“Finish yer meal and we will visit Sir McQuarrie afterward.”
I forced myself to eat.
He was right, of course, I did owe Sir McQuarrie an explanation. He had been more than kind, and had arranged for me to leave the police station after I was taken into custody. He had also made it possible for me to visit the morgue when it would not otherwise have been allowed in a murder investigation the police were pursuing.
“There are people who might be willing to tell me what they have heard on the street, over a pint, or for a coin...” he explained as we left the tavern.
“And they might not be willing to speak with me,” I replied the obvious.
Mikaela had spoken of it, and I had already experienced it at the police station in the way the constable at the desk had looked at me and might have easily dismissed me if not for Inspector Landry.
“What of Lady Antonia?” I attempted a different argument. “She will not be pleased when you do not return...”
“I dinna ask for permission, lass,” he replied.
I looked up at the bluntness of his answer, that blue gaze fastened on me. I realized that he would not have. He did not need to ask permission.
I was determined to learn who had killed Dory, yet that inner voice—instinct, Mikaela called it—whispered that I could not do this alone.
I stared out the window of the coach as we approached Parliament Square and Sir McQuarrie’s office.
The young law clerk informed him that we had arrived. He was preparing for a court appearance, one of three that day.
I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the front office as we waited, while Munro stood by the tall window that faced onto the street.
I had thought him out of place in the well-appointed office of the lawyer who was regarded as one of the most ruthless and successful attorneys in Edinburgh, according to Sir Laughton.
“Do not let McQuarrie’s congenial demeanour fool you. He is brilliant, perceptive and does not suffer fools. The manner of the kindly uncle is often deceptive,”Sir Laughton had counselled before I left London.“Others have suffered for it.”
I had no way of knowing what Sir McQuarrie might say about my decision to remain in Edinburgh, far different now from my original purpose as his clerk announced that he would see us.
He stood at his desk, methodically tucking folders and paperwork into a leather case. He already wore the formal garments of the court, the black robe with a stiff white wing collar, a wig on the desk.
“Miss Montgomery,” he looked up and greeted me. “And Mr. Munro.”
He obviously saw my curiosity at the wig.
“Horsehair,” he commented. “It can be dreadfully warm, and for some it can often take on the smell of...a horse,” he commented with a smile as he returned to the task at hand.
“Usually the south end of the creature. I have mine laundered regularly. You have made your visit to the morgue,” he added in that way I had noticed before that he handily changed the direction of the conversation.
I caught the look Munro gave me. Amusement perhaps?
There was no attempt to rescue me from my decision or speak on my behalf—not that it was surprising.
“There are things we learned that prevent me from returning to London,” I began. “I will be remaining in Edinburgh to learn more about what happened.”
Sir McQuarrie snapped the leather briefcase closed, then returned to the chair behind his desk.
“This could be a very serious undertaking, Miss Montgomery.”
“I am aware of that. I have some experience in such matters.”
He watched me with a steady gaze, muttonchop whiskers standing on end along his cheeks. I’d originally thought they gave him the appearance of a friendly terrier. I reminded myself that terriers were known to have a sharp bite.
“I have heard of your past experiences from Sir Laughton,” he replied. “That does not prepare you for what you might find in this matter. It will be no easy task, my dear. Far different from your original purpose in coming to Edinburgh, I might add.”
“Nevertheless, I will be staying.”
