William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

concerned myself.” He saw Rathbone’s slight start of surprise, concealed almost instantly. “But I can find no proof,” he went on. “Certainly not sufficient to hang a man for murder.”
    Rathbone looked at his hands, then up at Monk. “Exactly what was your involvement in the first fraud, as much as you know?” he asked.
    Now was the time when only the naked truth would do. Any evasion might come back as guilt, like a knife to destroy whatever good was left.
    “Arrol Dundas, the man who taught me everything I knew and was almost a father to me, was accused of buying land cheaply and then selling it at huge profit after falsifying the surveys so the railway would divert its course,” he replied. “He was found guilty, and died in prison.” It was odd, put so baldly, devoid of the reality of passion that had made it acutely and irrevocably painful. It sounded like a legal issue, not people’s lives torn apart. Best to add the ugliest part of that now, get it over. “And while he was in prison, there was one of the most terrible rail crashes in history. A coal train collided with an excursion train full of children.”
    Rathbone was so moved by his own imagination of the horror of it that for a moment or two he did not speak. “I see,” he said at last, his voice low enough to be almost inaudible. “And did it have anything to do with the fraud?”
    “Not that I could tell. It was attributed to human error—possibly both driver and brakeman.”
    “Proof?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows very slightly.
    “None. No one ever knew for certain. But navvies have never been known to build a faulty track. There are too many checks, too many skilled people involved.”
    “I see. And was Dundas guilty of the fraud, or was it someone still alive now? Dalgarno?”
    “Not Dalgarno, he would have been a schoolboy sixteen years ago. I don’t know whether Dundas was guilty. I was certain he was innocent at the time . . . at least I think I was.” His eyes did not leave Rathbone’s. “I fought to get him acquitted . . . and I can remember the grief and the sense of helplessness when he wasn’t.”
    “But . . .” Rathbone probed gently, like a surgeon with a knife, and like a knife, it hurt.
    “But I can’t remember. I feel guilty about something. I don’t know whether it was because I couldn’t help. In Liverpool just now I looked into his financial affairs as far as I could with no authority. He was very wealthy while I knew him, and up until the time of the trial. He was supposed to have made a profit out of the land deal. . . .”
    Rathbone nodded. “Naturally. One presumes that was part of the evidence of fraud. What about it?”
    “He died with very little.” This time Monk did not look at Rathbone as he said it. “He sold his large house and his widow lived extremely modestly in a far less salubrious area. When she died she left nothing. She had lived on an annuity which ended with her death.”
    “And you don’t know where the money went?”
    Monk looked up. “No, I don’t. I’ve done everything I can to remember, been to the places again, read the newspapers, and it still won’t come.”
    “What are you afraid of?” Rathbone spared him nothing. Perhaps that was as necessary as a doctor pushing to see where it hurt most.
    Could he lie? At least about this? What was the point? He had to tell Rathbone that he had burnt the letters which implicated him—falsely. And there could be others saying that.
    “That I did know at the time,” he replied. “I was executor of his will. He must have trusted me.”
    Rathbone did not stay his hand at all, although the reluctance, the hurt at having to do it was in his voice. “Could you have taken this money yourself?”
    “I don’t know! I suppose so. I can’t remember.” Monk sat forward, staring at the floor. “All I can see clearly in my mind is her face, his widow, telling me he was dead. We were in a very ordinary house, small and neat. I didn’t have the money, but I don’t know if I did something with it. I’ve racked my mind, but I just don’t remember!”
    “I see,” Rathbone said gently. “And if Dundas were innocent, as you thought at the time, then was the truth that there was no fraud or that someone else was guilty?”
    “I think that’s the difference,” Monk said, straightening up slowly and meeting Rathbone’s eyes. “Sixteen years ago there was definitely fraud. The grid references on the survey map were