Page 111 of The Sins of the Wolf (William Monk 5)

“A lady of expensive tastes,” Argyll went on. “Not easy to keep her satisfied—and generous, and loyal—on a bookkeeper’s salary, even when he works for the Farraline company.”

“There is no money missing,” Kenneth said sullenly. “Count it for yourself.” There was confidence in his voice now, a ringing quality as if he knew he could not be proved wrong.

Argyll heard it too.

“I daresay there is none missing now, but was that always the case?”

The confidence was gone. Now it was defense.

“Certainly. I told you, I have taken nothing, and I was not responsible for my mother’s death. For all I knew it was Miss Latterly, for the wretched pearls.”

“So you say, sir, so you say.” Argyll smiled politely. “Thank you, Mr. Farraline, I have nothing further to ask you.”

Gilfeather shrugged. “I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord. As far as I can see he has nothing whatever to do with the case.”

Rathbone leaned forward again, grasping Argyll’s shoulder. “Call Quinlan Fyffe,” he whispered fiercely.

Argyll did not turn.

“I have nothing to ask him,” he whispered back. “I’ll only weaken my case by looking desperate.”

“Think of something,” Rathbone insisted. “Get him up there….”

“There’s no point! Even if he knows who killed her, he isn’t going to say so. He’s a clever and very self-possessed man. He isn’t going to flounder. He’s no Kenneth. Anyway, I’ve nothing to rattle him with.”

“Yes you have.” Rathbone leaned even farther forward, aware of the judge glaring at him, and the jury waiting. “Use his emotions. He’s a proud man, vain. He’s got a beautiful wife, and a brother-in-law who’s in love with her. He hates McIvor. Use his jealousy.”

“What with?”

Rathbone’s mind raced. “The company accounts. Eilish has been systematically taking books, with McIvor’s help, to teach her ragged school. I’ll wager Fyffe doesn’t know about that. For God’s sake, man, you’re supposed to be the best advocate in Scotland. Twist him. Use his emotions against him.”

“What about betraying Eilish?” Argyll asked. “Monk will be furious.”

“To hell with Eilish,” Rathbone said. “And Moni: too! This is Hester’s life!”

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge said loudly. “Are you concluding your case, or not?”

“No, my lord. The defense calls Quinlan Fyffe, may it please the court.”

The judge frowned. “For what purpose, Mr. Argyll? Mr. Gilfeather, are you aware of this?”

Gilfeather looked surprised, but interested, and not displeased.

The judge glanced at him.

Gilfeather lifted his shoulders slightly in the shadow of a shrug. “No, my lord, but if the court is prepared to wait for Mr. Fyffe to be sent for, I do not object. I think he will prove as useless to the defense’s case as Mr. Farraline.”

“Call Quinlan Fyffe!” the usher cried out. The words were echoed by the clerk at the door, and a messenger was duly dispatched.

In the interim the court was adjourned for luncheon.

When they returned over an hour later, Quinlan took the stand and was sworn in. He faced Argyll with outward politeness but a coldness of glance that bordered on insolence.

“Mr. Fyffe,” Argyll began carefully, measuring his words. “You are one of the principal officers in the management of the Farraline printing company, are you not?”

“Yes sir.”

“In what capacity?”