Death of a Stranger

chapter EIGHT
Monk arrived at the station in London exhausted. His head ached so fiercely all he wanted to do was go home, take as hot a bath as he was able to, then have several cups of tea and go to bed to sleep properly, lying flat and between clean sheets. It would be best of all if Hester were beside him, understanding everything and holding no criticism or blame, and that would be impossible. To do that she would have to be without moral judgment. And what use would she be then, what real person at all? Or that she would be unaware of any of the fears that tangled in his mind, simply there, a gentle presence in the darkness.

Except that, of course, she would know what he was feeling: the fear of truth, of finding in himself a greed and a cowardice he would despise, a betrayal for which there was no excuse. Greater than his wrong to Dundas was his wrong to himself, to all that he had made and built out of his life since the accident. If she did not know that, then in what sense was she actually there at all? None that mattered. She might as well be in another place. They would speak, touch, even make love with each other, and the heart would remain utterly alone. It would be a worse loneliness than to have stayed apart, because it was a negation of what had been real, and mattered infinitely.

So he would go to a public bath, and simply buy a new shirt. He would visit a barber to make himself look fit to go this afternoon and meet Katrina Harcus, and tell her that there was no reason whatever to suspect Michael Dalgarno of anything that was not usual practice among businessmen. There was no record of his having bought or sold any land in his own name, or of having made any profit other than for the company for which he acted.

Monk would also report that he had investigated the crash in which Baltimore and Sons had been peripherally involved sixteen years ago, and the land fraud proved against one of its bankers had no connection whatever with it. The cause of that tragedy was not known, but the track had been repaired and was still in use. It had been examined minutely, and no flaws or inadequacies had been found in it.

He was so tired he longed for sleep, even on a park bench in the bright April sun, but he was afraid of what horror might return to him the moment he lost control of his thoughts. He did not know how he could be guilty of anything, but the guilt remained, the helplessness, the blood, the screams, the awful squeal of metal on metal, and the glare and smell of fire, and always the certain knowledge that he could have prevented it.

He drank coffee bought from a corner peddler, then made his way back to the gingerbread seller to see what he had learned from his notorious acquaintances. He found him dispersing slices of hot, spiced loaf to a group of children, and waited a few yards off until he had finished.

"Well?" he asked. There was no need to question if the man remembered him; his crooked face was alive with anticipation.

" 'E went out, all right," he said triumphantly. " 'Bout midnight. Face like thunder. Come back 'alf an hour later, no more."

Half an hour. Not time enough to get to Leather Lane, find Nolan Baltimore, kill him, and return. Monk was overswept with relief, so sharp it was physical. He could tell Katrina that Dalgarno was innocent.

"And he didn't go out again?"

"Not 'less it were close on daylight," the gingerbread seller said firmly. "Crows 'as got eyes like 'awks. Don't miss nothin'. Can't afford to!"

He was right. The lookout men for burglars survived on their ability to see, remember and report.

"Thank you," Monk said sincerely. He was so relieved he gave the man a sovereign, and added another half crown on top, then bought a piece of gingerbread.

At two o'clock he was tired and his feet were sore, but his step was light as he went in through the gate of the Royal Botanic Gardens, noticing briefly the blaze of color of the spring flowers. He had only five minutes to wait. She came to the entrance and stopped still, searching for him. Several other people turned to look at her. He was not surprised; she was most striking with her dramatic face and proud bearing, head high. She wore white muslin sprigged with dark blue, and the lines of the bodice echoed the same vivid color, accentuating the femininity of it. Her hat had roses on the brim, and her parasol was trimmed with blue ribbons. Several gentlemen stared at her, smiling for longer than was really polite, but their admiration robbed it of offense.

She saw Monk, and her face lit with pleasure, almost relief. He knew she must have been here many days, each time hoping to see him. He felt a welling up of satisfaction because at last he could tell her that as far as any investigation could show, Dalgarno was innocent of fraud, and even if there was land fraud by anyone else, it could have no connection with any crash. Her fears were honorable but needless.

She came toward him swiftly, stopping so close to him he could smell the perfume she wore, warm and musky, quite different from the sweet, fresh smell of the flowers around them.

"You have news?" she said with a gasp. "I can see it in your face."

"Yes." He smiled back at her.

There was a wildness in her eyes, and he saw her bosom rise and fall in the effort to control her breathing. He put his hand up as if to touch her arm, to reassure her, then realized how little he really knew her. The understanding of her fears, the feeling of identity with her, was on his side only. She would regard his touch as intrusive, which it would be. He let his hand fall again.

"Most importantly, I have been able to ascertain that Mr. Dalgarno did not leave his house at a time or for a duration where he could possibly be involved in Nolan Baltimore's death."

She was startled. "How?" she said incredulously. "How could anyone know that?"

"Burglars leave men on watch," he explained dryly. "They call them crows. There was at least one on that street between midnight and dawn."

She breathed out very slowly, her face very pale. "Thank you. Thank you very much. But... but what about..."

"I have searched exhaustively in London and in Liverpool, where the company was based earlier, Miss Harcus," he said. "And I can find no evidence of fraud at all."

"None..." She started, her voice high, her head moving very slowly in a gesture of denial, disbelief.

"A little oversharp profit on certain deals," he conceded. "But that is common." He stated it with authority, realizing only afterwards that he was speaking from memory. He was not guessing, he knew. "And everything was in the company name, not that of Mr. Dalgarno. He is a successful businessman, and as honest as most."

"Are you certain?" she pleaded, her face flooded with amazement and dawning joy. "Absolutely certain, Mr. Monk?"

"I am sure there is nothing whatever to raise doubt as to his honor," he repeated. "You may rest in confidence that his reputation is in no peril."

She jerked back, her eyes wide. An onlooker might have thought he had insulted her from the disbelief in her face, which seemed almost like anger. "Rest?" she said fiercely. "But the crash! What about the danger of another?"

"The Liverpool crash had nothing to do with the track," he said patiently. "It was driver error, with a possibility that the brakemen also were-"

Now she was angry, flinging her hand back, almost as if to strike the person behind her. "What-all of them?" she challenged. "They all chose the same moment to make a mistake?"

He caught her wrist. "No, they don't mean that. They mean it was one of them, and possibly the others panicked and didn't know how to right it."

"Are you saying that Baltimore and Sons was innocent?" she demanded. "Always? Then and now?"

"Innocent of the crash, yes." He heard his own voice, and he sounded uncertain. Why? There was nothing to implicate Nolan Baltimore in the Liverpool crash or in the fraud that had ruined Arrol Dundas. It was his own emotions, his own shadow of guilt, trying to place the blame on someone he did not care about.

