William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

made up the prescription, and pressing him in the possibility of an error, which naturally he would deny.
    And then he would have to search for all the other apothecaries in Edinburgh to prove Hester had not purchased digitalis from them, and there was always the remote hope they could identify one of the Farraline family as having done so.
    Monk arrived back at Ainslie Place, faultlessly elegant, at seven o’clock, as he had been directed. He was admitted by McTeer, as lugubrious as before, but this time unquestioningly polite, and shown into the withdrawing room, where the family was awaiting the announcement of dinner.
    The room was large and very formal, but he had no time to spare for looking at it. His entire attention was immediately absorbed by the people who, as one, were staring at him as he was shown in. A lesser man would have found it unnerving. Monk was too worried and inwardly angry to have any such misgivings. He faced them with head high and eyes unwavering.
    Oonagh was the first to come forward. She was dressed in black, of course, as they all were. One mourned at leasta full year for a relative as close as a mother. But her gown was beautifully cut, quite moderate in fashion, the hoops of her skirt not extreme, and the lamplight shone on the rich, pale gleam of her hair, making one think she might well have chosen the color, or lack of it, for effect as well as duty.
    “Good evening, Mr. Monk,” she said graciously. She did not smile, yet there was a warmth in her eyes and her voice which made him feel more welcome than he could have expected in the circumstances.
    “Good evening, Mrs. McIvor,” he replied. “It is most gracious of you to be so courteous to me. You have turned a chore into an experience I shall not forget.”
    She received the compliment as it was intended, a little more than a mere politeness; and then she turned to indicate the man who stood almost to the mantelshelf, in the warmest and most comfortable place in the room. He was slightly above average height, slenderly built but beginning to put on weight around the waist. His hair was as fair as hers, but thickly waved, and already sparse at the front. His features were aquiline and distinguished, perhaps not ordinarily handsome, but certainly imposing.
    “This is my elder brother, Alastair Farraline, the Procurator Fiscal,” she said, introducing them. Then, turning to Alastair, she added, “As I told you earlier, Mr. Monk has come up from London to make quite certain that the trial produces no unpleasant surprises through our having taken too much for granted.”
    Alastair surveyed Monk with cool, very blue eyes. His expression did not change except for the slightest tightening of the curves of his lips.
    “How do you do, Mr. Monk,” he replied. “Welcome to Edinburgh. I cannot see the necessity of your journey, myself. It seems overcautious to me. But I am glad that the prosecution in London regards the matter as of sufficient importance to dispatch someone up here to make certain ofthings. I have no idea what they are afraid of. There can be no defense.”
    Monk bit back the response that rose in him. He must never, for an instant, forget why he was here. Only the truth was important, whatever it cost to find it. “I can think of none,” he agreed, his voice unexpectedly harsh. “I imagine they may well be desperate when they anticipate the prospect of facing a jury.”
    Alastair smiled bleakly. A flicker in his face betrayed that he had heard the edge to Monk’s tone and taken it for horror at the crime. It must never occur to him that Monk’s outrage was not against Hester, but on her behalf.
    “I imagine it will be a formality,” he said grimly. “Enough to satisfy the law that she has been represented.”
    Oonagh turned to a dark-haired man standing some distance back from the rest of them. His features were quite different in character, the very shape of his head broader and less angular. He could have been a member of the family only by marriage. His expression was brooding, his face full of unexpressed emotion.
    “My husband, Baird McIvor,” Oonagh said with a charming smile, though still looking at Monk. “He manages the family company, since my father’s death. Perhaps you already knew that?” It was only a rhetorical question, to remind them all of Monk’s purpose.
    “How do you do, Mr. McIvor,” Monk responded.
    “How do you do,” Baird replied. His voice was precise, a little