The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [108]
“Rathbone? Rathbone, where the devil are you going?”
Rathbone swung around and came face-to-face with Monk, dressed immaculately and looking grim and angry. He knew without asking that there was no good news.
“To meet Mr. James Argyll,” Rathbone said tartly. “He seems to be our only hope.” He raised his eyebrows, opening his eyes wide. “Unless you have uncovered something you have not yet told me?” He was being sarcastic, and they both knew it. Without words Monk had understood as well as he that neither of them had any practical ideas to follow, and the same desperation choked in each of them, the same sense of panic rose and made them breathless. They each felt towards the other the desire to hurt, to find fault. It was one of the many masks of fear. Behind them on the platform there was a commotion as people were pushing each other and craning to look, not forwards as might be expected, but back towards the rear of the platform where the guard’s van stood.
“Oh God!” Rathbone said wretchedly.
“What?” Monk demanded, his face white.
“Hester …”
“What? Where?”
“In the guard’s van. They’ve brought her up.”
Monk looked as if he were about to strike him.
“It’s the way they always do it,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “You must know that. Come on. There’s no point in standing here gaping with the rest of the crowd. We can’t help her.”
Monk hesitated, loath simply to leave. The shouting and the catcalls were getting worse.
Rathbone looked up the platform towards the exit, then back down its length where a crowd was gathering. He was in an agony of indecision.
“Train murderess on trial!” a newsboy called out. “Read all about it here! Here, sir, ye want one? Penny, sir….”
There was a constable wending his way alone towards them, shouldering people aside.
“Now then, now then! On about your business. There’s nothing to see. Just some poor woman come to stand trial. It’ll all come out then. On your way, please! Come on, move along there.”
Rathbone made up his mind, turning and starting off again towards the way out.
“When does the trial start?” Monk asked, matching him stride for stride, and at last the other passengers also scrambling with loss of dignity, and corresponding loss of temper.
“Impudent beggar!” an elderly man said furiously, but neither Monk nor Rathbone heard him. “Watch where you’re going, sir! I really don’t know … as if the police weren’t enough. One can hardly travel decently anymore….”
“What are you basing the defense on?” Monk demanded as he and Rathbone strode through the gate and out towards the street. “That way.” He indicated the steps up to Princes Street.
“I’m not,” Rathbone said bitterly. “It’s all up to Argyll.”
Monk knew what the letter had said, and all the reasons, but it did nothing to ease his fear.
“For God’s sake, doesn’t Hester have anything to say about it?” he demanded as they burst out into Princes Street, nearly knocking over a pretty woman with a child in tow.
“I beg your pardon,” Rathbone said abruptly to her. “Not a great deal, I imagine. I haven’t met the man yet, I have only corresponded with him, and that was kept to the formalities. I have no idea whether he even believes she is innocent.”
“You bloody incompetent!” Monk exploded, swinging around to face him. “You mean you have hired a lawyer to defend her without even knowing if he believes in her?” He grasped Rathbone by the lapels, his face twisted with fury.
Rathbone slapped him away with surprising violence. “I did not hire him, you ignoramus! Lady Callandra Daviot hired him. And belief in her innocence is a very pleasant thing to have, but in our parlous state it is a luxury we may not be able to afford. For a start, such a thing may not exist—in Edinburgh.”
Monk opened his mouth to retaliate, then realized the truth of the remark and let it go.
Rathbone smoothed down his lapels.
“Well, what are you standing there for?” Monk said acidly. “Let us go and see this man Argyll, and find out