William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

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 have 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 onlyone 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.
    She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know she’d marked the dress. I wanted to protect him,” she said very quietly.
    Alastair looked at her with a ghastly smile filled with despair.
    “But she didn’t know,” Monk said very softly, almost under his breath. The words fell in the room like stones. “She was afraid, because she saw Archie Frazer in the house, but you could have explained that. You killed her for nothing.”
    Very slowly, as if in a nightmare, Alastair turned to Oonagh, his face like a dead man’s, aged and yet with the helplessness of a lost child. “You said she knew. You told me she knew. I didn’t have to kill her! Oonagh—what have you done to me?”
    “Nothing, Alastair! Nothing!” she said quickly, putting out both her hands and gripping his arms. “She would have ruined us, believe me.” Her voice was desperate, urgent that he should understand.
    “But she didn’t know!” His voice was rising, shrill with betrayal and despair.
    “All right! She didn’t know that, or the forgery.” The gentleness vanished and her features were suddenly ugly. “But she knew about Uncle Hector and Father, and she’d have told Griselda. That is what she was on the way south to do. Griselda and her stupid obsession with health and her child. She’d have told Connal, and then it would have been all over the place.”
    “Told him what? What are you talking about?” He was utterly lost. He seemed to have forgotten everyone in theroom except Oonagh. “Father’s been dead for years. What did it have to do with her child? It doesn’t make any sense….”
    Oonagh’s face was as white as his, but with fury and contempt. There was still no fear in it, and no weakness.
    “Father died of syphilis, you fool! He was riddled with it! What did you think his blindness was, and his paralysis? We kept him in the house and said it was a stroke … what else were we to do?”
    “B-but … syphilis takes years to get to …” He stopped. There was a funny little choking sound in his throat, as if he could not breathe. He was horrified beyond movement, except for his dry lips. It almost seemed as if she were holding him up. “That means … that means we are all … Griselda … her child, all our children … Oh sweet Jesus!”
    “No it doesn’t,” she said