William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

for the city. The old town was steep and narrow with high buildings, lots of alleys, closes and leg-aching flights of steps, sudden courtyards, and wynds, as they were called; especially eastward towards the Royal Mile, at the far end of which stood Holyrood Palace.
    He arrived at Ainslie Place and McTeer let him in with his usual air of gloom and foreboding.
    “Good morning to ye, Mr. Monk.” He took Monk’s hat and coat. “Looks like more rain, I’ll be thinking.”
    Monk was in the mood for an argument.
    “More?” he said with wide eyes. “It’s quite dry outside. In fact, it’s really very agreeable.”
    McTeer was not put off. “It’ll no last,” he said with a shake of his head. “Ye’ll be to see Mrs. McIvor, no doubt?”
    “If I may? I should also like to see Major Farraline, if he is available?”
    McTeer sighed. “I couldn’t say if he is or no, until I inquire, sir. But I’ll be about seein’ for ye. If ye’ll take a seat in the morning room in the meanwhile.”
    Monk accepted, and stood in the somber room with its half-drawn blinds and crepe ribbons with surprising apprehension. Now that it actually came to facing Oonagh and lying to her, it was even more difficult than he had expected.
    The door opened and he swung around, his mouth dry. She was facing him with calm, measured intelligence. She was not really beautiful, but there was a power of characterin her which demanded not only his attention but his admiration as well. Mere form and color bore so quickly, no matter how startling at first. Intelligence, strength of will, the ability to feel great passions and the courage to follow them through, these lasted. And above all he was drawn to the mystery of her, that part he did not understand and she would always hold aloof and apart. It flashed through his mind to wonder about Baird McIvor. What sort of man was he that Mary had liked him? He had won Oonagh’s hand in marriage, and yet had fallen in love with Eilish so profoundly he could not mask his feelings even in front of his wife. How could he be so shallow—and so cruel? Surely she had seen? Did she love him so much she forgave his weakness? Or did she love Eilish? The depths to her were immeasurable.
    “Good morning, Mr. Monk.” She interrupted his thoughts and jerked him into the present. “Have you something to report?” Her words were no more than courteous, but her voice had a vibrancy to it. She was asking a friend, not an employee.
    If he hesitated he would betray himself. He was acutely conscious of the sharpness of the perception behind those clear, level eyes.
    “Good morning, Mrs. McIvor,” he replied. “Not a great deal, I am afraid, except that my investigation so far indicates that your sister-in-law is involved in nothing discreditable. I do not believe she gambles or keeps company with people of poor reputation or habits. I am sure she does not keep a lover, nor is there anyone putting pressure upon her for payment, either of old debts or to keep silent about some unfortunate act of the past.” He smiled straight at her, not boldly, but quite casually. Liars could give themselves away by appearing overconfident. “In fact, it would seem she is simply an extravagant woman who has little idea of the value of money and no idea at all how to obtain a bargain, or even a reasonable purchase.”
    Somewhere beyond the door a maid giggled, and was instantly silent again.
    She looked at him steadily, her eyes searching his. It was many years since he had faced anyone with such a penetrating gaze, one which he felt was able to perceive a person’s character and read not only judgments but emotions as well, even to sense weaknesses and hungers.
    Suddenly she smiled and the light filled her face.
    “I’m so relieved, Mr. Monk.”
    Did she believe him, or was this a polite way of dismissing the subject for the time being?
    “I am glad,” he acknowledged, surprised how relieved he was that the intensity of the moment had passed.
    “Thank you for telling me so rapidly.” She walked farther into the room and automatically adjusted an ornament of dried flowers on the central table. It was a desiccated-looking piece and reminded him of funerals.
    As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps his face, she pulled the corners of her mouth into a grimace. “It doesn’t look well in here, does it? I think I shall have it removed. I would prefer fresh leaves to this, wouldn’t you?”
    It was unnerving to have one’s