She took a step towards him. Now she seemed almost excited. Her eyes were bright, her body tense, her cheeks flushed with pink. She put her hands on the front of his chest, closing her fingers tightly over the edges of his jacket. "Is there proof of their innocence?" she said hoarsely. "Real proof? Something that would stand in a court? I have to be sure. An innocent man was convicted once before."

He felt his own body tighten and the blood pound in his veins. He clasped her wrists. "How do you know that?" he said between his teeth. He was startled to find that he was shaking.

She pulled away from him violently. He felt the button in her hand rip off his coat, but it hardly mattered. Her face was filled with emotion so intense her eyes blazed and her color was hectic. She stared at him for a long, desperate moment, then spun on her heel and all but ran back toward the gate.

Monk was aware that several people were staring at them, but he did not care. What did she know about Arrol Dundas? That question filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He strode after her, almost catching up with her at the gate out onto Inner Circle pathway, but she was moving rapidly. She crossed the path and followed it through the grass and trees past the Toxophilite Society grounds on the left, toward the bridge over an arm of the lake. He managed to stop her on the far side, again to the alarm and curiosity of passersby.

"How do you know that?" he repeated the demand. "What have you heard? From whom-Dalgarno?"

"Dalgarno?" she said incredulously, then she started to laugh, a wild sound, close to hysteria. But she did not answer. Instead, she turned away from him again and half ran along York Gate towards the Marylebone Road and the general traffic with carriages and hansoms going in both directions. "I'm going home!" she called at him over her shoulder.

He ran after her, catching up again and walking beside her as she reached the road and raised her parasol to hail a cab. One pulled up almost immediately and Monk helped her in, climbing in after her.

She made no protest, almost as if she had expected him to.

"If it was not Dalgarno, then from whom?" he insisted after she had given the driver instructions to take her to Cuthbert Street in Paddington.

She turned to face him. "You mean the fraud case, all those years ago?"

"Yes, of course I do!" He kept his temper only with the greatest difficulty. It mattered intensely. What did she know? How could she know anything, except from Baltimore's records or something she had overheard him say?

She stared straight ahead, smiling, but there was a hollowness in her eyes. "Did you imagine I made no enquiries myself, Mr. Monk?" Her voice was hard-edged, grating. "Did you think I learned nothing about the past history of Baltimore and Sons when I knew how deeply Michael was involved in it, and expected to make his fortune through it?"

"You said that you knew an innocent man was convicted of fraud in that case," he said grimly, horrified at how his own voice betrayed the emotion choking him. "How do you know that? No one knew it then."

"Didn't they?" she asked, staring ahead of her.

"Of course they didn't, or he wouldn't have died in jail!" He grasped her arm. "How do you know? What happened?"

She turned in the seat to stare at him, her face twisted with a fury so intense he drew back from it, loosening his hold on her.

"A great wrong, Mr. Monk," she said softly, her voice trembling, her words almost a hiss. "People were wronged then, and are wronged now. But revenge will come-that I promise you. It will come... on my mother's grave... on mine if need be."

"Miss Harcus..."

"Please get out!" Her face was ashen now. "I need to think, and I must do it alone." She snatched her hand from him and, picking up the parasol, banged on the front of the hansom to draw the driver's attention. "I will tell you... this evening."

She banged on the front again, more fiercely.

"Yes, miss?" the driver answered.

"Mr. Monk is alighting. Would you be so good as to stop," she ordered.

"Yes, miss," he said obediently, and pulled in to the curb. They were at the corner of Marylebone Street and the Edgware Road, traffic streaming around them in both directions.

Monk was touched by a deep concern for her. She looked so torn by conflicting passions it was almost as if she had a fever. He wanted desperately to know what she meant by stating so vehemently that Dundas was innocent and that revenge would come, or what the present wrong was that he could not see. But now that he knew where she lived at least he could find her again when she was calmer. Perhaps he could even be of some help to her. Now she needed to rest and compose herself.

"I'll call upon you, Miss Harcus," he said far more gently. "Of course, you need time to consider."

She made an intense effort at self-control, breathing in very deeply and letting it out in a sigh. "Thank you, Mr. Monk. That would be very good of you. You are most patient. If you would call upon me this evening-after eight, if you would be so good-then I shall tell you what you wish. I shall speak to Michael Dalgarno again, and that will be the end of it, I promise. You have played your part perfectly, Mr. Monk. I could not have wished better. You will see me after eight? Do you give me your word-absolutely?"

"I do," he swore.

"Good." The faintest ghost of a smile touched her face. "At twenty-three Cuthbert Street. You have given me your word!"

"Yes. I will be there."

He alighted and stood on the pavement as the hansom pulled away from the curb immediately and was lost in the traffic.

Monk went home to Fitzroy Street and an empty house. He washed and slept at last. At ten past eight, as the light was fading, he took a hansom to twenty-three Cuthbert Street. He was startled back to attention from his thoughts when they stopped abruptly and the cabbie looked in and told him that he could not go any further.

"Sorry, sir," he said apologetically. "P'lice blockin' the road. Dunno wot's 'appened, but there's a big ruckus up front. Can't go no further. Yer'll 'ave ter walk, if they'll let yer."

"Thank you." Monk scrambled out, paid him, leaving the change of eight pence, and started to walk toward figures he could see standing under the street lamps. There were three men, two arguing with each other, the third, familiar in its tall, stiff outline, looking down at something like a bundle of clothes that lay at his feet. It was Runcorn, who had been Monk's rival in the old days, then his superior; who had always hated and feared him until the quarrel when he had dismissed Monk at the same moment Monk had resigned in fury. Then the case of the artist's model just months before had drawn them together again, and in shared emotions, painful and unexpected pity, they had formed an uneasy alliance.

But what was Runcorn doing here?

Monk lengthened his stride, only just restraining himself from running the last few yards.

"What is it?" he demanded, although as Runcorn swung around to face him, he could already see. The figure of a woman was sprawled on the ground. Her white muslin dress trimmed in blue was crumpled, and dirty, and deeply stained with blood. She lay half on her front, half sideways, as if she were broken. Her neck was at an awkward angle, one arm doubled under her, her legs crooked.

Instinctively, he looked upward and saw the flat roof of the building's third floor, and then the rest of it going up another story beyond that. There was a railing as if it were an extended balcony from the upstairs room. He could not see the door; it was hidden by the wall above them.

A wave of nausea overtook him, and then overwhelming, consuming pity. He stared at Runcorn, his mouth too dry to speak.

"Looks like she fell off," Runcorn replied to Monk's original question. "Except she's a bit far out, as the eye sees it. And people usually fall backward. Might have twisted in the air." He squinted upward. "It's a fair distance. Get a better idea from up there. Could've jumped, I suppose."

Monk started to speak, then stopped.

"What is it?" Runcorn asked sharply.

