William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

her death. As for the night she killed Nolan Baltimore, we shall—”
    He was prevented from saying whatever he had intended by Livia, now lurching to her feet, her face gray.
    “That’s not true!” she screamed. “That’s a wicked thing to say! It’s a lie!” Her voice choked in a sob. “An evil . . . terrible thing to say! My father . . .” She lashed her arms left and right as if fighting her way through some physical obstacle. “My father would never have done anything like that! It’s . . . it’s filthy! It’s disgusting! I saw those women—they were . . .” The tears were streaming down her face. “They were broken, bleeding . . . whoever did that was monstrous!”
    Rathbone looked wretched. He struggled for something, anything, to say to ease her grief, but there was nothing left.
    “That can’t be how he died!” Livia went on, turning from Rathbone to the judge. “He quarreled dreadfully with Michael and Jarvis that night!” she said desperately. “It was over the railway again, the huge order we have for the new brakes they’ve invented. Michael and Jarvis did it together, and Papa only found out that night, my lord! He flew into a terrible rage and said they’d ruin the company, because years ago Mr. Monk had forced him to sign a letter promising he would never manufacture the brakes again. He’d paid a fortune to silence somebody, but the price was that nobody would ever use them . . .”
    Monk shot to his feet. “Where’s Jarvis Baltimore?” he shouted at Livia. “Where is he?”
    She stared at him. “The train,” she said chokingly. “The inaugural run.”
    Monk said something to Margaret, then looked at Hester once where she still stood in the witness-box, then he scrambled past the people next to him and ran up the aisle and out of the door.
    The judge looked at Rathbone. “Do you understand, Sir Oliver?”
    “No, my lord.” He turned to the witness-box. “Hester?”
    “The rail crash sixteen years ago,” she answered. “I think . . . I think he knows what caused it now.” She looked at Livia. “I’m sorry . . . I wouldn’t have told you. I wish you hadn’t had to know. Most people get to keep their secrets.”
    Livia stood for a moment, the tears running down her cheeks, then slowly she sank to her seat and buried her face in her hands.
    “I’m so sorry . . .” Hester said again. She hated Nolan Baltimore as much for what he had done to his own family as for the injury to Katrina and Alice and Fanny, and the other women like them. They might recover. She did not know if Livia would.
    Rathbone looked at Dalgarno, white and bitter in the dock, then to the judge. “My lord, I move that the charges against the accused be dropped. Katrina Harcus was not murdered. She took her own life in a desperate attempt to achieve the only thing she believed was left to her—revenge.”
    The judge looked at Fowler.
    Fowler swiveled around to stare at the jury, then back at the judge. “I concede,” he said with a shrug. “God help her. . . .”

    Outside the courtroom the street was almost empty, and it took Monk only five minutes to find a hansom and scramble in, shouting to the driver to take him to Euston Station as fast as the horse would go. An extra pound was in it for him if he made the inaugural train on the new line to Derby. Monk would willingly have given him more, but he had nothing else to spare. He must keep what he had in case he had to bribe his way onto the train.
    The cabbie took him at his word, and with a yell of encouragement at the horse, and a long flick of the whip practically between its ears, set off as if on a racetrack.
    It was a hair-raising journey with several close shaves where they missed other vehicles by inches, and more than once pedestrians leaped for their lives, some hurling abuse as they went. The cab pulled into the station and lurched to a stop. Monk thrust the money at the driver because he felt the man deserved it whether they had made the train or not, and sprinted to the platform.
    Actually he was there with more than five minutes in hand. He straightened his jacket, ran his hand over his hair, and sauntered up to the door of the rearmost carriage as if he had every right to be there.
    Without glancing around to see if he had been observed, which could have given away his lack of invitation, he pulled the handle, swung the door wide, and climbed in.
    The inside of the carriage was beautifully furnished. It was a long