William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

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