Page 140 of The Sins of the Wolf (William Monk 5)

“I wonder how long it has been there. Since my father’s time, I imagine, if Uncle Hector says it was his secret room.”

Alastair shifted his weight with an almost imperceptible sound.

Monk glanced at him for an instant, and then back at Oonagh.

“Almost certainly,” he agreed. “But it is also in present use. Some of the plates are as recent as last year.”

“How can you tell?” A flash of amusement lit Oonagh’s eyes. “Was the ink still wet?”

“Bank notes change, Mrs. McIvor. There are new designs brought in.”

“I see. You are saying someone is still using the room to forge money?”

“Yes. You should be pleased.” There was a black laughter underlying his voice now. “It will remove some of the burden from your husband. It makes another excellent motive for murder.”

“Does it, Mr. Monk? I fail to see how.”

“If your mother discovered it—”

This time it was she who laughed.

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Monk! Do you imagine Mother didn’t know?”

Hector made a strangled noise, but he did not move.

“You affected not to,” Monk pointed out.

“Certainly, but only before I realized that you are aware it is still in use.” Her face was cold and implacable now. She no longer concealed her enmity.

Alastair stood rooted to the spot. Quinlan’s hand had closed around a bright paper knife on the desk and he was balanced so as to move with violence.

“Not, of course, that this is the only motive for murder,” Monk went on, his voice cutting harsh with anger and stinging, bottomless contempt. “There is also the Galbraith case, and God knows how many others.”

“The Galbraith case? What in hell are you talking about?” Quinlan demanded.

But Monk was watching Alastair, and had he ever doubted the charge, he could no longer. The blood fled from Alastair’s face, leaving him ashen, his eyes terrified, his mouth slack. Instinctively, almost blindly, he looked at Oonagh.

“She knew,” Monk said with a depth of emotion that startled him. “Your mother knew, and you murdered her to keep it silent. You were trusted by your fellow men, honored, held above the ordinary citizens, and you sold justice. Your mother could not forgive that, so you killed her and tried to get her nurse hanged for it in your place.”

“No!”

It was not Alastair who spoke, he was beyond speech. The voice came from behind him. Monk half turned to see Hector push his way forward, staring at Alastair. “No,” he said again. “It wasn’t Alastair who made the list of Mary’s clothes for Griselda. It was you! You put that brooch in Hester’s bag. Alastair wouldn’t hav

e known even where to find it. Alastair, God help him, killed her, but it was you who would have hanged Hester in his place.”

“Rubbish,” Oonagh said sharply. “Hold your tongue, you old fool!”

A spasm of pain crossed Hector’s features so sharp it was beyond all proportion to the insult, which he must have heard a hundred times before, even if only in his mind.

Surprisingly it was Hester who spoke, from just behind Monk’s elbow.

“It couldn’t have been Alastair who put the pin in my case,” she said slowly. “Because Mary wore it with only one dress, and he knew she hadn’t packed that dress to take with her. He was the one who damaged it so it had to be cleaned.”

“Couldn’t it have been mended before she took it?” Monk asked.

“Don’t be absurd. It takes days to unpick and clean a silk gown and then stitch it back together again.”

As one they turned to Oonagh.