William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

third, and also a dressing table with a stool in front of it, and three mirrors. I remember the brushes and combs and the crystal jars for pins and hair combings. There was no jewel case on it. It would have blocked the mirrors. And there was nothing on the tallboy, and it was too high to be reached.”
    “And the farther wall?” He smiled wryly.
    “Oh … the door, of course. And another chair. And there was a sort of daybed.”
    “But no jewel case?”
    “No. I am certain of it.” She felt triumphant. It was such a small piece of memory and reason, but it was the first. “It has to mean something.”
    “It means your recollection is very clear, not a great deal more.”
    “But it has to,” she said urgently. “If the case was not there, then I could not have taken anything from it.”
    “But, Hester, there is only your word that the case was not there,” he said very softly, his mouth pinched with concern and sadness.
    “The maid—” she began, then stopped.
    “Precisely,” he agreed. “The two people who would know that are the maid, who may well have been the one to place the pin in your luggage … and Mary herself, who is beyond our reach. Who else? The eldest daughter, Oonagh McIvor? What will she say?” There were both anger and pain in his face, though he was attempting to be as formal as his profession demanded.
    She stared at him wordlessly.
    He reached one hand across the table as if to touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.
    “Hester, we cannot afford to hide from the truth,” he saidearnestly. “You have fallen into the midst of something we do not yet understand, and it would be foolish to imagine anyone involved in it is your friend, or will necessarily tell the truth if it is contrary to their interests. If Oonagh McIvor has to choose whether to blame someone in her own household or you, a stranger, we cannot rely upon her either wishing, or being able, to recall and repeat the exact truth.”
    “But … but if someone in her house is a thief, surely she would wish to know that?” she protested.
    “Not necessarily, particularly if it is not a maid, but one of her family.”
    “But why? Why just one brooch? And why put it in my case?”
    His face tightened, as if he were suddenly colder, and the anxiety in his eyes deepened.
    “I don’t know, but the only alternative I can see is to suppose that you did take it, and that is not tolerable.”
    The enormity of what he had said became hideously plain to her. How could she expect anyone to believe she had not seized the chance, suddenly offered, and taken the brooch … then when Mary was found dead, suddenly become frightened and tried to return it? She met Rathbone’s eyes and knew he was thinking precisely the same thing.
    Did he really believe her, in his heart? Or was he only behaving as if he did because it was his professional obligation to do so? She felt as if reality were slipping away from her and nightmare closing in, isolation and helplessness, endless confusion where nothing made sense, one moment’s sanity was the next moment’s chaos.
    “I didn’t take it,” she said suddenly, her voice loud in the silence. “I never saw it before I found it in my bag. I gave it straight to Callandra. What else could I have done?”
    His hands closed over hers, surprisingly warm when she was so cold.
    “I know you didn’t take it,” he said firmly. “And I shallprove it. But it will not be easy. You will have to resign yourself to a battle.”
    She said nothing, struggling to keep the panic under control.
    “Would you like me to inform your brother and sister—”
    “No! No—please don’t tell Charles.” Her voice was sharp, and unconsciously she had jerked forward. “You mustn’t tell Charles—or Imogen.” She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. “It will be hard enough for him if he has to know, but if we can fight it first …”
    He was frowning at her. “Don’t you think he would wish to know? Surely he would wish to offer you some support, some comfort?”
    “Of course he would wish it,” she agreed with a fierce mixture of anger, pity and defensiveness. “But he wouldn’t know what to believe. He would want to think I was innocent, and he would not know how to. Charles is very literal. He cannot believe something he cannot understand.” She knew she sounded critical, and she had not meant to, but all her own fear and anguish was in her voice, she could hear it and