William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

Marylebone Street and the Edgware Road, traffic streaming around them in both directions.
    Monk was touched by a deep concern for her. She looked so torn by conflicting passions it was almost as if she had a fever. He wanted desperately to know what she meant by stating so vehemently that Dundas was innocent and that revenge would come, or what the present wrong was that he could not see. But now that he knew where she lived at least he could find her again when she was calmer. Perhaps he could even be of some help to her. Now she needed to rest and compose herself.
    “I’ll call upon you, Miss Harcus,” he said far more gently. “Of course, you need time to consider.”
    She made an intense effort at self-control, breathing in very deeply and letting it out in a sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Monk. That would be very good of you. You are most patient. If you would call upon me this evening—after eight, if you would be so good—then I shall tell you what you wish. I shall speak to Michael Dalgarno again, and that will be the end of it, I promise. You have played your part perfectly, Mr. Monk. I could not have wished better. You will see me after eight? Do you give me your word—absolutely?”
    “I do,” he swore.
    “Good.” The faintest ghost of a smile touched her face. “At twenty-three Cuthbert Street. You have given me your word!”
    “Yes. I will be there.”
    He alighted and stood on the pavement as the hansom pulled away from the curb immediately and was lost in the traffic.

    Monk went home to Fitzroy Street and an empty house. He washed and slept at last. At ten past eight, as the light was fading, he took a hansom to twenty-three Cuthbert Street. He was startled back to attention from his thoughts when they stopped abruptly and the cabbie looked in and told him that he could not go any further.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said apologetically. “P’lice blockin’ the road. Dunno wot’s ’appened, but there’s a big ruckus up front. Can’t go no further. Yer’ll ’ave ter walk, if they’ll let yer.”
    “Thank you.” Monk scrambled out, paid him, leaving the change of eight pence, and started to walk toward figures he could see standing under the street lamps. There were three men, two arguing with each other, the third, familiar in its tall, stiff outline, looking down at something like a bundle of clothes that lay at his feet. It was Runcorn, who had been Monk’s rival in the old days, then his superior; who had always hated and feared him until the quarrel when he had dismissed Monk at the same moment Monk had resigned in fury. Then the case of the artist’s model just months before had drawn them together again, and in shared emotions, painful and unexpected pity, they had formed an uneasy alliance.
    But what was Runcorn doing here?
    Monk lengthened his stride, only just restraining himself from running the last few yards.
    “What is it?” he demanded, although as Runcorn swung around to face him, he could already see. The figure of a woman was sprawled on the ground. Her white muslin dress trimmed in blue was crumpled, and dirty, and deeply stained with blood. She lay half on her front, half sideways, as if she were broken. Her neck was at an awkward angle, one arm doubled under her, her legs crooked.
    Instinctively, he looked upward and saw the flat roof of the building’s third floor, and then the rest of it going up another story beyond that. There was a railing as if it were an extended balcony from the upstairs room. He could not see the door; it was hidden by the wall above them.
    A wave of nausea overtook him, and then overwhelming, consuming pity. He stared at Runcorn, his mouth too dry to speak.
    “Looks like she fell off,” Runcorn replied to Monk’s original question. “Except she’s a bit far out, as the eye sees it. And people usually fall backward. Might have twisted in the air.” He squinted upward. “It’s a fair distance. Get a better idea from up there. Could’ve jumped, I suppose.”
    Monk started to speak, then stopped.
    “What is it?” Runcorn asked sharply.
    “Nothing,” Monk said hastily. He should say nothing . . . not yet. His mind raced. What on earth could have happened? She would never, ever have jumped! Not Katrina Harcus. She was on the edge of exposing an ancient wrong. She wanted revenge, and she had had it almost within her grasp. And Dalgarno was innocent, which was what she had wanted above all from the beginning.
    A uniformed constable