The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [175]
As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned half towards them, but apparently it was to nod to the couple just ahead of them.
“Good morning, Fiscal,” the woman said grimly. “A fine day, is it not?” It was a ritual remark. It was beginning to rain and getting rapidly colder.
“Indeed, Mrs. Bain,” he replied. “Very agreeable. Good morning, Mr. Bain.”
“Good morning, Fiscal.” The man inclined his head respectfully and moved on.
“Poor creature,” the woman said as soon as they were past. “What a business for him.”
“Hold your peace, Martha,” the man said crisply. “I’ll not have you gossiping in here of all places. And on the Sabbath too. You should not be talking in kirk at all.”
She blushed angrily, but refused to defend herself.
Hester bit her lip with vicarious frustration.
Monk took her arm and led her, with some difficulty and several apologies for injured dignity and trodden toes, into the pew two rows behind the Farralines. Hester bent her head to pray, and he followed her example, at least outwardly.
More and more people arrived, several glancing at Monk and Hester with surprise and irritation. It was some time before either of them realized that apparently they had taken a place which by custom and tacit rule belonged to someone else. They did not move.
Monk watched, noticing how many people nodded or otherwise paid deference to Alastair. Those who spoke addressed him in a whisper, and by his office rather than his name.
“Such a clever man,” one woman murmured to her neighbor immediately in front of Monk. “I’m glad he didn’t prosecute Mr. Galbraith. I always thought he was innocent anyway. I don’t believe a gentleman like that would ever do such a thing.”
“And Mrs. Forbes’s son as well,” her neighbor replied. “I’m sure that was more of a tragedy than a crime.”
“Quite. Girl was no better than she should be, if you ask me. I know that sort.”
“Don’t we all, my dear. Had a maid like that once myself. Had to get rid of her, of course.”
“His father was a fine man too.” Her eyes returned to Alastair. “Such a pity.”
The organ was playing meditatively. Over to the left someone dropped a hymnbook with a crash. No one looked.
“I didn’t know you knew them.” There was a lift of interest in the woman’s voice in front of Hester, as she half turned her head to hear the better, should her neighbor choose to elaborate.
“Oh yes, quite well.” The neighbor nodded, the feathers in her hat waving. “So handsome, you know. Not like his miserable brother, who drinks like a fish, they say. Never had the talent either. The colonel was such an artist, you know.”
An old gentleman to the right glared at them and was ignored.
“An artist? I never knew that. I thought he owned a printing company.”
“Oh he did! But he was a fine artist too. Drew beautifully, and a great hand with his pen. Caricatures, you know? The poor major is a wretched creature beside him. No talent for anything, except sponging from the family, since the colonel died.”
Hester leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around, startled, expecting to be told yet again not to speak in the kirk.
“Would you like a stone?” Hester offered.
“I beg your pardon!”
“A stone,” Hester repeated clearly.
“Whatever for?”
“To throw,” Hester replied. And then, in case she had missed the point, “At Hector Farraline.”
The woman blushed scarlet. “Well really!”
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” Monk whispered, poking Hester with his elbow. “For God’s sake, woman, do you want to be recognized?”
She looked puzzled.
“ ‘Not proven’ !” he said sharply, but so quietly she barely heard him. “Not innocent!”
The color burned up her face, and she turned away.
The service began. It was extremely sober and pious, with a long sermon on the sins of undue levity and light-mindedness.
Sabbath luncheon at Ainslie Place