William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

with guarded interest, Oonagh with humor and something close to pity.
    Monk’s brain raced. How could he extricate himself from the trap he had sprung upon himself? He could think of no lie that would serve. They were waiting. He must say something!
    “You think it was spontaneous?” he asked slowly, looking from one to another. “Which did she do first, steal the brooch or mix the poison?”
    Deirdra winced.
    Eilish let out a little grunt of distress.
    Quinlan smiled at Monk. “You make my attempt of indelicacy look amateur,” he said pleasantly.
    Eilish put her hands up to her face.
    Baird shot Quinlan a look of venom.
    “I imagine Mr. Monk is doing it for a purpose, Quin, not simply out of malice,” Deirdra said quietly.
    “Quite,” Monk agreed. “How do you imagine it happened?” Unconsciously he looked at Oonagh. In spite of the fact that Alastair was the head of the family, and Deirdra the mistress of the house, he felt Oonagh was the strongest, that it was she who had taken what he imagined had been Mary’s place.
    “I—I admit, I had not thought of it at all,” she said hesitantly. “It is not something I had—wished to think of.”
    “Mr. Monk, is this really necessary?” Alastair’s nose wrinkled in distaste for the crudity of it. “If it is, perhaps we could discuss it in my study afterwards, away from the ladies?”
    Monk had no gentlemanly delusions about the emotional strength of women. In a flash of memory astoundingly vivid he recalled women he had known in the past whose courage and endurance had held families together through illness, poverty, bereavement, social disgrace and financial ruin, and who were perfectly capable of keeping a stiff lip and steady eye in the face of all human weakness and extremity. When it came to raw nature, they were much less shockable than men.
    “I would prefer to discuss it with the ladies present,” he said aloud, smiling around his teeth at Alastair. “It has been my experience that they are far more observant of people, especially other women, and their memories are usually excellent. I would be very surprised if they do not remember a great deal more of Miss Latterly than you do, for example.”
    Alastair looked at him thoughtfully.
    “I daresay you are right,” he conceded after several seconds. “Very well. But not this evening. I have some papers I have to read tonight. Perhaps you would care to come for luncheon on Sunday, after kirk? That would give you an opportunity to conduct whatever other inquiries you have to make in the area. I assume you will wish to see the house. And the servants, of course.”
    “Thank you. That is most thoughtful of you,” Monk accepted. “With your permission I shall do both, perhaps tomorrow. I should also like to speak with the family physician. And I should be delighted to dine with you on Sunday. What time would be suitable?”
    “A quarter to one,” Alastair replied. “Now, to speak of something pleasanter. Have you been to Edinburgh before, Mr. Monk?”
    *  *  *
    Monk returned to the Grassmarket deep in thought, trying to see in the people in Ainslie Place the emotions Hester had outlined so briefly, and to build on them something darker than the very natural, prosperous trading family that they appeared. Certainly Quinlan and Baird McIvor did not like each other. It might have had some ugly cause, but it might equally easily be simply a natural antipathy of two men who had all the wrong things in common—arrogance, hasty temper and ambition—and none of the right ones—such as background, humor or tolerance.
    But he was extremely tired after a poor night on the train and the shattering news of the previous day. Speculation now was pointless. He could observe them all on Sunday, time enough then to form theories. Tomorrow he would begin with the family physician, whose name Alastair had given him, and the apothecaries. After that it would be a matter of other sources for general information, the nearest public house which the male servants might occasionally frequent, errand and delivery boys, street peddlers and crossing sweepers who might have an observant eye and, for a few pence, a ready tongue.
    “Aye,” the physician said dubiously, regarding Monk with profound suspicion. “I treated Mrs. Farraline. A fine lady she was too. But ye’ll be knowing that anything that passed between us was in confidence?”
    “Of course,” Monk agreed, keeping his temper with difficulty. “I