"Nothing," Monk said hastily. He should say nothing... not yet. His mind raced. What on earth could have happened? She would never, ever have jumped! Not Katrina Harcus. She was on the edge of exposing an ancient wrong. She wanted revenge, and she had had it almost within her grasp. And Dalgarno was innocent, which was what she had wanted above all from the beginning.

A uniformed constable came across the pavement, pushing his way past the bystanders who had begun to gather. "Got a witness, sir," he said to Runcorn. His face was pinched and unhappy, expression exaggerated in the shadows cast by the street lamp. "Says there were two people up there, quite definite. 'E saw them strugglin' back and forward. 'Eard 'er scream out summink, and then she staggers back an' 'e comes after 'er, an' next thin' 'e turns, an' she's gorn over the edge." He looked down at the figure on the ground. "Poor creature. Looks like she were youn'... an' right 'andsome too. It's a cryin' shame."

"What happened to the man?" Runcorn asked, glancing at Monk, then back to the constable.

The constable straightened up. "Dunno, sir. I asked the witness but 'e didn't see. Light was very fitful, like. 'E saw 'er partic'lar because of 'er wearin' white an' all. Man were in summink very dark, an' 'e'ad a cloak on, sort o'..." He shrugged. "Well, a cloak. Witness says 'e saw it billowin' out when they was fightin' just before she went over."

Monk felt sick imagining it, Katrina struggling with someone, crying out for help, and no one did more than watch! They did not even know who had been there on the roof fighting with her... killing her! Dalgarno? It must have been. He was the only person involved. He must have come here when she had contacted him, as she had told Monk she would. Something she had said, some evidence she had found and he had missed, for all his meticulous searching, had driven Dalgarno to defend himself this murderous way.

But what? How had he committed the fraud? Why had Monk not been able to find it? Why was he so stupid, so blind all over again? And now someone else was dead, another he had been doing everything he could to help. He had promised her... and failed.

Runcorn was still talking to the constable. Monk bent onto his knees beside the body. Her eyes were wide open. This side of her face was barely damaged at all; there was just a trickle of blood. He knew better than to touch her, but he wanted to brush back the hair from her cheek, as if she could feel it across her skin. One hand was under her, the other outstretched, and as he looked more closely he could see there was something held inside it, something very small. Had she clutched at her murderer the last moment before he pushed her over, and torn something from him?

Runcorn and the constable were still absorbed in conversation, facing each other. Monk put out one finger and moved Katrina's hand very slightly, just enough for the object to slip out of the slack grasp and fall onto the stones. It was a button, a man's coat button. He drew in his breath to tell Runcorn, then a wave of heat engulfed him, bringing the sweat out on his skin, and the instant after he was cold. It was his own button, the one she had torn off in a heated moment in the Botanic Gardens! But that had been hours ago!

"What have you got?" Runcorn's voice broke into his daze of horror, shattering his indecision. He could do nothing now, certainly not hide it. With clumsy fingers he fastened the lower buttons on his jacket so the top would be closed as well, hiding the fact that a button was gone, seeming as if it were simply not done up. He rose to his feet, his legs trembling. "A button," he said huskily. He cleared his throat. "There was a button in her hand."

Runcorn bent down and lifted it from the pavement, turning it over and over curiously.

Monk held his breath. Please God, Runcorn would not notice that it was exactly like the ones on Monk's coat! It was dark; he was half turned from the street lamp. He would leave as soon as he could.

"Man's coat button, by the look of it," Runcorn observed. "Must have pulled it off as she struggled with him." He put it in his own breast pocket. "Good piece of evidence." He gave his attention to the constable again. "You talk to the people around here. See what you can find. Do we know who she was yet?"

"No, sir," the constable answered. "They seen 'er comin' an' goin', but not to speak to, like. Seemed very respectable. A Miss Barker, or Marcus, or summink like that, but not sure."

To evade it was a pointless lie, and he would be caught in it sooner or later. "Harcus," Monk said quietly. "Katrina Harcus."

Runcorn stared at him. "You know her?"

"Yes. I was working on an investigation for her." Now the die was cast, but he could not have hidden it, and neither should he want to. It was one coat button, easily enough explained. There might even be people in the gardens who had seen them and would recall the gesture in which she had accidentally ripped it off. "I can help," he went on. Now that fierce anger overtook the initial shock, he wanted to. He wanted to be revenged for her, to find who had done this and see him punished. It was all he could do for her now. He had failed in everything else, but she had wanted revenge; he remembered very clearly the fury in her face. He could get at least that for her.

Runcorn's eyes were wide. He let out his breath slowly. "So you weren't here by accident. I should have known. What would you be doing in Cuthbert Street at this hour of the evening?" It was a rhetorical question to which he expected no answer. "What was it, this case you were working on?" he asked. "Do you know who did this to her?"

"No, I don't know," Monk replied. "But I've an idea, and I'll damn well find out... and prove it! She was betrothed to a Michael Dalgarno, a senior employee of Baltimore and Sons, a railway company-"

"Just a minute!" Runcorn interrupted him. "Wasn't there a Nolan Baltimore murdered in Leather Lane just a few weeks ago? Is that some connection with this?"

"None that I've been able to find," Monk admitted. "Looks like Baltimore simply went to enjoy his pleasures and got involved in a fight that ended badly. Perhaps he didn't pay enough, or more likely he was drunk and picked a quarrel."

"So what were you doing here?" Runcorn pressed.

"Nothing to do with that," Monk replied.

"There's no need to be secretive now, Monk. She's dead, poor creature." He glanced down at her. "The only help you can give her is to find out who killed her."

"I know that!" Monk retorted sharply. He steadied himself with an effort. "As I said, she was betrothed to Michael Dalgarno. She was concerned that there might be some fraud to do with the new line they are building between London and Derby." He saw Runcorn's start of interest. "Specifically to do with the purchase of land-"

"And was there?" Runcorn cut across him eagerly.

"None that I could find, and I looked very carefully." Monk knew he sounded defensive. He felt it. If he had found the proof, Katrina might still be alive.

Runcorn looked dubious. "If it were plain to see, others would have found it too."

"I know more about railways than most people," Monk responded, then instantly felt vulnerable. He had told too much about himself, opened up areas where he was guessing, piecing bits together one at a time-and to Runcorn, of all people!

Theirs was an uneasy truce; the old resentments were covered over, not gone.

"Do you?" Runcorn said with surprise. "How's that, then? Thought you were in finance before you joined up with us ordinary police." His words were civil enough, even his tone, but Monk knew the envy of money, of self-assurance, of a life Runcorn had never had, with its social ease and elegance.

"Because railways have to be financed," he replied. "The last thing I did before leaving banking was a new railway line near Liverpool."

Runcorn was silent for a moment. Perhaps he heard the strain in Monk's voice or caught something of his grief and his anger.

"So you found no fraud," he said at last. "Does that mean for sure that there wasn't any?"

