Page 31 of The Sins of the Wolf (William Monk 5)

“No sir, not strangled …” Daly said quietly.

Rathbone’s throat tightened so he could hardly breathe.

“Poisoned,” Daly finished. “With a double dose of her medicine, to be exact.” He looked at Rathbone with deep sadness. “They found it when they cut her open an’ looked inside her. Not easy to spot, affects the heart, but seein’ as the lady was on the medicine, an’ two vials was empty when it should’a’ bin one, natural thing to look for, see? Not very pleasant, I’m afraid, but undeniable. I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Latterly is now being held on a charge of murder.”

“B-but …” Rathbone’s voice died away, choked in his throat, his lips dry.

“There weren’t no one else there, sir. Mrs. Farraline were perfectly all right when she got onto the train in Edinburgh with Miss Latterly, and she was dead, poor soul, when she arrived in London. You tell me what else we’re to believe.”

“I don’t know. But not that!” Rathbone protested. “Miss Latterly is a brave and honorable woman who served in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. She saved dozens of lives, at great cost to herself. She gave up the comfort and safety of England to—”

“I know all that, sir,” Daly interrupted firmly. “You prove as someone else killed the old lady, and I’ll be the first to drop the charge against Miss Latterly. But until you do, we’re holding ’er.” He sighed, looking at Rathbone sadly. “I got no pleasure in it. She seems like a nice young lady, and I lost a brother in the Crimea meself. I know what some o’ those women did for our men. But it’s my duty, and liking ’as nothing to do with it most of the time.”

“Yes—yes of course.” Rathbone leaned back in the chair, feeling drained, as if he had run a great distance. “Thank you. I shall begin my duty now, to find out what did happen and prove she had no part in it.”

“Yes sir. I wish you luck, sir. You’ll need all you can get, and more than luck as well.” And with that he turned around and opened the door, leaving Rathbone staring after him.

He had been gone only a few moments when Clements returned, his expression anxious. He poked his head around the door inquiringly.

“Mr. Rathbone, is there anything I can do, sir?”

“What?” Rathbone jerked to attention, at least physically. His thoughts were still in tumult. “What is it, Clements?”

“Is there anything I can do, sir? I take it it’s bad news of some nature.”

“Yes there is. Go and fetch Mr. William Monk, immediately.”

“Mr. Monk, sir? The detective, do you mean?”

“Yes of course, the detective. Fetch him here.”

“I shall have to give him some reason, Mr Rathbone,” Clements said unhappily. “He is not the sort of gentleman to come simply because I say so.”

“Tell him the Farraline case has taken a profound turn for the worse, and I need his undivided attention most urgently,” Rathbone replied, his voice growing sharper and unintentionally louder.

“If I don’t find him—” Clements began.

“Keep looking until you do! Don’t return here without him, man.”

“Yes sir. Indeed, I’m very sorry, sir.”

Rathbone forced his mind to attention. “What for? You’ve done nothing amiss.”

“No sir. I’m very sorry the Farraline case has turned for the worse. Miss Latterly is a fine young lady, and I’m sure—” He stopped. “I’ll go and find Mr. Monk, sir, and fetch him back right away.”

But it was two long, heavy hours before Monk pushed the office door open, without having knocked, and strode in. His face was pale, his wide, thin mouth drawn in a hard line.

“What happened?” he demanded. “What’s gone wrong now? Why haven’t you got in touch with the Farralines’ lawyer and explained what happened?” His eyebrows rose. “Surely you don’t want me to take it up to Edinburgh.”

The emotions that Rathbone had been fighting against since Daly first came in—the fear, the anxiety, the helplessness, the imaginings ahead that his intelligence foresaw—all burst in anger, the rawest and easiest release.

“No I do not!” he said between his teeth. “Do you think I’d send Clements ’round to fetch you simply to run errands for me? If that’s the extent of your ability, I’ve wasted my time—and yours. I should have called someone else … anyone else, God help me!”

Monk grew even paler. He read Rathbone’s temper as if it had been a page printed large in front of him. He understood both the fear and the self-doubt, and both were like a cold slap to the face for Rathbone.

“Mary

Farraline’s body has been examined, postmortem,” Rathbone said icily, “at the request of her daughter Griselda Murdoch. Apparently she died of an overdose of her medicine, the medicine Hester was employed to give to her. The police have accordingly charged Hester with her murder … presumably for the sake of the gray pearl brooch.”