William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

even to consider the other possibility, that somehow he himself had had it. He knew enough of his own life in the police force to know such wealth would have been exposed.
    Katrina was waiting for him to respond.
    He jerked himself back to the present. “Yes, it would be a great deal of money,” he conceded.
    Her mouth was a thin line, lips tight. “Enough to tempt men to great crime,” she said hoarsely. “For people to believe the worst of anyone . . . quite easily. Mr. Monk, this answer is not sufficient.” She looked down, away from his eyes and what they might read in hers. When she spoke again her voice was little more than a whisper. “I am so afraid for Michael I hardly know how to keep my head at all. Because I am afraid, I have taken risks I would never take in other circumstances. I have listened at doors, I have overheard conversations, I have even read papers on other people’s desks. I am ashamed to confess it.” She looked up suddenly. “But I am seeking with all my strength to prevent disaster to those I love, and to ordinary innocent men and women who only wish to travel from one town to another and who trust the railway to carry them safely.”
    “What is it that you have not told me?” he demanded, now a little roughly.
    Again passersby were staring at them, perhaps because they were standing rather than walking, more likely because they saw the passion and the urgency in Katrina’s face, and that she was still gripping Monk’s arm.
    “I know that Jarvis Baltimore is planning to spend over two thousand pounds on an estate for himself,” she said breathlessly. “I saw the plans of it. He spoke of having the money in almost two months’ time, from the profits they expect out of the scheme he and Michael spoke of.” She was watching him intently, struggling to guess his judgment. “But both he and Michael have said it must be kept a most deadly secret or it will ruin them instead.”
    “Are you quite certain you have not misunderstood?” he questioned. “Was this since Nolan Baltimore’s death?”
    “No . . .” The word was hardly more than a breathing out.
    So it was not an inheritance.
    “The sale of railway stock to foreign railway companies?”
    “Why should that be secret?” she asked. “Would someone not speak of it quite openly? Do not companies do it all the time?”
    “Yes.” He said that with certainty.
    “There is some secret you have not yet discovered, Mr. Monk,” she said huskily. “Something which is terrible and dangerous, and will drag Michael down to prison, if not death, if we do not find it before it is too late!”
    Fear ran through him like a burning wave, but it was nameless and without sense. He reached for the only thing he knew which matched the violence and the enormity of what she was suggesting.
    “Miss Harcus! Nolan Baltimore was murdered a short while ago. Most people assumed it was because he was frequenting a brothel in Leather Lane. But perhaps that is what they were intended to think.”
    She jerked up her head, staring at him with terrified eyes, her face white. She was totally oblivious of the people around her, of their curiosity or alarm. “You think it was to do with the railway?” She breathed out the words in horror, putting her hand up to cover her mouth, as if that could stifle the truth.
    He knew the worst fear that had to be in her mind, and he hurt for her pain, but it was senseless to evade it now. It would not drive it away.
    “Yes,” he answered gently. “If you are correct, and there really is such a great deal of money involved, then if he knew of this scheme, he may have been murdered to assure his silence.”
    Now she was so white he was afraid she was going to faint. Instinctively, he reached for her arms to stop her from falling.
    She allowed him to hold her for no more than seconds, then she pulled away with a jerk so sharp he all but tore the fine muslin of her sleeves.
    “No!” There was horror in her face, and she spoke with such pent-up, choking emotion that several people nearby actually turned and looked at them both, then in embarrassment at being caught staring, turned away again.
    “Miss Harcus!” he urged. “Please!”
    “No,” she repeated, but less fiercely. “I . . . I can’t think that . . .” She did not finish.
    They both knew what it was that tormented her. The possibility was too clear. If the fraud were as great as she feared, the profit as high, then Nolan Baltimore could