"No," Monk admitted. "It means that if it was there, then it was very well hidden indeed. But she was convinced it was... even more so the last time I met her than in the beginning."

"So she'd found something, even if you hadn't!" Runcorn eyed him sideways. "Did she give you any idea what it was?"

"No. But her whole conviction that there was something wrong arose from things she overheard in the Baltimore offices, or house. Being betrothed to Dalgarno gave her access to conversations I had not."

Runcorn grunted. "Then we'd better go in and find out what there is-except I daresay he took it with him! Probably why he killed her." He started forward toward the house.

Monk changed his mind about leaving and decided to accept it as an invitation to accompany Runcorn. He could not afford to refuse. He moved with alacrity to follow, catching up with him at the entrance and going in a step behind him.

It was still early in the evening, but by now word had spread that a woman had fallen or been thrown off the roof and was lying dead in the street. Neighbors waited in shocked silence or hasty, whispered conversations with each other. The uniformed constables were questioning them all, one by one, for anything they might have noticed either tonight or earlier.

Runcorn was shown up the stairs to Katrina's apartments. Monk was close on his heels, as if he belonged, and no one challenged him.

"Right!" Runcorn said as soon as they were inside and the door closed. The gas was burning as she must have left it, but the corners were still full of shadows. Monk was grateful for it, conscious of the missing button as if it had been a bloodstain.

"Where'd she keep her papers, anything that would be likely to tell us about this railway?" Runcorn asked, looking about him.

"I don't know. I've never been here before," Monk replied, turning away from the light.

"I thought you said she employed you? And you were on your way here tonight. You told me." There was challenge in Runcorn's voice.

"It was the first time I'd come here," Monk explained. "She came to my office, or we met in the Royal Botanic Gardens." It sounded odd even as he said it.

"Why's that?" Runcorn said curiously, skepticism in his eyes.

"She was very careful of her reputation," Monk answered. "She was betrothed to an ambitious man. She wanted to be entirely discreet about having hired me. I imagine she intended it to appear that we were social acquaintances." He went to put his hands in his pockets, then realized it would alter the sit of his coat, perhaps showing the missing button, and changed his mind. "After the first time, we always met in public, and by chance. She walked in the gardens every day at the same time, and if I had anything to report I knew where to find her."

"Extremely careful," Runcorn agreed. "Poor creature," he added softly. "Maybe she knew then that this Dalgarno was dangerous." He shook his head. "Funny what attracts some women to a man. I'll never understand that. Well, we'd better get on with it. We'll just have to search."

Monk stared around at the room. It was simply furnished, but the taste was excellent and the few pieces were of good quality, giving it an air of spaciousness that was unusual. He was not surprised. Katrina herself had been a woman of character and strength, highly individual. Again his anger against Dalgarno boiled over, and he went across to the desk and opened it. He kept his back to Runcorn, who was still staring around, gaining an impression of the style of the room, and going instinctively to the glass doors which opened onto the balcony from which she must have fallen.

The desk contained quite a few business papers, and Monk began leafing through them, only glancing at the subject. He did not know what he was looking for, and if Dalgarno had killed her because she had found proof of his fraud, then most certainly she would have shown it to him and he would have taken it to destroy. Nevertheless there might be more than one paper of interest, and he had to look.

He found something surprisingly quickly, but it was not what he expected. It was a letter written but obviously never sent, addressed to someone named Emma.

Dear Emma,

I promised to tell you all I learned, so I must keep my word, even though it is extremely painful for me to acknowledge such a mistake. I have discovered papers to do with the original fraud in Liverpool, and it now seems incontrovertible that Mr. Monk, whom I had trusted profoundly, was actually involved in that terrible affair himself. I found an old receipt among the Baltimore papers, and it was signed by him!

Upon further investigation, I learned that he once worked in merchant banking, and was connected with the loan for the railway Baltimore and Sons were building. He had kept it concealed from me, and no wonder-the fraud was profound and far-reaching. One man died for it, and a great deal of money is still unaccounted for, even to this day. And of course there was the crash! Mr. Monk is deeply implicated. You can only imagine how it grieves me.

I have not confronted him yet, but I believe I must. How else can I behave honorably?

Dear Emma, I wish you were here, so I could counsel with you what to do. I am suddenly deeply afraid.

There was no more written.

Monk stared at it. Who was Emma? Where did she live? There was no address. What else might Katrina have written to her?

He flicked very carefully through the other papers in the first drawer and found bills, an old invitation, and another letter, written in a cramped, sloping backhand:

My dearest Katrina,

It is so good to hear from you, as always, but I confess I do not care for the sound of this man, Monk, whom you have employed, and all you have told me only adds to my foreboding. Please, my dear, be very careful. Do not trust him.

He scanned the rest, but it was merely pleasant gossip about mutual acquaintances, mentioned only by Christian name. If Runcorn found these he would think Monk himself could have killed her. Fingers fumbling, moving slowly so as to not rattle the paper, he slid both of them off the pile and heard them rustle.

Runcorn had come in from the balcony. He was holding up a large, slightly crumpled man's cloak. In the gaslight it appeared to be black.

"What's that?" Monk asked, moving to shield the papers from Runcorn's view, and put out his other hand to leaf the pages and mask the sound of the two he was taking out. He folded them quickly and slid them inside his shirt, around the side of his body where movement would not make them crackle.

"It was out there," Runcorn said with a frown. "Lying on the ground near the edge where she must have gone over." He looked at it. "It's too long for her, and anyway it's not a woman's."

Monk was surprised. "That's a careless thing to do-leave it behind."

"Must have come off when he struggled with her." Runcorn wrapped it over, lining to the outside. "Doesn't have a tailor's name, but we'll find out where it comes from and whose it is. Did you find anything?"

"Nothing significant yet," Monk replied, keeping his voice perfectly level, unnaturally so. He leafed through another few sheets and saw a scribbled note. The sweat stood out on his skin as he read it.

Tell Monk of conversation I overheard which makes me certain that there is a fraud currently at Baltimore and Sons and that I am deeply afraid that Michael Dalgarno is involved. A very great deal of money is to be made shortly, but the matter must be kept completely secret.

The land fraud is basically the same as before-he will see that when he looks carefully enough. Questions to raise-is it cheaper, and therefore illegal profit to be made by diverting the line and somehow stealing the difference from investors? Or is there bribery, either by someone to use their land-or not to use it? There are several possibilities.

Again, Michael has to know of it! His signature is on the wages receipts and on the land purchase orders.

There was nothing more, as if it were written as an aid to her own memory.

Runcorn looked at Monk. "Well?" he demanded. "Are those the papers you looked into?"

"Yes."

