William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

look quite—distressed !”
    It was nearly two months since she had last seen him, and then it had been more by chance than design. She was not sure how he regarded their relationship. In any formal sense it was professional rather than personal. She did not move in his social sphere at all. Yet they were friends in a deeper sense than most acquaintances ever were. They had shared passionate beliefs in justice, spoken more frankly than perhaps either had to anyone else about certain things. On the other hand, there were whole worlds of personal emotions they had never touched on at all.
    Now he was staring at her with obvious concern. In spite of his fairish hair, his eyes were very dark, and she was acutely aware of the intelligence in him.
    “For goodness’ sake tell him!” Monk said, waving his arm towards the office. “But not out here,” he added, in case she should be absentminded enough to be so indiscreet.
    Without looking at Monk, Hester walked in front of Rathbone and into the office. Monk followed her, and Rathbone came in behind and closed the door.
    Hester began straightaway. Quietly and succinctly, with as little emotion as she could manage, she told him the elements of what had transpired.
    Rathbone sat listening without interruption, and although twice Monk opened his mouth to speak, on each occasion he changed his mind.
    “Where is this brooch now?” Rathbone said when at last she finished.
    “With Lady Callandra,” she replied. Rathbone knew Callandra well enough and no introduction of her was necessary.
    “But she did not see you find it? Not that it matters,” headded quickly, on observing her consternation. “Could you have misunderstood Mrs. Farraline on the subject of having left this article in Edinburgh?”
    “I cannot think how. She had no reason to bring it, since the dress was stained, and she said quite specifically that it went with no other.” She could not restrain herself from asking, “What do you think has happened?”
    “Does your bag resemble any that Mrs. Farraline had, either with her or in the guard’s van? Or any that you observed in her dressing room in Edinburgh?”
    Hester felt cold and there was a hard knot inside her.
    “No. Mine was a very ordinary brown leather bag with soft sides. Mrs. Farraline’s were yellow pigskin, with her initials monogrammed on them, and they all matched.” Her voice was scratchy, her mouth dry. She was aware of Monk’s growing irritation behind her. “No one could think mine was one of hers,” she finished.
    Rathbone spoke very quietly.
    “Then I am afraid I can think of no explanation other than malice, and why anyone should do such a thing, I cannot imagine.”
    “But I was only there less than a day,” Hester protested. “I did nothing that could possibly offend anyone!”
    “You had better go and get this piece of jewelry and bring it to me immediately. I shall write to Mrs. Farraline’s estate and inform them of its discovery, and that we shall return it as soon as possible. Please do not waste any time. I do not believe we can afford to wait.”
    Hester rose to her feet. “I don’t understand,” she said helplessly. “It seems so pointless.”
    Rathbone rose also, coming around to open the door for her. He glanced at Monk, then back at Hester.
    “Probably it is some family quarrel we know nothing of, or even some malice directed at Mrs. Farraline which has tragically gone astray with her death. It hardly matters at the moment. Your part is to bring it to me, and I shall giveyou a receipt for it and deal with the matter as regards Mrs. Farraline’s executors.”
    Still she hesitated, confusion welling in her mind, remembering their faces: Mary, Oonagh, Alastair at the dinner table, the beautiful Eilish, Baird and Quinlan who so obviously disliked each other, Kenneth hurrying to his appointment, absentminded Deirdra, the man whose portrait hung in the hall, and drunken, rambling Uncle Hector.
    “Come,” Monk said sharply, pulling abruptly at her elbow. “There is no time to waste, and certainly none to stand here trying to solve a problem for which we have no information.”
    “Yes—yes, I’m coming,” she agreed, still uncertain. She turned to Rathbone. “Thank you.”
    They rode back to Callandra’s house in silence, Monk apparently lost in thought, and Hester still wrestling with her memories of Edinburgh and searching for any reason at all why someone should have played such a pointless and