William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

Where did she come from? What about her family?”
    “I don’t know!” Dalgarno said impatiently. “We didn’t discuss it.”
    “But you were intending to marry her,” Monk pointed out. “As an ambitious young man, surely you enquired?”
    Dalgarno blushed. “I . . . I believe she came originally from the Liverpool area. She said both her parents were dead.”
    It made excellent sense. The fraud she had accused Dalgarno of practicing was almost an exact copy of the one for which Dundas had been convicted. Had she grown up in the Liverpool area she could have heard of it, and of the crash she had told Monk about with such horror.
    He asked other questions, but for a man who had claimed to be in love, Dalgarno knew surprisingly little about her. But then Monk recalled with brutal honesty how little he had known, or cared, about some of the young women with whom he had thought himself in love.
    Perhaps it was because he had known Hester since the first months after the accident, and she had crowded all others out of anything but the surface of his mind. She was real; they were only idealizations he had thought he wanted.
    Had Dalgarno been like that with Katrina Harcus? If he had, Monk could not blame him for it. There was little point in asking Dalgarno about their relationship; he would say what he wanted them to believe, and there was nothing against which to check it.
    “What about your own family, Mr. Dalgarno?” he asked. “Did you introduce Miss Harcus to them? Surely your mother enquired? Perhaps she would know more about her?”
    Dalgarno looked away. “My family are in Bristol. My father is in poor health, unable to travel, and my mother does not leave him.”
    “But you and Miss Harcus could travel,” Monk argued.
    Dalgarno swiveled around, his eyes angry. “I did not ask Miss Harcus to marry me!” he snapped. “She may have imagined I was going to, but women do that!”
    “Especially if you give them cause to,” Monk said equally sharply.
    Dalgarno opened his mouth as if to deny it, then closed it again in a thin line.
    Monk could learn nothing more of use. In the end he left the overpoweringly oppressive air of the prison and walked side by side with Rathbone along Newgate Street. Neither of them mentioned a like or dislike for Dalgarno, or the fact that he had shown no pity for Katrina Harcus, no remorse that he had used her badly.
    “Liverpool,” Rathbone said succinctly. “If it has anything to do with her past it will begin there. The police will be looking into everything in London, so don’t waste your time with that. Honestly, Monk, I don’t know what you are looking for.”
    Monk did not answer. He did not know either, but to admit it seemed like a surrender he could not afford.

    When Monk reached Fitzroy Street, the house was empty, but he had been there not more than ten or fifteen minutes when Hester came in in a whirl of excitement. Her face lit when she saw him, and she dropped her parcel of shopping on the table and went straight to him as if she had no flicker of hesitation that he would take her in his arms.
    He could not help himself from doing so, clinging onto her hard, feeling the strength of her answering embrace.
    She pulled away and looked up at him. “William, I have solved the murder of Nolan Baltimore, at least in part. I don’t know exactly who did it, but I know why.”
    He could not help smiling. “We all know that, my darling. We always knew. Ask any bootboy or peddler. He didn’t pay his bills. Some pimp took exception and there was a fight.”
    “Not quite,” she said like a displeased governess. “That is only an assumption. I told you there is a brothel where one partner hands money to respectable young women who have got into debt for one reason or another . . .”
    “Yes, you did. What has that to do with it?”
    “He was the partner!” she said. Then, seeing the disgust in his face. “I thought you’d think so. He lent the money, and Squeaky Robinson ran the brothel. But Baltimore was a client as well! That was why he was killed, for taking his tastes too far. One of the girls rebelled, and pushed him out of a top-floor window. Squeaky had the body moved to Abel Smith’s place.”
    “Have you told the police?”
    “No! I had a much better idea.”
    She was glowing with satisfaction. He had a sinking dread that he would have to destroy it. “Better?” he said guardedly.
    “Yes. I have burnt the IOUs and put Squeaky Robinson out