William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

Leather Lane, only at the bottom of the stairs here on the night of his death.
    “Daft question, if yer ask me!” one woman called Polly said with total disdain. “ ’E were a toff. Money comin’ outer ’is ears, an’ all.” Her laugh changed into a snarl, more disgust than anger. “Look at us, lady! D’yer think someone like that’s gonna come ’ere ter the likes o’ us? ’E wants summink special, an’ ’e can pay fer it.” She shrugged, and yanked the sliding shoulder of her dress back up again. “ ’E prob’ly goes up Squeaky Robinson’s way. ’E could pay ’is prices, an’ no trouble.”
    “Squeaky Robinson?” Hester repeated, almost afraid to believe. “Who is he?”
    “Dunno,” Polly said immediately. “Nearer Coldbath, an’ the brewery. ’Atton Wall, or Portpool Lane, mebbe. Don’ wanner know. Neither d’ you, if yer knows wot’s good fer yer.”
    “Thank you.” Hester stood up. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”
    “In’t told yer nothin’,” Polly denied bluntly, jerking the dress back into position again and swearing under her breath.
    “No,” Hester agreed. “Except that Baltimore didn’t die here. In fact, he didn’t do business here at all.”
    “Yer right,” Polly said with feeling. “ ’E din’t!”
    Hester believed her. All the way back to Coldbath Square she turned it over in her mind and was sure that Nolan Baltimore had met his death somewhere else and been carried to Abel Smith’s house in order to move the blame.
    But she was a little closer to finding out where he had been killed, or why, though she would not forget the name of Squeaky Robinson, or the fact that, according to Polly, he catered to men with expensive and different tastes.

CHAPTER SIX
    Monk had considered very carefully all the information he possessed regarding the Baltimore and Sons railway, and he could see no obvious fraud in the purchase of land or any other part of the project. But even if there had been illegitimate profit made in either the buying or not buying of certain stretches of the track, he could think of no way in which it could be connected with a risk of accident. And that was what exercised his mind in ways Katrina Harcus could not imagine. Of course a present danger mattered, and he was acutely aware that if such existed he had a moral duty as well as a desire to do everything in his power to avoid it. But what hurt with a massive, drowning pain—because it was irretrievable—was the fear that in the past the fraud for which Arrol Dundas had died was in some way responsible for the crash Monk remembered with such awful guilt.
    He strode across the grass of Regent’s Park toward the Royal Botanic Society Gardens, barely noticing the other people strolling by. His mind was torn between past and present. Each held the key to the other, and he might find both in the few snatches of information Katrina held, locked in and obscured by her emotions. They had at least that in common. She was terrified for Dalgarno and what she did not know about him, and dreaded could be true. Monk was terrified in exactly the same way, but for himself.
    It was bright sunshine with all the aching silver-and-gold clarity of spring, and the gardens were busy with people. Having nerved himself to meet her, he felt a sharp disappointment that he looked for her for several minutes in vain. There were dozens of women of all ages. He could see colored silk and lace, embroidered muslin, hats with flowers, parasols in a jungle of points above the spread domes of cloth. They walked in twos and threes, laughing together, or on the arms of admirers, heads high, a flounce of skirts.
    He stood in the gateway with a sense of acute disappointment. He had steeled himself for the meeting, and now he would have to do it again tomorrow. He had no idea where she lived or how to find her, and no other avenue of investigation to pursue to fill in the time until she might be here again.
    “Mr. Monk!”
    He swung around. She was there behind him. He was so pleased to see her he did not notice what she was wearing, except that it was pale and faintly patterned. It was her face he watched, her amazing, dark-fringed eyes, and he knew he was smiling. It probably misled her, as if he had good news to tell, and even though that was a lie, he could not alter it. The sheer relief bubbled up inside him.
    “Miss Harcus! I . . . I was afraid you would not come,” he said hastily. It was not really