William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

irritated him that he would have to use Monk to find out the truth of what had happened, or at least enough of it to prove Hester’s innocence—and reasonable doubt would be far from satisfactory—but without facts he could do nothing.
    It was not that he disliked Monk, not entirely. The manhad an excellent mind, courage, and a kind of honor; even the fact that he was abrasive, often ill-mannered, and always arrogant was not of itself a strike against him. He was not a gentleman, for all his confidence, his elegance, his fine diction. The difference was indefinable, but it was there. There was a certain underlying aggression in him of which Rathbone was always aware. And his attitude towards Hester was intensely irritating.
    Hester’s welfare was the only thing that mattered at the moment. His own feelings about Monk were irrelevant. He would send a messenger to fetch him, and while he was waiting for him to arrive, prepare sufficient money to send him to Edinburgh on the night train with instructions to remain there until he could learn precisely what jealousies, pressures financial or emotional, existed in the Farraline household which had produced this ridiculous accident of circumstance.
    He rang the bell for the clerk to come, and when the door opened, drew breath to speak, then saw the man’s face.
    “What is it, Clements? What is wrong?”
    “The police, sir. Sergeant Daly is here to see you.”
    “Ah.” Perhaps the charge had been withdrawn, and he would not need to send for Monk after all. “Ask him to come in, Clements.”
    Clements bit his lip, his eyes troubled, and withdrew to obey.
    “Yes?” Rathbone said hopefully as Sergeant Daly appeared in the doorway looking solid and sad. Rathbone was about to ask if the charges had been dropped when something in Daly’s face stopped him.
    Daly closed the door behind him quietly, the latch clicking home with a snick.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Rathbone.” His voice was light and very clear. In other circumstances it would have been pleasant, in spite of the London edge to the accent. “But I’ve got some rather unpleasant news.”
    The words were very mild, and yet Rathbone felt a sense of dread out of all proportion to the situation. He breathed in, and his stomach lurched. His mouth was suddenly dry.
    “What is it, Sergeant?” He managed to sound almost as calm as Daly had, completely belying the fear inside him.
    Daly remained standing, his blunt face filled with sorrow.
    “Well sir, I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch weren’t totally satisfied with the way poor Mrs. Farraline died, it being so unexpected like, and they called their own doctor to make an examination …” He left the words hanging in the air.
    “You mean a postmortem?” Rathbone said sharply. Why on earth did the man not come to the point? “What of it?”
    “He’s not satisfied she died natural, sir.”
    “What?”
    “He’s not satisfied—”
    “I heard you!” Rathbone made as if to rise from his seat but his legs betrayed him and he changed his mind. “What was … unnatural about it? Didn’t the police surgeon say it was heart failure?”
    “Yes sir, he did that,” Daly agreed. “But it was a somewhat hasty examination, made with the understanding that the lady was elderly and that she suffered from a heart ailment already.”
    “Are you now saying that that is not true?” Rathbone’s voice rose, even though he had not intended it to. He sounded shrill and he knew it. He must keep more control of himself!
    “No sir, o’ course I’m not,” Daly said, shaking his head. “There’s no question she was elderly, and apparently she’d ’ad this complaint for some time. But when Mr. Murdoch’s own doctor had a closer look, like ’e was asked to, he wasn’t so sure. Mr. Murdoch suggested a postmortem examination, as is Mrs. Murdoch’s right, in the circumstances, what with the theft, an’ all.”
    “What on earth do you mean, man?” Rathbone exploded. “You aren’t suggesting Miss Latterly strangled her patientfor a piece of jewelry, are you? And then immediately reported finding it and made every effort to return it to the family?”
    “No sir, not strangled …” Daly said quietly.
    Rathbone’s throat tightened so he could hardly breathe.
    “Poisoned,” Daly finished. “With a double dose of her medicine, to be exact.” He looked at Rathbone with deep sadness. “They found it when they cut her open an’ looked inside her. Not easy to