The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [109]
“There is no point in being a crack shot if you have no ammunition,” Rathbone said bitterly, turning to face the way they had been going and resuming his journey. He knew Argyll’s address was in Princes Street itself, and had been advised it was easy walking distance from the station. “If you have no idea who did kill Mary Farraline, at least tell me who could have, and why. I presume you have something since you last wrote. It is three days.”
Monk’s face was tight and very pale as he fell in step with Rathbone again. For several moments they walked in silence, then finally he spoke, his voice rasping.
“I’ve been over the apothecaries again. I can’t find the source of the digitalis, for Hester or anyone else….”
“So you wrote.”
“Apparently there was a digitalis poisoning a few months ago here in Edinburgh. It received some attention. It may have given our killer the idea.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “That’s interesting. Not much, but you are right, it may have prompted the idea. What else?”
“Our best chance still seems the bookkeeper. Kenneth Farraline has a mistress….”
“Not unusual,” Rathbone said dryly. “And hardly a crime. What of it?”
Monk kept his temper with momentary difficulty. “She’s expensive, and he is the company bookkeeper. Old Hector Farraline says the books were tampered with….”
Rathbone stopped and swung around.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Because it happened some time ago, and Mary already knew about it.”
Rathbone swore.
“Very helpful,” Monk said acidly.
Rathbone glared at him.
Monk continued walking. “The weakest point in this case seems to be the questions of timing. Hester could not have purchased the digitalis here in Edinburgh—at least it is almost impossible. And she could not have seen the pearl brooch until she was already in the train on the way back. She could only have done it if she had brought the digitalis with her from London, which is absurd.”
“Of course it’s absurd,” Rathbone said between his teeth. “But I’ve seen people hanged on evidence as poor—when public hatred is deep enough. Haven’t you sense, man?”
Monk swung around to face him. “Then you’ll have to change the public mood, won’t you.” It was not a question but a demand. “That’s what you’re paid for. Make them see Hester as a heroine, a woman who gave up her own family and happiness to minister to the sick and injured. Make them see her in Scutari, passing all night along the rows of wounded with a lamp in her hand, mopping brows, comforting the dying, praying—anything you like. Let them see her braving shot and shell to reach the wounded without thought for herself … then returning home to fight the medical establishment for better conditions here … and losing her post for her impertinence, so she has to nurse privately, moving from post to post.”
“Is that how you see Hester?” Rathbone asked, standing still in the middle of the footpath opposite him, his eyes wide, his lips almost in a smile.
“No, of course not!” Monk said. “She’s an opinionated, self-willed woman doing precisely what she wants to do. But that is not the point.” There was a faint color in his face as he said it, and it occurred to Rathbone that there was more truth in what Monk had said than he was prepared to admit. And Rathbone also realized with a shiver of surprise that he would not have found it difficult to put forward that picture of Hester himself.
“I can’t,” he said bitterly. “You seem to have forgotten that this is Scotland.”
Monk swore viciously, and with several words Rathbone had not heard before.
“Oh very helpful,” Rathbone said, mimicking his earlier tone exactly. “But I shall do all I can to see that Argyll uses that to the best advantage. I have achieved one thing.” He tried to sound casual, and not too smug.
“Oh good—do tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If there is something, I should like to know it!”
“Then hold your tongue long enough and I will!” They were walking again and Rathbone quickened his pace. “Florence Nightingale herself will come and testify as a character witness.