They would look wrong with most colors, rather dull.” She went on talking to avoid the moment when she would have to acknowledge what it really meant. “Even black wouldn’t be—”
    “All right,” he said. “She said she had left it behind? I don’t suppose she packed her own clothes. She had a maid for that sort of thing. And her cases would be in the guard’svan during the journey. Did you meet this maid? Did you quarrel with her? Was she jealous of you because she wished to come to London herself, and you were taking her place?”
    “No. She didn’t want to go at all. And we did not quarrel. She was perfectly agreeable.”
    “Then who put the brooch in your bag? You wouldn’t be coming to me if you’d done it yourself.”
    “Don’t be fatuous!” she said. “Of course I didn’t do it. If I were a thief, I would hardly come and tell you about it!” Her voice was getting louder and higher with anger as fear caught hold of her and she began to see more clearly the peril of the situation.
    He looked at her unhappily. “Where is the brooch now?”
    “At Callandra’s house.”
    “Since the unfortunate woman is dead, it is not a matter of simply returning it to her. And we do not know if it was lost in a genuine accident or if it is part of an attempted crime. It could become very ugly.” He bit his lip doubtfully. “People in bereavement are often irrational and only too ready to retreat from grief into anger. It is easier to be angry, to feel relief at having something with which to blame someone else. The matter of returning it should be dealt with professionally, by someone retained solely to look after your interests in the case. We had better go and speak to Rathbone.” And without waiting to see whether she agreed with this advice, he took his coat from the rack and his hat off the stand and advanced towards the door. “Well, don’t sit there,” he said tartly. “The more rapidly it is done, the better. Besides, I might lose a client if I dither around wasting time.”
    “You don’t need to come with me,” she said defensively, rising to her feet. “I can find Oliver myself and tell him what happened. Thank you for your advice.” She went past him and out of the door into the entranceway. It was raining outside, and as she opened the street door the cold air chilled her, matching the fear and sense of isolation within.
    He ignored her words and followed her out, closing the door behind him and beginning to walk towards the main thoroughfare, where they could find a hansom to take them from Tottenham Court Road west across the city towards the Inns of Court and Vere Street, where Oliver Rathbone had his office. She was obliged to go with him, or else start an argument which would have been totally foolish.
    The traffic was heavy, carriages, cabs, wagons, carts of every description passing by, splashing the water out of the gutters, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses dripping, sodden hides dark. Drivers sat hunched with collars up and hats down in a futile attempt to keep the cold rain from running down their necks, hands clenched on the reins.
    The crossing sweeper, a boy of about eight or nine years, was still busily pushing manure out of the way to make a clean path for any pedestrian who wished to reach the other side. He seemed to be one of those cheerful souls willing to make the best out of any situation. His skimpy trousers stuck to his legs, his coat was too long for him and gaped around the neck, but his enormous cap seemed to keep most of the rain off his head, except for his chin and nose. He wore the cap tilted at such an angle that the lower half of his face was visible, and his gap-toothed smile was the first thing one saw of him.
    Monk had no need to cross the road, but he threw him a halfpenny anyway, and Hester