"And yet you found nothing to incriminate this Dalgarno?" Runcorn was skeptical. "Not like you to miss something-'specially if you know all about railways! You're slipping, aren't you?" There was only the very faintest trace of the old animosity in his voice, but Monk heard it. He was too sensitive to years of enmity not to know every shade and nuance of a jibe when it was there. He had made enough of his own; more often than not, Runcorn had been the victim.

"There wasn't any land fraud like the first," he said defensively.

Runcorn's eyes widened. "Oh-you found the first, then?"

"Yes, of course I did!" Monk desperately did not want to tell Runcorn about Arrol Dundas or anything to do with his own past with all its secrets and its wounds. "That was land fraud, and this time it looked to be the same, but Dalgarno didn't buy the land himself, so there was no profit for him when it was sold."

Runcorn looked at him pensively. "And what was the fraud the first time, exactly?"

"A man bought poor land at a cheap price, then had the railway line diverted to it when it didn't have to be, and sold the land to the railway company at a much higher price," Monk replied, hating putting it into words.

"And she thought this was the same, but it wasn't?" Runcorn concluded.

"That seems so."

"Then why did this Dalgarno kill her?"

"I don't know." It did not occur to Monk that it might not be Dalgarno. She had spoken of him with such a consuming hunger for revenge; only someone she had once loved could have aroused such a fury in her. Strangers could never waken passion so deep.

"Well, I intend to find out," Runcorn said with scalding heat. "I'll hunt him down and I'll drag him all the way to the gallows. I promise you that, Monk!"

"Good. I'll help you-if I can."

"Help me look at the rest of this, in case you can explain any of it-to do with railways and so on," Runcorn said. "Then you can go home, and I'll go and find Mr. Dalgarno and see what he has to say for himself!"

By quarter past ten Monk was at home in Fitzroy Street again. Hester was sitting by a low fire, but she started up as soon as she heard him at the door. She looked tired and a little pale; her hair was pinned rather lopsidedly, as if she had done it without a looking glass. She stared at him, the question in her eyes. If she had intended to speak, the look in his face must have been sufficient to silence her.

The misery of his own failure was like a gray fog around him. He longed to be able to tell her all of it and allow her to comfort him, to say over and over that it did not matter, that it was not true of him, but only a collision of circumstances.

But even if she said all that, he would not believe her. He was afraid that it was true, and he was even more afraid that she would be denying it out of pity, and loyalty, not because in her heart she could believe it. She would be disappointed, let down. It was not her standard of integrity ever to have done such a thing, or been so dishonest at the core.

It was the past reaching out like a dark hand to pull him back from all he had built, staining the present, stopping him from being the man he tried to be.

But he had to tell her something, and it must be true, if not all the truth.

"I went to see Miss Harcus," he said, taking off his coat with its torn button. He would have to replace it if he could, or get rid of the coat. "To tell her that I can find no proof that Dalgarno is guilty of anything... in fact, there doesn't seem to be anything to be guilty of."

She waited, her face pale, eyes wide.

"She was dead," he told her. "Someone threw her off the balcony of her apartment. Runcorn was there."

"William... I'm so sorry..." She meant it; the pity was there in her face-for him, but far more for the woman she had never met. "Do you have any idea who-"

"Dalgarno," he said before she had finished. He suddenly realized how cold he was, and walked over to the fire.

"Michael Dalgarno?" she said slowly, turning so she was still facing him.

"Yes. Why?" He studied her face, the profound unhappiness in it more intense than even a moment before. "Hester?"

"What relationship does she have to Dalgarno?" she asked, her eyes not leaving his. "Why did she think he was guilty of something, and why do you think he killed her, William?"

"She was betrothed to him. Did I not tell you that?"

"No, not by name."

"Why do you ask? Tell me!"

She looked down, then up at him quickly, her face full of pain. "I went to see Livia Baltimore to tell her a little about what I have discovered regarding her father's death. It isn't much..." She must have seen his impatience. "I met Michael Dalgarno. He was there."

"He works for Baltimore and Sons. It's not surprising." He knew as he said it that she had not told him all that mattered.

"He was paying court to Livia," she answered. "And from the way she received him, she was expecting it, so he has been doing so for some time. If he was betrothed to Miss Harcus, then he was behaving disgracefully."

He knew she would not be mistaken in such a thing. She understood the nuances of courtship, even if she had never flirted in her life. She also knew the correct way for a young woman to behave, and what was acceptable for a man to do, and what was not.

So Dalgarno had betrayed Katrina in love as well as in financial honesty. Had she known that? Had she found out that very night when she had challenged him over the land fraud? Had he shown himself the ultimate opportunist, and knowing that he had no intention of marrying her now that Baltimore's daughter would accept him, had she threatened to expose the fraud? And so had he killed her?

Monk bent to poke the fire, glad of the flames as it burned up, and of the excuse to look away from Hester.

"Poor Katrina," he said aloud. "He betrayed her in every way. First he was a thief, then he jilted her for another woman, and when she faced him with it-he murdered her." He found it difficult even to say the words.

"But you'll prove it... won't you," Hester said quietly. "You won't let it go..."

"No, I won't," he promised, standing up again. "I couldn't save her, but by God I'll have justice for her!"

"I wish that were more comfort," Hester replied. She stepped toward him almost tentatively, then very gently put her head on his shoulder and slid her arms around him, holding him softly, as if he were so physically hurt that she might cause him pain.

It did comfort him, but the pain was too deep inside to be touched. That she should love him was so infinitely precious that he would give anything he owned not to lose it, but there was nothing to give it to, no bargain to make. He lifted his hands and stroked her hair, her neck, and held her.

Monk slept late. It was a long time since he had lain in his own bed with Hester beside him and any kind of peace in his mind, even if it were only the peace of exhaustion, and the knowledge that he could do nothing more to help Katrina Harcus. Avenging her was a different matter. It was important, but he was not alone in it. Runcorn would not let go. Monk could and would help him as the occasion arose.

When he got up in the morning he offered to riddle the kitchen stove and get it going well enough for breakfast. Hester accepted with slight surprise. Monk carried heavy things willingly enough for her, but he was not naturally domestic. He was used to being cared for and accepted it without question, barely noticing the detail.

When he was alone in the kitchen he worked hard at shaking loose the old ash, then took it out on the shovel and put it in the ash can. He brought in a little kindling to get the flames going quickly, then light coal, and as soon as he had the fire burning well enough, he pulled the papers out of his shirtfront, where he had concealed them when dressing, and poked them into the fire. Within moments they were consumed, but they were only two letters, and obviously there had been others. Who was Emma? How could he find her? Where could he even begin to look? He closed the stove door and stood up just as Hester came back from the dining room.

"It's going well," he said with a smile.

"That was quick!" She regarded him with surprise. "If you are so good at it, perhaps I should have you do it every day."

It was meant as teasing, and he relaxed at the ease of it, the old banter returned. "Chance," he said airily. "Just good luck. Might never happen again."

