The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [115]
“Come in,” Rathbone invited, closing the door behind him. He very nearly said that they were not interrupting anything at all, then pride prevented him from such an admission. “Father! I had not expected you. It is good of you to have come.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Henry Rathbone dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Of course I came. How is she?”
“I have not seen her since the night before she left London,” Rathbone replied. “I am not her barrister here in Edinburgh. They will only allow Argyll in now.”
“So what are you doing?” Callandra demanded, too restless to sit in either of the large armchairs available.
“Waiting,” Rathbone answered bitterly. “Worrying. Racking my brain to think of anything we have left undone, any possibilities we could still pursue.”
Callandra drew in her breath, then said nothing.
Henry Rathbone sat down and crossed his legs. “Well, pacing the floor is not going to help. We had better approach the matter logically. I presume there is no possibility this poison was administered accidentally, or intentionally by Mrs. Farraline herself? All right, there is no need to lose your temper, Oliver. It is necessary to establish the facts.”
Rathbone glanced at him, smothering his impatience with difficulty. He knew perfectly well that his father did not lack emotion or care, indeed he felt painfully; but his ability to suppress his feelings and concentrate his brain irritated him, because he was so far from that kind of control himself.
Callandra sat down on the other chair, staring at Henry hopefully.
“And the servants?” Henry continued.
“Ruled out by Monk,” Rathbone replied. “It was one of the family.”
“Remind me again who they are,” Henry directed.
“Alastair, the eldest son, the Procurator Fiscal; his wife, Deirdra, who is building a flying machine …”
Henry looked up, awaiting an explanation, his blue eyes mild and puzzled.
“Eccentric,” Rathbone agreed. “But Monk is convinced she is otherwise harmless.”
Henry pulled a face.
“Eldest daughter Oonagh McIvor; her husband, Baird, who is apparently in love with his sister-in-law, Eilish, and is taking books from the company for her to use in her midnight occupation of teaching a ragged school. Eilish’s husband, Quinlan Fyffe, married into the family and into the business. Clever and unappealing, but Monk knows of no reason why he should have wished to kill his mother-in-law. And the youngest brother, Kenneth, who seems our best hope at the moment.”
“What about the daughter in London?” Henry asked.
“She cannot have been guilty,” Rathbone reasoned with a sharp edge to his voice. “She was nowhere near Edinburgh or Mary, or the medicine. We can discount her and her husband.”
“Why was Mary going to visit her?” Henry asked, ignoring Rathbone’s tone.
“I don’t know. Something to do with her health. She is expecting her first child and is very nervous. It’s natural enough she should wish her mother to be there.”
“Is that all you know?”
“Do you think it would matter?” Callandra asked urgently.
“No, of course not.” Rathbone dismissed it with a sharp flick of his hand. He stood leaning a little against the table, still unwilling to sit down.
Henry ignored his reply. “Have you given any thought as to why Mrs. Farraline was killed at that precise time, rather than any other?” he asked.
“Opportunity,” Rathbone replied. “A perfect chance to lay the blame on someone else. I would have thought that was obvious.”
“Perhaps,” Henry agreed dubiously, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingertips together in a steeple. “But it seems to me also very possible that something provoked it at this precise time. You do not kill someone simply because a good opportunity presents itself.”
Rathbone straightened up, at last a tiny spot of instinct caught inside him.
“Have you something in mind?”
“Surely it is