William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

police.” He pursed his lips. “Very wise. But you’ll need to move very swiftly if you are to forestall scandal.”
    Monk had no idea what the man was talking about. It must have been clear from his face, because Wedgewood understood before Monk had time to frame a reply.
    “Nolan Baltimore was found dead in a brothel in London,” Wedgewood said, puckering his brow with distaste, and something which might or might not have been sympathy. “I apologize. I rather leaped to the conclusion that you had been asked to find the truth of the matter before the police, and if possible to persuade them into some sort of discretion.”
    “No,” Monk answered, wondering for an instant why he had not read about the case in newspaper headlines, then realizing the answer before the question was on his tongue. It must be the murder Hester had referred to, and which had set the police buzzing around the Farringdon Street area in what was very probably a hopeless quest. No doubt the press would learn the reason for all the activity soon enough. They had only to ask one of the local inhabitants sufficiently inconvenienced, and sooner or later the story would emerge, suitably dramatized.
    “No,” he repeated. “I am interested in the reputation of the company, not Mr. Baltimore personally. How good is their work? What skill and honesty have their men?”
    Wedgewood frowned. “In what regard?”
    “All regards.”
    “Are you asking on behalf of someone interested in investment?”
    “In a manner of speaking.” It was true enough. Katrina Harcus was investing her life, her future, in Michael Dalgarno.
    “Financially sound,” Wedgewood said without hesitation. “Weren’t always. Had a shaky spell fifteen or sixteen years ago, but weathered it. Don’t know what theirs was about specifically, but a lot of people did then. Great age of expansion. People took risks.”
    “Their workmanship?” Monk asked.
    Wedgewood looked a little surprised. “They use the traveling navvies, the same as everyone else. Platelayers, miners, masons, bricklayers, carpenters, and blacksmiths—all that sort of thing. And there are engine men and fitters, foremen, timekeepers, clerks, draftsmen and engineers.” He shrugged slightly, looking at Monk with puzzlement.
    “But they’re all competent or they wouldn’t last. The men themselves see to that. Their lives depend on every man doing what he should, and doing it right. Best workmen in the world, and the world knows it! British navvies have built railways all over Europe and America, Africa, Russia, and no doubt will go to India and China as well, and South America too. Why not? They all need railways. Everybody does.”
    Monk steeled himself to ask the question he dreaded. “What about accidents, crashes?”
    “God knows how many men get killed in the construction.” Wedgewood pursed his lips, a flicker of anger and sadness in his eyes. “But I never heard of one that was down to poor building.”
    “Substandard materials?” Monk asked.
    Wedgewood shook his head. “They know their materials, Monk. No navvy is going to put in the wrong stone or wood, or anything else. They know what they’re doing. They have to. Don’t shore up a wall properly, or put in insufficient timber, and the whole lot will come down on top of you. It’s my business to know, and I’ve never heard an instance of navvies getting it wrong.”
    “But there have been accidents!” Monk insisted. “Crashes, people killed!”
    Wedgewood’s eyes widened. “Of course there have, God help us. Terrible ones. But they were nothing to do with the track.”
    “What then?” Monk found himself holding his breath, not for Katrina Harcus but for himself. It was Arrol Dundas who filled his mind, and his own guilt in whatever had happened seventeen years ago.
    “All sorts of things.” Wedgewood was looking at him curiously. “Driver error, overloaded wagons, bad brakes, signals wrong.” He leaned forward a little. “What are you after, Monk? If someone wants to invest in Baltimore and Sons all they have to do is ask in the financial community anywhere. They don’t need a private agent of enquiry for that. Any merchant banker would do.”
    “I have a nervous client,” Monk admitted. “What about unsuitable land?”
    “No such thing,” Wedgewood replied instantly. “Good navvies can build on anything, and they do. Sand. Swamps, even—it just costs more. They need to lay pontoons, or sink stilts until they