"Don't be so modest!" she retorted with a sideways look at him.

The papers were burnt. He felt guilty about it, they were evidence, but he also felt a wave of relief, at least for the moment. It gave him time. He did not yet know what he would do about the jacket and its missing button. "I thought you admired modesty," he said, raising his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

They had only just finished breakfast when Runcorn arrived. He looked tense and angry. At first he refused Hester's offer of tea, then almost straightaway changed his mind and sat down heavily at the table while she went to brew a fresh pot.

"The man's a swine!" he said savagely. He had not even removed his coat, as if he were too knotted up to relax sufficiently. "I'll see him hang for this if it's the last thing I do!" He glared at Monk. "He's a liar of the worst sort. He says he never had any intention of marrying Katrina Harcus. Can you believe that?"

"No," Monk said coldly. "But I can believe that when he found he had a chance to marry Baltimore's only daughter he seized it with both hands, and suddenly found Katrina something of an embarrassment."

Runcorn stiffened. "You knew!" he accused him. "You lied. For God's sake, Monk, what were you thinking of? Trying to protect her feelings or her dignity? She's dead! And a pound to a penny Dalgarno killed her! It-"

"I only found out last night after I got home!" Monk cut across him, his voice sharp with anger at Runcorn for prejudging him, at Dalgarno for being greedy, dishonest and cruel, and at Katrina for loving so passionately a man unworthy of her, or of anyone.

Runcorn was regarding him with disbelief.

"Hester told me," Monk snapped at him. Then, seeing Runcorn's continued doubt, he went on. "She knew something was wrong. I told her Katrina Harcus was dead and that it looked as if Dalgarno had killed her. When she heard his name she said that she had been to see Livia Baltimore-"

"Why?" Runcorn interrupted.

"Because Livia Baltimore's father was murdered in Leather Lane, everyone assumes by a prostitute," Monk replied curtly. "You knew that. Hester has set up a house in Coldbath Square where injured women can get some medical help." He felt a certain satisfaction at seeing the amazement, and then the admiration, in Runcorn's face. He remembered the deep and powerful change of heart he had seen in him over the women driven to prostitution when they had investigated the death of the artist's model together. It was the moment when Monk had been obliged, intensely against his will, to see a goodness in Runcorn that he could not ignore, or disdain. He had liked him for it, genuinely.

"So she went to see Miss Baltimore..." Runcorn prompted.

Hester came back with a fresh pot of tea and without speaking poured for Runcorn and passed the cup to him. He nodded his appreciation, but his eyes were on Monk.

"Yes," Monk answered the question. "Dalgarno was there, and their feelings for each other were quite open."

They both glanced at Hester and she nodded.

Runcorn made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, wordless and eloquent of his fury and contempt.

"Where was he last night?" Monk asked, knowing Runcorn would have found out.

Runcorn's face split into a sudden smile. "Alone in his rooms," he said with profound satisfaction. "Or so he claims. But he can't prove it. Manservant out, no porter, no callers."

"So he could have been in Cuthbert Street?" Monk was surprised at the mixture of emotions that awoke in him. Had Dalgarno been able to account for his time it would mean he could not be guilty, at least not in person, and that would have thrown the whole question wide open. Monk knew of no one else with any reason to harm Katrina. But it also caused him more distress than he would have imagined, because he thought of her facing the man she had loved so deeply, and seeing in his eyes that he meant to kill her. Had she known it immediately? Or had she waited, standing in the room, or out on the balcony, even until the last moment unable to believe he would, and then she had felt his hands on her and his strength, and knew she was pitching backward, falling?

"Monk!" Runcorn's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Yes..." he said sharply. "What else did he say? How did he react?"

"To her death?" Runcorn's loathing was quite open. "With affected surprise-and indifference. He's the coldest swine I've ever dealt with. One would have judged from his manner that the whole thing was a tragedy that barely touched on his life, a matter of regret for decency's sake, but in reality of complete indifference. He's got his eye on being part of the Baltimore company, and that's all he cares about. I'll get him, Monk, I swear it!"

"We've got to prove his motive," Monk said, concentrating his mind on the issue. Fury, outrage, and pity were all understandable emotions, but they accomplished nothing now.

"Greed," Runcorn said simply, as if the one word were damnation in itself. He picked up his tea and sipped it gingerly, afraid of burning himself.

"That doesn't prove he killed her," Monk pointed out with controlled patience. "Lots of people are greedy. He wouldn't be the first man to have broken his promise to a woman of little means in favor of an heiress, once he realized he had the chance. It's despicable, but it's not a crime."

"He has no proof where he was." Runcorn put down his cup and touched the points off on his fingers. "He had the opportunity to have been in Cuthbert Street. He resembles the figure seen on the roof by the witnesses. Only an impression, but elegant, dark, taller than she was, but not by a great deal. But she was quite a tall woman." Runcorn held up his second finger. "He needed nothing to kill her with except his own weight and strength. And of course there was the man's coat button we found in her hand. We'll look at all his clothes."

Monk felt the chill run through him and then the sweat break out on his body. He prayed Runcorn did not notice it. The jacket with the missing button was in his wardrobe in the bedroom. Thank God he had not stuffed it into the stove with the paper. He had thought about it!

"Hope he hasn't destroyed it," Runcorn went on. "But even if he has, people will know he had another coat, and how will he explain its disappearance?"

Monk said nothing. His mouth was dry. Where could he find another button and replace it? If he went to a tailor Runcorn might find out.

Runcorn held up a third finger. "And she had accused him of being involved in fraud; we know that she hired you to prove it!"

Monk licked his lips.

"Disprove it, actually," he countered.

"And he wanted to cast her aside and marry the Baltimore heiress," Runcorn went on relentlessly. "That's more than motive enough."

Hester was looking silently from one to the other of them.

"Only if we prove the land fraud," Monk argued. "And Livia Baltimore is probably quite comfortably off, but she's not an heiress."

"She will be when Baltimore and Sons sells its railway components to India," Runcorn answered vehemently. "It will make them all rich, and it will only be the beginning. The money will go on and on."

Something flickered in Monk's brain, then vanished.

"What is it?" Runcorn demanded, looking at him more closely.

Monk sat motionless, trying to bring it back, to catch something of it from the edge of his mind, but it was gone. "I don't know," he admitted.

Anger flared for an instant in Runcorn's eyes, then was replaced by understanding. "Well, if you remember, tell me. In the meantime, I've got to tie Dalgarno into the fraud better." His tone of voice had a lift at the end, as if waiting for Monk to complete the thought for him.

"I'll help," Monk said immediately. It was a statement. He intended to whether Runcorn agreed or not; it would simply be easier if he did.

Runcorn must have searched the rest of Katrina's house. Had he found any letters from Emma? There would be a return address on them. Dare he ask? What excuse could he give?

