“You don’t need to come with me,” she said defensively, rising to her feet. “I can find Oliver myself and tell him what happened. Thank you for your advice.” She went past him and out of the door into the entranceway. It was raining outside, and as she opened the street door the cold air chilled her, matching the fear and sense of isolation within.

He ignored her words and followed her out, closing the door behind him and beginning to walk towards the main thoroughfare, where they could find a hansom to take them from Tottenham Court Road west across the city towards the Inns of Court and Vere Street, where Oliver Rathbone had his office. She was obliged to go with him, or else start an argument which would have been totally foolish.

The traffic was heavy, carriages, cabs, wagons, carts of every description passing by, splashing the water out of the gutters, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses dripping, sodden hides dark. Drivers sat hunched with collars up and hats down in a futile attempt to keep the cold rain from running down their necks, hands clenched on the reins.

The crossing sweeper, a boy of about eight or nine years, was still busily pushing manure out of the way to make a clean path for any pedestrian who wished to reach the other side. He seemed to be one of those cheerful souls willing to make the best out of any situation. His skimpy trousers stuck to his legs, his coat was too long for him and gaped around the neck, but his enormous cap seemed to keep most of the rain off his head, except for his chin and nose. He wore the cap tilted at such an angle that the lower half of his face was visible, and his gap-toothed smile was the first thing one saw of him.

Monk had no need to cross the road, but he threw him a halfpenny anyway, and Hester felt a sudden surge of hope. The boy caught it and automatically put it between his teeth to assure himself it was real, then tipped his finger to the peak of his cap, almost invisible under its folds, and called out his thanks.

Monk hailed a hansom and as it stopped, he pulled open the door for her and then followed her in, calling out Rathbone’s address to the driver.

“Shouldn’t I go and get the brooch firstT’ Hester asked. “Then I can give it to him to return to the Farralines.”

“I think you should report it first,” he replied, settling himself in his seat as the cab lurched forward. “For your own safety.”

The chill returned. She said nothing. They rode in silence through the wet streets. All she could think of was Mary Farraline, and how much she had liked her, her stories of Europe in her youth, of Hamish as a soldier, dashing and brave, and the other men with whom she had danced the nights away before those tumultuous days. They had seemed so alive in her memory. It was hard to accept that she too was suddenly and so completely gone.

Monk did not interrupt her thoughts. Whatever he was concerned with, it apparently held him totally. Once she glanced sideways at him and saw the deep concentration in his face, eyes steadily ahead, brows drawn fractionally downward, mouth tense.

She looked away again, feeling closed out.

At Vere Street the cab stopped and Monk alighted, held the door for her long enough for her to move over and grasp it herself, then paid the driver and went across the pavement to the entrance of the offices and tugged sharply at the bellpull.

The door was opened by a white-haired clerk in winged collar and frock coat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” he said stiffly. Then he caught sight of Hester behind him. “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. Please come in out of the rain. Fearful weather.” He shook his head, standing back for them to follow him into the foyer, and then the outer office. “I am afraid Mr. Rathbone is not expecting you.” He looked at them doubtfully, his pale gray eyes very steady, like a disillusioned schoolmaster. “He has a gentleman with him presently.”

“We’ll wait,” Monk said grimly. “This is a matter of urgency.”

“Of course.” The clerk nodded his head and indicated a seat where they could make themselves comfortable. Monk declined and stood impatiently, staring through the glass partitions to the office where juniors in black coats copied writs and deeds in copperplate, and other more senior clerks searched in huge law books for references and precedents.

Hester sat down, and Monk sat also but almost immediately rose to his feet again, unable to keep still. One or two heads lifted as they caught sight of him out of the comer of their eyes, but no one spoke.

Minutes ticked by. Monk’s face grew tighter and his impatience more obvious.

Finally the door of Rathbone’s office opened and an elderly gentleman with massive side whiskers came out, turned and said something, then bowed very slightly and made his way across the office to where the clerk who had welcomed Hester and Monk left his desk and handed the gentleman his hat and cane.

Monk moved forward. No one was going to preempt him. He grasped the handle of the office door and swung it wider, coming face-to-face with Oliver Rathbone.

“Good afternoon,” Monk said briskly. “Hester and I have the most urgent matter with which we require your assistance.”

Rathbone did not back away. His long face with its humorous eyes and mouth registered only good-natured surprise.

“Indeed?” He looked past Monk at the clerk who had shown the previous client to the door and was now standing wondering what to do about Monk and his regrettable lapse from good manners. Rathbone met his eyes, and understanding passed between them. Monk saw it, and unaccountably it irritated him. But he was in the position of a supplicant, so it would be self-defeating to be sarcastic. He stepped back to allow Rathbone to see Hester, who was now just behind him.

Oliver Rathbone was of medium height, slender, and dressed with the immaculate ease of one who is accustomed to the best of material things and has grown to take elegance for granted. It required no effort; it was a way of life.

However, when he saw Hester’s pale face and unusually grim and bedraggled appearance, his composure was shaken, and ignoring Monk, he went forward anxiously.

“My dear Hester, whatever has happened? You look quite-distressed!”

It was nearly two months since she had last seen him, and then it had been more by chance than design. She was not sure how he regarded their relationship. In any formal sense it was professional rather than personal. She did not move in his social sphere at all. Yet they were friends in a deeper sense than most acquaintances ever were. They had shared passionate beliefs in justice, spoken more frankly than perhaps either had to anyone else about certain things. On the other hand, there were whole worlds of personal emotions they had never touched on at all.

Now he was staring at her with obvious concern. In spite of his fairish hair, his eyes were very dark, and she was acutely aware of the intelligence in him.

“For goodness’ sake tell him!” Monk said, waving his arm towards the office. “But not out here,” he added, in case she should be absentminded enough to be so indiscreet.

Without looking at Monk, Hester walked in front of Rathbone and into the office. Monk followed her, and Rathbone came in behind and closed the door.

Hester began straightaway. Quietly and succinctly, with as little emotion as she could manage, she told him the elements of what had transpired.

Rathbone sat listening without interruption, and although twice Monk opened his mouth to speak, on each occasion he changed his mind.

“Where is this brooch now?” Rathbone said when at last she finished.

“With Lady Callandra,” she replied. Rathbone knew Callandra well enough and no introduction of her was necessary.

“But she did not see you find it? Not that it matters,” he added quickly, on observing her consternation. “Could you have misunderstood Mrs. Farraline on the subject of having left this article in Edinburgh?”