William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

anger were very clear in Margaret’s face.
    “Possibly,” Hester agreed. “But what if that was his other source of income? His family would not know of it, nor would any gatherer of taxes or anything else. It would explain very nicely why he had more funds to spend on his pleasures than Baltimore and Sons could supply. And his death coincides just about exactly with Squeaky Robinson’s panic. Maybe the question has nothing to do with railways. Maybe the question is—was he killed as a client who went too far, or as a usurer who got too greedy?”
    Margaret was tense, but her eyes did not waver even though her voice did. “So what must we do? How can we find out?”
    “I don’t have any plan yet,” Hester replied. “But I will certainly make one.”
    She saw a hansom and stepped off the curb, raising her hand in the air.
    Margaret followed after her with equal determination.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Monk arrived at the station in London exhausted. His head ached so fiercely all he wanted to do was go home, take as hot a bath as he was able to, then have several cups of tea and go to bed to sleep properly, lying flat and between clean sheets. It would be best of all if Hester were beside him, understanding everything and holding no criticism or blame, and that would be impossible. To do that she would have to be without moral judgment. And what use would she be then, what real person at all? Or that she would be unaware of any of the fears that tangled in his mind, simply there, a gentle presence in the darkness.
    Except that, of course, she would know what he was feeling: the fear of truth, of finding in himself a greed and a cowardice he would despise, a betrayal for which there was no excuse. Greater than his wrong to Dundas was his wrong to himself, to all that he had made and built out of his life since the accident. If she did not know that, then in what sense was she actually there at all? None that mattered. She might as well be in another place. They would speak, touch, even make love with each other, and the heart would remain utterly alone. It would be a worse loneliness than to have stayed apart, because it was a negation of what had been real, and mattered infinitely.
    So he would go to a public bath, and simply buy a new shirt. He would visit a barber to make himself look fit to go this afternoon and meet Katrina Harcus, and tell her that there was no reason whatever to suspect Michael Dalgarno of anything that was not usual practice among businessmen. There was no record of his having bought or sold any land in his own name, or of having made any profit other than for the company for which he acted.
    Monk would also report that he had investigated the crash in which Baltimore and Sons had been peripherally involved sixteen years ago, and the land fraud proved against one of its bankers had no connection whatever with it. The cause of that tragedy was not known, but the track had been repaired and was still in use. It had been examined minutely, and no flaws or inadequacies had been found in it.
    He was so tired he longed for sleep, even on a park bench in the bright April sun, but he was afraid of what horror might return to him the moment he lost control of his thoughts. He did not know how he could be guilty of anything, but the guilt remained, the helplessness, the blood, the screams, the awful squeal of metal on metal, and the glare and smell of fire, and always the certain knowledge that he could have prevented it.
    He drank coffee bought from a corner peddler, then made his way back to the gingerbread seller to see what he had learned from his notorious acquaintances. He found him dispersing slices of hot, spiced loaf to a group of children, and waited a few yards off until he had finished.
    “Well?” he asked. There was no need to question if the man remembered him; his crooked face was alive with anticipation.
    “ ’E went out, all right,” he said triumphantly. “ ’Bout midnight. Face like thunder. Come back ’alf an hour later, no more.”
    Half an hour. Not time enough to get to Leather Lane, find Nolan Baltimore, kill him, and return. Monk was overswept with relief, so sharp it was physical. He could tell Katrina that Dalgarno was innocent.
    “And he didn’t go out again?”
    “Not ’less it were close on daylight,” the gingerbread seller said firmly. “Crows ’as got eyes like ’awks. Don’t miss nothin’. Can’t afford to!”
    He was right. The lookout men for