William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

“What do you want here?”
    “Just a little of your time,” Monk said without a smile. He had already concluded that he would learn nothing from Baird by simply asking him. He would have used subtlety had he the time, or the coolness of brain, but he had not. He must resort to force. “I have evidence which stronglysuggests that the company books have been tampered with and money has been taken.”
    Baird blanched and anger filled his dark eyes, but before he could protest or deny, Monk went on. This time he smiled, but it was wolfish, a baring of the teeth, and offered no comfort at all.
    “I understand the defense has employed a brilliant barrister.” That was hope ahead of knowledge, but if it was not true now, he would do everything within his power to see that it became true. “We don’t want them finding this and making some suggestions to the jury that it was the true motive for Mrs. Farraline’s murder, in order to cause reasonable doubt that it was in fact this nurse.”
    Baird sat back in his chair and stared at him, comprehension filling his face and resentment dying away.
    “No … no, of course not,” he said grudgingly, but his eyes were still wary and Monk noticed that there was a very fine bead of sweat on his brow. It sharpened his attention and he determined to pursue it to the end.
    “After all,” he added, “if it were so, it might provide an excellent motive for murder. I imagine Mrs. Farraline would not have permitted such a crime to pass unpunished, even if privately rather than publicly?”
    Baird hesitated, but the expression on his face was as much anger and grief as any overt fear. He was a more complex man than Monk had at first assumed—his rather contemptuous assessment of a man who would prefer Eilish to Oonagh.
    “No,” Baird conceded. “She would deal with embezzlement one way or another. I imagine, if it were a member of the family, she would do it herself. In fact, even if it were not, she would still choose not to make it public. Such things are not good for a company’s reputation.”
    “Quite. But it would not be pleasant for the culprit.”
    “I imagine not. But what makes you think there is anything wrong with the books? Has Kenneth said something? Oh … is it Kenneth you suspect?”
    “I don’t suspect anyone in particular.” Monk said it in such a way as to leave it open whether he was speaking the truth or deliberately being evasive. Fear was a most effective catalyst from which might come all manner of other revelations.
    Baird considered for several minutes before continuing. Monk tried to judge whether it was guilt or the desire not to be unjust to someone else which held him. On balance he thought guilt; there was still that beading of sweat on his face, and his eyes, for all their straight, steady gaze, had an evasiveness about them.
    “Well, I know of no way in which I can help you,” Baird said at last. “I have little to do with the financial side of the business. I work with the paper and the binding. Quinlan works with the print itself. Kenneth does the accounting. When Alastair is here, he makes the major decisions: which clients to accept, new business, that sort of thing.”
    “And Mrs. McIvor? I understand she is also concerned in the management. I have heard she is most gifted.”
    “Yes.” His expression was beyond Monk’s ability to read; it could have been pride, or resentment, or even humor. A dozen thoughts flashed across Baird’s face, and were equally quickly gone. “Yes,” he repeated. “She has a remarkable acumen. Alastair very often takes her advice, both in business decisions and technical ones. Or to be more accurate, it is Quinlan who takes her advice on matters of print style, typeface and so on.”
    “So Mr. Fyffe has nothing to do with the accounting?”
    “Quinlan? No, nothing at all.” He said it with regret, and then savage self-mockery the instant after.
    Monk found himself more deeply confused about him. How could a man of such emotion, self-perception and sense of irony be in love with Eilish, who seemed to have nothing to offer except physical beauty? It was so shallow, so short-lived. Even the loveliest thing on earth grows tedious if there is no art of companionship, no laughter, wit,imagination, power to love in return, even at times to provoke, to criticize, to lift by struggle, quarrel and change.
    The thought brought Hester back to his mind with sharpness like a shooting pain.
    “Then I