William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

brown rather than dark.
    “I cannot conceal a crime, Miss Harcus, if I have evidence of it,” he warned. “But other than that, all you say to me is in confidence.”
    “That is what I had been told. Forgive me for having to ascertain it for myself, but I need to tell you things that I would be most distressed were they repeated.”
    “Unless it is to conceal a crime, they will not be.”
    “And if there is a crime involved?” She spoke quite steadily and her eyes did not flinch from his, but her voice had sunk to a whisper.
    “If it is a crime planned, then I must seek to prevent it by any means I can, including informing the police,” he answered. “If it is one that has already happened, then I must share with them any knowledge I may come by, if I am certain it is true. Otherwise I would be complicit in the act myself.” His curiosity was piqued. What kind of help did this very composed young woman want from him? Her manner was unusual; it seemed as if her request was going to be even more so. He realized how disappointed he would be if it proved to be a case he could not accept.
    “I understand.” She nodded. “I do fear a crime, but I wish you to prevent it, if that is possible. If I had the skill to do so myself, then I would. However my greatest concern is to protect Michael—Mr. Dalgarno. I may be mistaken, of course, but whether I am or not, word of my suspicions must never come out.”
    “Of course not,” he agreed, desiring to spare her the explanation she obviously found painful. “If they are innocent it would be embarrassing and perhaps worse; if they are guilty they must not be warned.” He saw the relief in her face at his quickness of understanding. “Tell me what you fear, and why, Miss Harcus.”
    She hesitated, reluctant to take the final step of commitment. It was not difficult to understand, and he waited in silence.
    “This is gathered from things Mr. Dalgarno has told me in the course of conversation,” she began, her eyes steady on his face, watching and judging his reaction. “Little pieces of information I have overheard . . . and now actual papers which I have brought with me for you to read and consider. I . . .” She looked away for the first time. “I took them . . . stole them, if you like.”
    He was careful not to express shock. “I see. From where?”
    She raised her eyes. “From Mr. Dalgarno’s rooms. I am worried for him, Mr. Monk. I think there is fraud being practiced in the building of the new track for the railway, and I am very afraid he may be implicated, although I am certain he is innocent . . . at least . . . at least I am almost certain. Sometimes even good people yield to the temptation to turn the other way when their friends are involved in something wrong. Loyalties can be . . . misplaced, especially when you owe much that is good in your life to someone else’s generosity, and trust in you.” She looked at him intently, as if to judge how much he understood.
    Some far memory stabbed him at the thought, but he kept his face blank. He could not tell her how acute was his feeling for just that kind of obligation, and the pain of failure.
    “Is it a fraud from which Mr. Dalgarno might profit?” he asked levelly.
    “Certainly. He is a junior partner in the company, so if the company made more money then he would also.” She leaned forward a fraction, just a tiny movement, but the earnestness in her face was intense. “I would give everything I have to prove his innocence and protect him from future blame, should there be any.”
    “What is it exactly that you have overheard, Miss Harcus, and from whom?” There was something in the mention of railways that stirred an old memory within him—light and shadows, unease, a knowledge of pain from before the accident. He had rebuilt his life since then, created something new and good, recognizing and piecing together the facts of himself he had discovered, and the shards of memory that had returned. But the vast mass of it was lost like a dream, somewhere in the mind but inaccessible, frightening because it was unknown. What detection had shown him was not always pleasant: a man driven by ambition—ruthless, clever, brave, feared more than liked.
    She was watching him with those intense, golden-brown eyes. But she was consumed by her own discomfort.
    “Talk of great profit which must be kept secret,” she answered him. “The new line is due to be completed very soon. They are working on