William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

we are capable. My elder brother is the Procurator Fiscal, here in Edinburgh. Weare familiar with the fact that even in cases where guilt seems beyond question the prosecution can fail to obtain a conviction, if those conducting it do not take every care in the preparation of evidence. I assume you do have a letter to this effect?” The inquiry was made courteously, but brooked no evasion.
    “Naturally.” He produced a very creditable forgery he had taken the care to prepare on police paper he still had. That it was from the wrong station he trusted she would not know.
    “It makes my task a great deal easier that you so readily comprehend the necessity of being sure of every detail,” he said as she examined the letter. “I confess, I had not thought I should be so fortunate in finding such …” He hesitated, allowing her to think it delicacy, in truth searching for exactly the right word that would not sound like flattery. He judged her to be a woman who would feel only contempt for anything so obvious, although he doubted she would be so open as to show it, except by the chill of a glance, the sudden fading of interest from her eyes. “… a grasp of reality,” he finished.
    This time her smile was broader, a definite warmth in all her face, and something like a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as she regarded him.
    “I am grieved, of course, Mr. Monk, but it has not so destroyed my wits as to rob me of my understanding that the world must proceed, and its business be done according to the law, and with the proper procedure. Please tell me in what way, precisely, we may be of assistance. I imagine you will wish to question people, the upstairs servants in particular?”
    “That would be necessary,” he agreed. “But servants can be very easily frightened by such a tragedy, and then their accounts sometimes vary. It would be most helpful to speak with the members of the family as well, perhaps leave the servants until later, when their first apprehension has hadtime to disappear. I do not wish to give the impression that I suspect them of anything.”
    This time her smile was one of humor, albeit bitter.
    “Don’t you, Mr. Monk? No matter how convinced you are of Miss Latterly’s guilt, surely it must have crossed your mind that my mother’s lady’s maid, at least, could conceivably have stolen the brooch?”
    “Of course it has crossed my mind, Mrs. McIvor.” He smiled back, without looking away from her eyes. “All sorts of other answers are possible, with a stretch of the imagination, however unlikely. And the defense—and no doubt there will be one—since it cannot prove Miss Latterly innocent, will have to endeavor to prove someone else guilty. Or at the worst for them, prove that someone else could have been guilty, by virtue of motive, means or opportunity. It is precisely that which I have come to forestall.”
    “Then we had better make plans to begin,” she said with decision. “No doubt if you have just arrived in Edinburgh, you will wish to find yourself accommodation, and possibly rest after your journey, if you have been on the train all night. Then perhaps you would dine with us this evening, when you may meet the rest of my family?” It was an invitation formally given, and for a most businesslike reason, and yet there was interest in her which was of a sharper nature, however slight.
    “That would be excellent, thank you, Mrs. McIvor,” he accepted. He must not become carried away with optimism; he had barely begun and had learned nothing whatever, but at least the first barrier was crossed with surprising ease. “Thank you.”
    “Then we shall see you at seven,” she said with an inclination of her head. “McTeer will show you out, and if he can give you any directions which may be helpful, please feel free to ask. Good day, Mr. Monk.”
    “Good day, Mrs. McIvor.”
    *  *  *
    Monk had asked McTeer to advise him about lodgings, and the butler’s grim response had stung him with its condescension. He had suggested several inns and public houses of one sort or another, all in the old part of the city. When Monk had asked if there was nothing closer to Ainslie Place, he had been informed, with raised eyebrows, that Ainslie Place was not the area where such establishments were to be found.
    So at ten o’clock Monk was in a street with high tenements on either side, and known as the Grassmarket, his case in his hand, his temper still seething. He had a sharp sense