The moment slipped away.

Runcorn gave a wry smile. "Thought you would." He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his pocket, maybe half a dozen or so, and for an instant Monk felt as if he must have spoken aloud. "Got these from Miss Harcus's rooms." Runcorn looked at him, all shadow of even the most bitter humor gone from his eyes. "They're order forms and receipts from Baltimore and Sons. She really suspected him. She must have gone to a lot of trouble, and risk, to take these. She was a brave woman with a passionate love of honesty." He held the papers high in his hand. "No matter how much she loved him, she wasn't going to protect him from fraud. Even though when she started out suspecting, she was still betrothed to him, so in time she would have shared with him whatever he got out of it." He shook his head very slowly. "Why are people such fools, Monk? Why did he want dishonest money more than a really fine woman? Not as if she wasn't handsome as well, and young."

"Precisely because she was honest, I expect," Hester replied for him. "She loved him in spite of what he was, not because of it. Maybe his pride couldn't live with that. He wants admiration."

"Then he'd have to have been a saint," Runcorn said in disgust. "As it is, he'll swing for her. Sorry, Mrs. Monk, but he will." He held the papers out to Monk. "Here, take these and see if you can find anything. I'm going to follow the Baltimore money and see just how much of it ends up with Dalgarno, either now or if he marries Miss Baltimore." He turned to Hester. "Thank you for the tea. I apologize for disturbing you."

She smiled and rose to see him to the door.

Monk stood in the center of the room with his hands clenched and shaking, the papers crumpled by the power of his grip.

Monk read very carefully through everything Runcorn had left with him. There were no letters to implicate Dalgarno in anything but the desire to make as large a profit as possible, and that was common to all businessmen. There was nothing illegal, nothing even underhanded. All they showed was that Dalgarno was involved in every aspect of the survey, bargaining for and purchasing the land. But that was part of his duty. Jarvis Baltimore had apparently dealt with the purchase of timber, steel and other necessary materials for the track itself, and Nolan Baltimore had overseen the whole enterprise and concerned himself with the government and the competition. The fiercest rivalry between railway companies lay in the great days of expansion, a generation or so before, but it still required knowledge now, ability and the right connections, to achieve any success.

The one thing that impressed itself upon Monk as he looked over the papers a third time, reading the principal pieces aloud to Hester, was that the amounts of profit were not undue.

"The Baltimores must be comfortably off," she observed. "But it is not really a fortune."

"No," he agreed wryly. "Not by railway standards, I suppose."

Memory teased him that Dundas had been accused of defrauding for much larger profits than anything written here. It was only glimpses so brief they were gone again before he could understand them. They might have no connection with the present issue, but something in them could be the key, the one element still missing. And there was something that would tie them all together and make sense of them, but it floated always just beyond his reach, melting into shapelessness one moment, on the verge of identity the next. He grasped for it, and it melted into fear without meaning.

But there was another fear with very precise shape-Emma, to whom Katrina had written so frankly and in whom she had confided that she did not trust Monk. Who was she, and why had she not come forward? Someone would tell her Katrina had been murdered, friends, gossips, even possibly some lawyer with whom Katrina had entrusted her affairs. From his brief sight of her rooms, and the clothes she had worn to meet him, she was not without means.

If they corresponded with such candor then they were close, wrote frequently. There would surely be some note among Katrina's papers-of her address, or at least something from which he could deduce where she lived.

She might even know more about Dalgarno than Katrina had told him, something to help Runcorn.

He must go back to her rooms. The question was: would it be wiser to go brazenly in daylight, lie that he had authority, or break in at night and trust to his skill not to be caught? Either way he had no honest explanation. Worst of all could be if he were caught having found Emma's address, or some further damning letter from her.

But the risk of leaving it was too great, not only if Runcorn found it, but for the first time in his life that he could remember, his nerves were raw enough to betray him, to Hester at least, and it was she who mattered, even above the law.

He did not know if it was the braver of the two ways or not, but he chose to go by daylight. He would have a better chance of bluffing his way if he was questioned, and it was quicker. He wanted it over with. The waiting was almost as hard as the preparation and the doing.

He found no one on duty at the door of Katrina's building, but there was a beat constable twenty yards away. He hesitated. Should he wait until the man moved on, then try to sneak in, and if he was caught think of some excuse for not being honest? Or would it be better to go up to him boldly, lie about having thought of something useful and having Runcorn's permission to search? Implicitly he did have. Runcorn wanted him to prove Dalgarno's guilt.

There were only two choices; the latter had dangers, but it was the better of the two. He forced the consequences out of his mind. Fear would show in his face, and if the constable was very good he would see it. He walked firmly up to the constable and stopped in front of him.

"Good morning, Constable," he said with a very faint smile, no more than a gesture of civility. "My name is Monk. You may remember me from the night Miss Harcus was killed." He saw recognition in the man's face with a wave of relief. "Mr. Runcorn has asked for my assistance, since I knew Miss Harcus and was working on a case for her. I need to go into the house again and make a further search. I do not require your assistance. I am simply informing you so that you are not concerned if you see me there."

"Right, sir. Thank you," the constable said with a nod. "If you need me, sir, I'll be 'ere."

"Good. I'll send for you if there's anything. Good day." And before the man could sense his tension, he turned and left, going as rapidly as he dared toward the house. He had no keys. He was going to have to fiddle with the lock and pick his way in, but that was an art he had learned from a master in the days before the accident, and the skill had not left him.

He was inside the house within seconds, and retraced his steps up to Katrina's rooms. It took him even less time to pick the lock on her door, and then he was in the room. The sense of tragedy closed around him, the silence, the very faint film of dust showing on the wooden surfaces in the sunlight through the bay windows. Perhaps to someone else it would simply have looked like the room of someone on holiday; to him the presence of death was as tangible as another person watching him, waiting.

He jerked his attention back to the moment. There was no time to think about what had happened here, to try to picture Dalgarno, if it had been him, standing probably where Monk was now, charming her, quarreling, whatever it had been, then going out onto the balcony with her, the last furious words, the struggle, and her falling...

He was looking for papers, letters, address books. Where would they be? In the desk where Runcorn had already looked, or in some other similar kind of place. He moved quickly to the desk, opened it and started with the pigeonholes, then the drawers. There was surprisingly little for a woman who conducted her own affairs, and nothing dating farther back than a few months. Presumably that was when she had come to London.

There was nothing else to Emma, which was not surprising. They would naturally all have been posted. He was chilled inside at the thought of what Emma might have. And it seemed Katrina had not kept Emma's other letters, at least not in the desk. Nor was there any note of her address. Was it one that she knew so well there was no need to note it down?

He stood in the middle of the floor, staring around him. Where else might she keep anything on paper? Where did she cook? Did she have recipe books, kitchen accounts that were separate? A diary? Where did women keep diaries? Bedside table or cabinet? Under the mattress, if it were private enough.

