futile. There was no explanation that made any kind of sense.
Callandra waited, knowing she had carried the argument, it was simply a matter of coming to the point of surrender.
“Yes …” Hester said quietly. “Yes, you are right. I shall go back upstairs and find the pins, then I’ll go and see if I can find Monk.”
“You may take my carriage,” Callandra offered.
Hester smiled wanly. “Do you not trust me to go?” But she did not wait for an answer. They both knew it was the only course that made sense.
Monk looked at her with a frown. They were in the small sitting room she had suggested he use as a place to receive prospective clients. It would make them feel much more at ease than his rather austere office, which was far too functional and intimidating. Monk himself was unnerving enough, with his smooth, lean-boned face and unwavering eyes.
He was standing by the mantelpiece, having heard the outer door open and come in immediately. His expression on recognizing her was an extraordinary mixture of pleasure and irritation. Obviously he had been hoping for a client. Now he regarded with disfavor her plain dress, the one borrowed from Callandra’s maid, her pale face and her hastily done hair.
“What’s wrong? You look dreadful.” It was said in a tone of pure criticism. Then a flicker of anxiety crossed his eyes. “You are not ill, are you?” There was anger in his voice. It would inconvenience him if she were ill. Or was it fear?
“No, I’m not ill,” she said tartly. “I have returned from Edinburgh on the overnight train, with a patient.” It was difficult to say this with the composure and the chill she wished. If only there had been someone else to turn to whowould be equally able to see the dangers and give good and practical advice.
He drew breath to make some stinging retort, then, knowing her as well as he did, realized there was something profoundly wrong. He waited, looking at her intently.
“My patient was an elderly lady of some position in Edinburgh,” she went on, her voice growing quieter and losing its sharpness. “A Mrs. Mary Farraline. I was employed to give her her medicine last thing at night, that was really all I had to do. Apart from that, I think it was mainly company for her.”
He did not interrupt. She smiled with a bitter amusement. A few months ago he would have. Being obliged to seek customers in order to obtain a living, instead of having them as a right, as he had when a police inspector, had taught him, if not humility, at least enlightened self-interest.
He motioned her to sit down, while he sat opposite her, still listening.
She returned her mind painfully to her reason for being there.
“She went to sleep about half past eleven,” she continued. “At least she seemed to. I slept quite well myself, having been up … in a second-class carriage all the way from London the night before.” She swallowed. “When I awoke in the morning, shortly before our arrival in London, I tried to rouse her, and discovered she was dead.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. There was sincerity in his voice, but also a waiting. He knew it must have disturbed her. Although it was probably beyond her control, it was a kind of failure and he knew she would regard it as such. But she had never confided her failures or sadnesses to him before … or at least only indirectly. She would not have come simply to say this. He stood with one foot on the fender, shoulder against the mantelshelf, waiting for her to continue.
“Of course I had to inform the stationmaster, and then her daughter and son-in-law, who had come to meet her. Itwas some time before I was able to leave the station. When I did, I went to see Callandra….”
He nodded. It was what he would have expected. In fact, it was what he would have done himself. Callandra was perhaps the only person in whom he would confide his emotions. He would never willingly allow Hester to see his vulnerability. Of course
Callandra waited, knowing she had carried the argument, it was simply a matter of coming to the point of surrender.
“Yes …” Hester said quietly. “Yes, you are right. I shall go back upstairs and find the pins, then I’ll go and see if I can find Monk.”
“You may take my carriage,” Callandra offered.
Hester smiled wanly. “Do you not trust me to go?” But she did not wait for an answer. They both knew it was the only course that made sense.
Monk looked at her with a frown. They were in the small sitting room she had suggested he use as a place to receive prospective clients. It would make them feel much more at ease than his rather austere office, which was far too functional and intimidating. Monk himself was unnerving enough, with his smooth, lean-boned face and unwavering eyes.
He was standing by the mantelpiece, having heard the outer door open and come in immediately. His expression on recognizing her was an extraordinary mixture of pleasure and irritation. Obviously he had been hoping for a client. Now he regarded with disfavor her plain dress, the one borrowed from Callandra’s maid, her pale face and her hastily done hair.
“What’s wrong? You look dreadful.” It was said in a tone of pure criticism. Then a flicker of anxiety crossed his eyes. “You are not ill, are you?” There was anger in his voice. It would inconvenience him if she were ill. Or was it fear?
“No, I’m not ill,” she said tartly. “I have returned from Edinburgh on the overnight train, with a patient.” It was difficult to say this with the composure and the chill she wished. If only there had been someone else to turn to whowould be equally able to see the dangers and give good and practical advice.
He drew breath to make some stinging retort, then, knowing her as well as he did, realized there was something profoundly wrong. He waited, looking at her intently.
“My patient was an elderly lady of some position in Edinburgh,” she went on, her voice growing quieter and losing its sharpness. “A Mrs. Mary Farraline. I was employed to give her her medicine last thing at night, that was really all I had to do. Apart from that, I think it was mainly company for her.”
He did not interrupt. She smiled with a bitter amusement. A few months ago he would have. Being obliged to seek customers in order to obtain a living, instead of having them as a right, as he had when a police inspector, had taught him, if not humility, at least enlightened self-interest.
He motioned her to sit down, while he sat opposite her, still listening.
She returned her mind painfully to her reason for being there.
“She went to sleep about half past eleven,” she continued. “At least she seemed to. I slept quite well myself, having been up … in a second-class carriage all the way from London the night before.” She swallowed. “When I awoke in the morning, shortly before our arrival in London, I tried to rouse her, and discovered she was dead.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. There was sincerity in his voice, but also a waiting. He knew it must have disturbed her. Although it was probably beyond her control, it was a kind of failure and he knew she would regard it as such. But she had never confided her failures or sadnesses to him before … or at least only indirectly. She would not have come simply to say this. He stood with one foot on the fender, shoulder against the mantelshelf, waiting for her to continue.
“Of course I had to inform the stationmaster, and then her daughter and son-in-law, who had come to meet her. Itwas some time before I was able to leave the station. When I did, I went to see Callandra….”
He nodded. It was what he would have expected. In fact, it was what he would have done himself. Callandra was perhaps the only person in whom he would confide his emotions. He would never willingly allow Hester to see his vulnerability. Of course
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