William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

haven’t.”
    “We are obliged to you,” Monk said sincerely.
    “Very much,” Hester added, holding Hector’s arm a little more tightly.
    “You’re welcome, my dear,” he replied. Then a look of puzzlement crossed his face again. “What is in there, anyway?”
    “You don’t know?” Monk said it almost casually, but there was an edge to his voice.
    “No I don’t. Is it something of Hamish’s?”
    “I think so. Hamish’s in the past. Quinlan’s now.”
    “That’s odd. Hamish never knew Quinlan all that well. He was ill by the time Eilish met him. In fact, he was going blind, and definitely had times of mental confusion and paralysis of his limbs. Why would he leave anything to Quinlan, rather than Alastair, or even Kenneth?”
    “Because Quinlan is an artist,” Monk answered, guiding Hester across the uneven road and onto the farther pavement.
    “Is he?” Hector looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. Never seen anything he’s done. Knew Hamish was, of course. Didn’t like his work much, too much draftsmanship and not enough imagination. Still, matter of taste, I suppose.”
    “Don’t want imagination in bank notes,” Monk said dryly.
    “Bank notes?” Hector stopped in the middle of the path.
    “Forgery,” Monk explained. “That’s what is in there. Plates and presses for printing money.”
    Hector let out a long, slow sigh, as if the thought and the fear had been inside him, pent up for years.
    “Is it indeed,” was all he said.
    “Did Mary know?” Hester asked, searching his face.
    He looked at her slowly, frowning, his fair brows drawn down, the early sunlight catching the freckles across his cheeks.
    “Mary? Of course not. She’d never have stood for it. Mary was a good woman … she had her … her …” He colored painfully. “Her weaknesses—she told lies, she had to….” There was a moment of fierce defensive anger in him. Then as quickly as it had flared up, it died again. “But she was not dishonest. Not in that way. She would never have allowed that! It’s—it’s not stealing from one person, it’s stealing from everyone. It’s … corrupt.”
    “I didn’t think she would,” Hester said with satisfaction, although she was puzzled by what else he had said, profoundly puzzled. She turned to Monk. “Where are we going? If you are looking for a carriage of some sort, we have just passed the main road.”
    “You’re going to the offices, aren’t you.” Hector made it a statement rather than a question. “You’re going to face them with it. Are you sure you are …” He frowned again, looking doubtfully across at Hester, then to Monk. “We three are not the best soldiers you could have…. You have been locked up all night without air, I am an old man too worn with drink and unhappiness to stand upright, and Miss Latterly, begging your pardon, ma’am, is merely a woman.”
    “I am quite refreshed,” Monk said bleakly. “You are a soldier, sir, and will not fail in the hour of need, and Miss Latterly is no ordinary woman. We shall be sufficient.”
    They continued in silence, each in solitary thoughts. It was actually only another two or three hundred yards; the offices were naturally enough no farther from the printing works than was necessary. Once it was on the edge of Hester’s mind to ask how Hector had known of the room at all and why he had never bothered to look for it before. Presumably in his muddled mind the whole thing was a confusion of memory, childhood envies and secrets, and since Hamish was long dead none of it had mattered muchat all until he had dimly, through a haze of alcohol, perceived that something was urgently wrong.
    They reached the offices and book warehouse still without having spoken any further. Now they stopped, hesilated only a moment, then Monk knocked sharply on the door and, as soon as a clerk opened it, strode in, closely followed by the two others.
    The clerk backed away, sputtering expostulations, and was ignored. Monk led the way through the outer area into the large open space, off which led the iron stairway up to Baird’s office and the other one which Alastair used on the rare occasions when he came. As always the cavern below was filled with presses, bales of paper, bolts of cloth, reels of twine and, stretching to the distance, rack after rack of books ready to be shipped. There seemed to be no one else about. Even the clerk had disappeared again. If there was anyone else, they were at the