William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

it robbed Farraline & Company of its entire profits.
    “Yes of course they are from Farralines,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “Baird gets them for me, but if you tell anyone, I shall deny it. I don’t think there is any proof. But you wouldn’t do that anyway. It has nothing to do with Mother’s death, and won’t either exonerate or condemn Miss Latterly.”
    “I didn’t know Baird could get to the company accounts.” That would explain why he had been so nervous.
    “He can’t,” she agreed with amusement. “I want books, not money. And I wouldn’t steal money, even if I did need it . Baird prints extra books, or declares the print runs short. It has nothing to do with accounting.”
    That made sense.
    “Your uncle Hector said someone had been falsifying the accounts.”
    “Did he?” She sounded only slightly surprised. “Well, maybe they have. It must be Kenneth, but I don’t know why. Although Uncle Hector does drink an awful lot, and sometimes talks the most terrible nonsense. He remembersthings I don’t think ever happened, and confuses one time with another. I wouldn’t take a lot of notice.”
    He was about to say that he had to, in order to guard the prosecution, but he was weary of lies, especially useless ones, and this was not the night for more of them. He had had to reverse all his judgments of Eilish. She was anything but shallow or lazy, and far from stupid. Of course she had to sleep half the morning; she gave up most of the night. And gave it to those who returned her no public or financial reward for it. And yet she was obviously more than pleased with what she received. In this bare lamplit room she glowed with a deep joy. Now he knew why she walked with her head high and her step proud, where the secret smile came from and the thoughts that were removed from the family conversations.
    And he knew why Baird McIvor loved her above his own wife.
    Actually he knew in that moment also that Hester would have liked her, even admired her.
    “I’m not trying to prove that Miss Latterly killed your mother,” he said impulsively. “I’m trying to prove that she did not.”
    She looked at him curiously. “For money? No. Do you love her?”
    “No.” Then instantly he wished he had not denied it so quickly. “Not in the way you mean,” he added, feeling his face burn. “She is a great friend, a very deep friend. We have shared many experiences in the pursuit of justice in other cases. She …”
    Eilish was smiling. Again there was a faint hint of mockery in her eyes.
    “You don’t need to explain, Mr. Monk. In fact, please don’t. I don’t believe you anyway. I know what it is to love when you really don’t want to at all.” Without warning the laughter vanished totally from her face and deep pain replaced it. Perhaps pain had been closer to the surface all the time. “It changes all your plans and alters everything. Onemoment you are playing on the shore, the next the tide has you, and struggle as you might, you cannot get back to the land again.”
    “You are speaking of your own feelings, Mrs. Fyffe. I am a friend of Miss Latterly. I don’t feel in the least like that about her.” He said all the words clearly and vehemently, and he knew from her face that she did not believe him. He was angry, and there was a curious choking in his throat. He felt absurdly disloyal. “It is perfectly possible to be friendly with someone without a feeling anything like the one you describe,” he said again.
    “Of course it is,” she agreed, moving to the door. “I will walk with you as far as the Grassmarket, to see you are safe.”
    It was ludicrous. He was a powerful man, armed with a stick, and she was a slender woman, six inches shorter and built like a flower. She made him think of an iris in the sun. He laughed outright.
    She led the way down the dim stairs back to the way out, talking to him over her shoulder as he followed.
    “How many times have you been struck on the way, Mr. Monk?”
    “Twice, but …”
    “Was it painful?”
    “Yes, but …”
    “I’ll see you home, Mr. Monk.” There was only the faintest shadow of a smile on her lips.
    He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Fyffe.”
    In Newgate, Hester swung from moods of hard-fought-for hope, down to engulfing despair, and up the long incline back to hope again. The boredom and the sense of helplessness were the worst afflictions. Physical labor, however pointless, would have dulled the