Page 137 of The Sins of the Wolf (William Monk 5)

“It isn’t big enough,” he complained.

“It’ll do.”

“Mary expected Galbraith to be prosecuted? How do you know that?”

“She said something about seeing an Archie Frazer in the house, very late one night, rather furtively. I think it worried her.”

“Why?

Who is he?”

“A witness in the Galbraith case.”

He stiffened. “A witness?” He turned around a little to look at her in the lamplight. “What would a witness be doing coming to Alastair’s house at night? And Mary was worried?”

“Yes, it seemed to disturb her.”

“Because she knew he had no business there. Alastair had no business seeing a witness privately. And then the case was thrown out, never prosecuted?”

She stared at him. Even in the failing light, the yellow glare and shadow, she could see from his eyes that the same thought had come to him as now filled her mind.

“Bribery?” she whispered. “The Fiscal took money, or something else, not to prosecute Mr. Galbraith—and Mary feared it!”

“Once?” Monk said slowly. “Or often? The woman in the church said there had been a few cases dropped unexpectedly. Is our Fiscal a just man brave enough to defy expectations and throw out a poor case, regardless of public opinion; or is he a corrupt man taking some reward, monetary or otherwise, in order not to prosecute those who can and will pay his price?”

“And even if we can answer that,” she went on, almost under her breath, “there arises the other question—did Mary know it or fear it? And was he aware of that?”

He sat silently for several minutes, half turned in their cramped corner, his body sideways, legs out in front of him, covered by her skirts, which were keeping them both warm. The lamp was growing lower, the corners of the room completely lost in darkness. The air was getting very thin and stale.

“Maybe not Kenneth or Baird at all,” she whispered at last. “Or even Quinlan for the forgery. I’d rather think she didn’t know.”

“Damn,” he said between his teeth. “Damn Alastair Farraline!”

The same anger and frustration stirred within her, but far overriding it was a desire to share the intensity of feeling with all its subtleties and shades of disappointment, fear, memories, understanding and half-glimpsed thoughts, hunger for truth, and sense of self-blame.

He reached his hand over to take hold of hers where it lay on her skirt. For a moment she did not move, then without thinking, she leaned forward, her brow against his cheek, sliding her head down until it rested in the hollow of his neck, her face half turned on his shoulder. The whole gesture seemed oddly familiar and right. A sense of peace filled her and the anger drained away. It was all still true, still unjust and unresolved, but it no longer had the same importance.

The air was painfully thin. She had not the remotest idea what time it was. Daylight would make no difference here.

Gently he pushed her away until there was a space between them. She looked at him in the last of the lamplight, at the strong planes of his face, the wide gray eyes. In that moment there was no pretense between them, no lingering vestige of reserve or attempt to escape, no denial. It was final and complete.

Very slowly he leaned forward, infinitely slowly, and kissed her mouth with exquisite tenderness, almost a reverence, as if this one gesture with the last of his strength were almost a holy thing, a surrender of the final bastion.

She never thought not to answer him, not to give her inner self with as much generosity as he, in an embrace she had so long ached for, and to admit it in the passionate tenderness of her lips and her arms.

It was not long after when the lamp had finally guttered and gone out and they lay together, cold and almost senseless in the last of the air, when without warning there was a sound, a thump and a scraping. A shaft of light fell across the room, yellow and dim. And most blessedly of all, there was a draft, clean and sweet, smelling of paper.

“Are you there? Mr. Monk?” It was a tentative voice, a little blurred, and with the lift and music of the north.

Monk sat up slowly, his head hurting, eyes difficult to focus. Hester was still beside him; he could barely feel her breathing.

“Mr. Monk?” came the voice again.

“Hector!” Monk said with dry lips. “Hector … is that … are you …” He ended in a spasm of coughing.

Hester sat up awkwardly, holding on to him. “Major Farraline?” she whispered.

Stumbling over a ream of paper left in his path, knocking himself on the corner of the press and letting out a gasp of pain, Hector made his way over to them, setting his lamp on the floor. He looked dreadful in its yellow light, his thinning hair standing out in spikes, his eyes bloodshot and dark-rimmed. His concentration was intense, and obviously costing him effort, but the relief in his face redeemed it all.