William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

truth.
    “Simple,” Colman replied. “Someone told me he watched rabbits on the hill they said they had to go around because it would be too expensive to tunnel through. He was a parishioner of mine, in trouble for poaching. When I asked where he’d been caught, he told me. Rabbits don’t tunnel in granite, Mr. Monk. Navvies can blast through pretty well anything; solid mountains just take longer, and therefore cost more.
    “I found the original survey. When one looked more carefully at the one Baltimore was using, it was falsified. Whoever did it had been too clever to alter the heights or composition—he found a hill that was exactly right somewhere else and altered the grid reference. It was an extremely skilled job.”
    Monk asked the question he had to, but he had to clear his throat again to make his voice come. “Arrol Dundas?”
    “It looked like it,” Colman said with regret, as if he would rather it had been someone else.
    “Did he ever admit to it?”
    “No. Nor did he blame anyone else, but I think that was more a matter of dignity, even morality, than because he had no idea who it might have been.”
    It was a moment before Monk realized the full meaning of what Colman had said. He had begun his own next question, and stopped in the middle of the sentence.
    “You mean you doubted Dundas was guilty?” he said incredulously.
    Colman blinked. “You always maintained he wasn’t. Even after the verdict, you swore he was not the one who had changed the survey, and that his profit was through good speculation but not dishonesty. He simply bought low and sold high.”
    Monk was confused. “Then who forged the survey references? Baltimore? Why would he? He didn’t have any land!”
    “Nor money in the bank from it afterwards,” Colman agreed. “I don’t know the answer. If it wasn’t Dundas, then the real money probably came in bribery somewhere, but no one will ever prove it.”
    “Why would anyone else falsify the surveys?” Monk pressed.
    Colman frowned, weighing his answer before he gave it, and then his words were picked with great care. “The railway cut through the middle of my church, and that was all I could think of at the time.” His eyes filled with sudden tears. “And then the crash . . . the children . . .” He stopped. There was no way to express it, and perhaps he saw some recognition of horror in Monk, and words became unnecessary.
    Monk’s recollection of him was growing sharper. He had wanted to like him before; it was his testimony against Dundas that had made it impossible. Now all that had receded into history for both of them and there was no issue to be fought anymore.
    Colman blinked and smiled in apology. “I am afraid I am not much help in gaining the evidence you need to prove Dalgarno’s guilt for murdering the young woman, or whether Baltimore was the one practicing the fraud. But if I understood you correctly, he was already dead himself by the time she was killed.”
    “Yes, by two or three weeks,” Monk agreed.
    “Then possibly Dalgarno was in the fraud with Baltimore, and once Baltimore was dead he would take all the profits to himself?” Colman suggested.
    “Or share them with the son, Jarvis Baltimore,” Monk amended. “It seems likely, especially since Dalgarno is now courting the daughter, Livia, according to my wife’s observation.”
    Colman’s eyes widened. “Your wife is acquainted with the Baltimores?”
    Monk did not bother to hide his smile, or the bubble of pride springing up inside him, high and bright, and with a pain like a dagger for what he could lose. “No. She is running a house of refuge and medical treatment for prostitutes in Coldbath Square, and Livia Baltimore went to her for help, and in considerable anger and distress, after her father’s murder. Hester learned some information and went to call on her. She nursed in the Crimea. There is not much that deters her once she is convinced she is right.”
    Colman shook his head, but his eyes were shining. “I hope she does not have to enlighten Miss Baltimore as to the true nature of her father,” he said. “I think he may well have tried the same fraud a second time. But I don’t know how you will prove it to a jury without evidence of profit. He escaped the first time because it was plain he had no financial gain from it, and Dundas did.”
    “Dundas died with very little,” Monk pointed out, old sadness and anger washing over him in a tidal wave.
    Colman