William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

clever to steal.”
    “What about Mr. McIvor?”
    “Baird?” Hector looked up again, his expression changed to one of amusement and pity. “Maybe. Never understood that one. Deep. Mary was fond of him, for all his moods. Used to say there was more good in him than we knew. Which’d no be hard, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “Has he been married to Oonagh long?”
    Hector smiled and it altered his face startlingly. The years of self-abuse dropped away and Monk saw the shadow of the man in the Highland dress thirty years ago. The resemblance to the portrait of Hamish Farraline in the hall was stronger, and yet also in some ways less. The pride and the bearing were more alike, the dignity and self-assurance. But there was a humor in Hector that was absent in his older brother, and oddly, considering the man he was now, a sense of peace.
    “Ye’ll be thinking they’re an odd pair,” Hector said, regarding Monk knowingly. “So they are. But I’m told Bairdwas very dashing when he first came here, very romantic. All dark, brooding looks and hidden passion. Should have been a Highlander, not an Englishman. Oonagh turned down a perfectly good Scots lawyer to take Baird on. Good family, too, the lawyer, very good.”
    “Mother-in-law?” Monk asked.
    Hector’s face was incredulous, as if he had seen a sudden flash of light.
    “Oh aye! A mother-in-law, right enough. A fair dragon of a woman. Ye know, ye’re no half as daft as I thought. That’d make sense, so it would. I can easy imagine Oonagh’d far rather stay here in this house with a man like Baird McIvor than marry an Edinburgh man with a mother of any sort, let alone one like Catherine Stewart. Then she’d no a’ bin mistress in her own house, nor kept her hand in the Farraline business as she does now.”
    “Does she? I thought it was Alastair who was head of the company?”
    “Aye, he is, but it’s her brains, and Quinlan’s, devil take him.”
    Monk rose to his feet. He did not wish to be caught here by McTeer coming with refreshment for Hector, or Oonagh, as he crossed the hall so long after she had bidden him farewell.
    “Thank you, Major Farraline. You have been most interesting. I think I shall take your advice and go and see if I can find out who has meddled with the books of Farralines. Good day to you.”
    Hector lifted a hand in a half salute, and sat back on his chair again, staring miserably out of the window.
    Monk already knew quite a lot about the Farraline printing company, including where to find it, and consequently as soon as he had left Ainslie Place he took a cab along Princes Street into Leith Walk, the long road that led to the Firth of Forth and the dockyards of Leith. The distance from the end of Princes Street was about two miles altogether,and the printing house was halfway. He alighted, paid the driver, and went to look for Baird McIvor.
    The building itself was large, ugly and entirely functional. It immediately adjoined other industrial buildings on either side, the largest of which was, according to the legend on the doorway, a rope manufacturer. Inside was a single, vast, open space with the newest part cleared to form a sort of entrance, from which rose a wrought-iron staircase to a landing. There were several doors in sight, presumably offices for the managers of different divisions and for whatever bookkeepers and other clerks were necessary. The rest of the interior was given over to the printing itself, being filled with presses, typesetting equipment, racks of type and inks. Bales of paper were stored in enormous piles at the far end, along with cloth for binding, thread and yet further machinery. There was no bustle, but a steady hum of industry and regulated movement.
    Monk asked the clerk who approached him if he might speak with Mr. McIvor. He did not state his business, and the man must have assumed it had something to do with the company, because he did not inquire but led him up to the first fine hardwood door, knocked and opened it.
    “A Mr. Monk to see you, Mr. McIvor.”
    Monk thanked him and went in before Baird could have the opportunity to refuse. He barely glanced at the neat bookshelves, the bright gas lamp hissing on the wall, the odd pieces of blank paper on the desk (presumably there for McIvor to judge their comparative quality), and the piles of books sitting on the floor. His attention was on Baird and the surprise and alarm on his face.
    “Monk?” He half rose from his desk.