He searched more and more frantically, trying to steady his hands and be methodical, miss nothing, replace everything as he had found it. There were no other letters, no address book, only the cooking notes any woman might have, a book of recipes handed on from Eveline Mary M. Austin, and brief memos on how to launder certain difficult fabrics.

He found the diary just as he was about to give up. He had actually sat down on the bed, sweat on his face, frustration making his hands stiff and clumsy, when he felt a hardness in the lace-covered decorative pillow at the head, over the coverlet. He fished inside the fold at the back and drew out the hardcovered little book. He knew instantly what it was, and opened it, gulping his breath at fear of what he would find. It could be anything, more doubts of himself, words that would prove Dalgarno's guilt, or even someone else's, or nothing of use at all. And he hated the intrusion. Diaries were often intimate and shatteringly private. He did not want to read it, and he had to.

Inside the flyleaf was an inscription: "To my dearest Katrina, from your Aunt Eveline." He only glanced at the pages. The first date was over ten years ago, and the entries were sporadic, sometimes merely the notation of a date, at others a page or more, even two for events of great importance to her. He had not time to read them all, and he concentrated on the more recent ones, particularly since meeting Dalgarno.

He felt guilty reading what were in some cases the inner thoughts of a young woman on the people in her life and the emotions they caused in her, but often her words were so cryptic he could only guess, and he preferred not to. He imagined what he would have felt, had he ever committed his own thoughts to paper like this, and some mere stranger had read them.

He found the letter from Emma almost at the end. It was in the same cramped backhand as the one he had destroyed. It was far less specific, only words of any general sympathy, as if in answer to a letter from Katrina which did not need repeating for her responding emotions to be understood.

He read it twice, then folded it up again, put it in the diary and then put the diary carefully in his pocket. Apparently, Runcorn had not found it so he would not now miss it. He could read it later, and see if anything in it would lead to Emma.

Within half an hour of going in, he was out in the street again, telling the constable that unfortunately he had found nothing, and then wishing him good day and walking rapidly back towards the main thoroughfare.

The news broke in the late edition that evening:MICHAEL DALGARNO ARRESTED FOR BRUTAL MURDER OF KATRINA HARCUS IN SECOND TRAGEDY FOR BALTIMORE AND SONS.

Runcorn must think he had enough to go to trial. Please heaven he was right!

But Runcorn was not certain. Monk knew that the moment he spoke to him the next morning, even though he denied it. They were in Runcorn's office, papers scattered on the desk and the sunlight coming through the window making bright patterns on the rest of the floor.

"Of course it's enough!" Runcorn repeated. "He was pulling a land fraud against the investors in Baltimore and Sons, and Katrina Harcus knew it. She told him so, begged him to stop. He had two reasons for wanting her dead." He held up his fingers. "To keep her quiet about the fraud, for which she may well have had proof-and he destroyed it, she as good as told you that. And because he now had a chance of marrying Livia Baltimore, who was shortly going to be a rich woman." He looked across at Monk challengingly. "And whether he had anything to do with Nolan Baltimore's death or not, we'll probably never know, but it's possible." He drew in his breath. He held up a third finger. "Added to that, he can't prove where he was at the time of her death. He says he was at home, but there's no one who can swear to it."

"What about the cloak?" Monk asked, then instantly wished he had not. It had to remind Runcorn of the button as well, and he had not yet destroyed the jacket, or had a chance to find a replacement button, if he dared do that.

Runcorn sighed irritably. "No trace of it," he said. "Can't find anyone who saw him with a cloak anything like that. He had a cape for the opera." His tone of voice suggested what he thought of that. "But he's still got it."

Monk was disappointed.

"Nothing with the button either," Runcorn went on. "All his coats and jackets are complete, and his manservant says there's nothing missing."

"Then it all hangs on there being a fraud," Monk pointed out. He hated having to say it, but it was the truth. "And we can't prove that."

"The land!" Runcorn said truculently, his chin forward. "You said there are rabbits in it. You told me you saw them yourself. Is there some kind of a rabbit that can build tunnels through a hillside that a team of navvies couldn't blast through with dynamite, for God's sake?"

"Of course there isn't. At least I hope not," Monk said wryly. "But even if there was a bit of sharp profit made on that, it wasn't because Dalgarno owned the land they had to divert to."

"If there was no profit, why do it?" Runcorn demanded.

Monk was patient. "I didn't say there was no profit, only that it wasn't because Dalgarno owned the land. He didn't; neither did either of the Baltimores. It may have been a matter of bribery. Someone paid very nicely to have the line diverted from his land, but we haven't any proof of it, and I don't think Katrina did either. At least she didn't tell me about it-" He stopped.

"What?" Runcorn said quickly. "What is it, Monk? You've remembered something!"

"I think she knew something more that she had not yet told me," he admitted.

"Then that was it!" Runcorn's face was alight. "That was the proof she was going to give you, but Dalgarno killed her before she could! She wanted to try one more time to persuade him to give it up-"

"We have no evidence of that!" Monk cut across him.

"Look!" Runcorn clenched his fist and stopped just short of banging it on the table. "This fraud is a copy of the first one, for which Arrol Dundas was jailed sixteen years ago-yes?"

Monk felt his body tense. "Yes," he said very quietly.

"Which Nolan Baltimore had to have known about, either at the time or when it all came out in court?" Runcorn pressed.

"Yes..."

"All right. Now, this Dundas wasn't a fool. He got away with it for quite a long time-in fact, he nearly got away with it altogether. Nolan Baltimore knew all about it, presumably so did Jarvis Baltimore-and so very possibly did Michael Dalgarno. It's all part of the company's history, after all. Find out how Dundas got tripped up, Monk. Find the details of it, piece by piece."

"It was his land," Monk said wearily. "He bought it before the railway was diverted, and then sold it to them expensively after falsifying the survey report as to the height and composition of the hill."

"And Baltimore and Sons is doing exactly the same thing this time, and diverting the track again?" Runcorn's eyes were wide with disbelief. "And I'm supposed to believe that's just a coincidence? Balderdash! Dalgarno knew all about the first time, and he pulled exactly the same trick... for a very good reason. There's profit in it for him somewhere. And Katrina found proof of it. You know railways, you know banking-find it, and before we go to trial! I'll see you get the money for going to Liverpool, or wherever it takes you. Just come back with proof."

Monk could not refuse, for his own sake as much as Runcorn's, or Katrina's. He held out his hand and after a moment's blank stare, Runcorn pulled open his desk and came out with six guineas which he put into Monk's palm. "I'll send you more if you need it," he promised. "But don't take any longer than you have to. They'll put him up pretty soon."

"Yes," Monk agreed. "Yes, I imagine they will." He put the money in his pocket and went out of the door.