The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [58]
“Yes sir?”
“Good morning,” Monk said briskly. “My name is William Monk. I have come from London on a matter of importance. I should like to speak either to Mr. Farraline or to Mrs. McIvor.” He produced a card.
“Indeed, sir.” The man’s face registered no change at all. He offered a silver tray. Monk dropped the card onto it. Apparently he was not an undertaker but the butler after all. “Thank you, sir. If you’ll be good enough to wait in the hall, I’ll see if Mrs. McIvor is at home.”
It was exactly the same polite fiction as in London. Of course he would know whether his mistress was at home, it was simply a matter of whether she would receive Monk—or not.
He waited in the crepe-hung hall, shifting from foot to foot in impatience. He had already worked out what message he would send next if she should refuse. He hoped the fact that he had come from London might be sufficient, anything further was not for the servants to be informed.
He had not long to be in doubt. It was not the butler who returned, but a woman in her mid-thirties, slender and straight-backed. For an instant her bearing reminded him of Hester; she had the same pride and determination in the set of her shoulders and the carriage of her head. However, her face was quite different, and the sweep of fair, almost honey-colored hair was unlike any he had ever seen before. She was not quite beautiful; there was too much individuality in her features, a strength in the jaw and a coolness in the eyes which offended convention. This must be Oonagh McIvor.
“Mr. Monk.” It was an acknowledgment, not a question. As soon as he heard her voice with its clarity and timbre he knew she would have mastered any but the most desperate of situations. “McTeer informs me you have come from London on some business with which you wish my assistance. Did he understand you correctly?”
“Yes, Mrs. McIvor.” From Hester’s description he had no doubt it was she, and no need to ask. Nor did he have the slightest qualm in lying. “I am involved in the prosecution of Miss Latterly in the matter of your late mother’s death, and it is my assignment to ascertain the facts, such as are known or can be discovered, so that there will be no errors, oversights or unpleasant surprises when the matter comes to trial. The verdict will be final. We must make sure it is the right one.”
“Indeed?” Her fair eyebrows rose minimally. “How very thorough. I had no idea the English prosecution—I believe it is not a Procurator Fiscal such as we have—was so diligent.”
“It is an important case.” He met her look squarely and without evasion or the slight tentativeness of good manners. Instinctively he felt she would despise deference and respect strength, as long as he at no time presumed, or allowed her to sense bluster in him, and never made a threat, implicit or explicit, that he could not keep. They had met only moments before, and yet already there was an awareness of each other’s nature and a measuring of both intellect and resolve, one he thought not without interest on her part.
“I am pleased you are sensible of it.” She allowed the slightest smile to curve her lips. “Naturally the family will give you all the assistance of which we are capable. My elder brother is the Procurator Fiscal, here in Edinburgh. We are familiar with the fact that even in cases where guilt seems beyond question the prosecution can fail to obtain a conviction, if those conducting it do not take every care in the preparation of evidence. I assume you do have a letter to this effect?” The inquiry was made courteously, but brooked no evasion.
“Naturally.” He produced a very creditable forgery he had taken the care to prepare on police paper he still had. That it was from the wrong station he trusted she would not know.
“It makes my task a great deal easier that you so readily comprehend the necessity of being sure of every detail,” he said as she examined the letter. “I confess, I had not thought I should be so fortunate in finding such …” He hesitated, allowing her to think it delicacy, in truth