The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [85]
“She manages to go through enormous amounts, quite unexplained by the running of this house, which has been largely in my mother’s hands until her death, and of course mine.” She frowned. “Deirdra says she spends it on clothes, but she is exceptionally extravagant, even for a woman of fashion and some social position to maintain.” She took a deep breath and looked at Monk very squarely. “It is causing my brother Alastair some concern. If … if you should find out, in the course of your investigations, we would be most grateful to learn.” The ghost of a smile curved her lips. “We would express that gratitude in whatever manner was appropriate. I do not wish to insult you.”
“Thank you,” he said frankly. He was obliged to admit, his pride could be quite easily offended. “If I should learn the answer to that, which I may do, I will inform you directly I am certain.”
She smiled, in a moment’s candid understanding, and a moment later fell back into ordinary, meaningless chatter.
He took his leave shortly before a quarter to eleven, and was in the hall waiting for McTeer to emerge through the green baize door when Hector Farraline came lurching down the stairs and slid the last half dozen steps to land clinging to the newel post, his face wearing an expression of intense concentration.
“Are you going to find out who killed Mary?” he said in a whisper, surprisingly quiet for one so inebriated.
“Yes,” Monk replied simply. He did not think rational argument or explanation would serve any purpose, only prolong an encounter which was going to be at least trying.
“She was the best woman I ever knew.” Hector blinked and his eyes filled with a terrible sadness. “You should have seen her when she was young. She was never beautiful, like Eilish, but she had the same sort of quality about her, a light inside, a sort of fire.” He gazed across the hall past Monk, and for a moment his glance caught the huge portrait of his brother, which until now Monk had noticed only vaguely. The old man’s hp curled and his face filled with a vortex of emotions, love, hate, envy, loathing, regret, longing for things past, even pity.
“He was a bastard, you know—at times,” he said in little more than a whisper, but his voice shook with intensity. “The handsome Hamish, my elder brother, the colonel. I was only a major, you know? But I was a better soldier than he ever was! Cut a fine figure. Knew how to speak to the ladies. They adored him.”
He slid down to sit on the lowest step. “But Mary was always the best. She used to walk with her back so straight, and her head so high. She had wit, Mary. Make you laugh till you wept … at the damnedest things.” He looked regrettably close to weeping now, and impatient as he was, Monk felt a twinge of pity for him. He was an old man, living on the bounty of a younger generation who had nothing but contempt for him, and a sense of duty. The fact that he probably deserved nothing more would be no comfort at all.
“He was wrong,” Hector said suddenly, swiveling around to look straight at the portrait again. “Very wrong. He shouldn’t have done that to her, of all people.”
Monk was not interested. Hamish Farraline had been dead over eight years. There could be no connection with Mary’s death, and that was all that mattered now. Impatience was gnawing inside him. He moved away.
“Watch for McIvor,” Hector called after him.
Monk turned back.
“Why?”
“She liked him,” Hector said simply, his eyes wide. “You could always tell when Mary liked someone.”
“Indeed.”
He could not be bothered to wait for McTeer. The old fool was probably asleep in his pantry. He took his own coat off the hall stand and made for the front door just as Alastair came out of the withdrawing room, apologizing for McTeer’s absence.
Monk said good-night again, nodded towards Hector on the stairs, and went out of the front door. He had refused the offer of assistance to call a cab, and had set out to walk southwards when he saw an unmistakable figure pass beneath the lamplight so rapidly he almost missed her. But