William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

a step behind him.
    It was still early in the evening, but by now word had spread that a woman had fallen or been thrown off the roof and was lying dead in the street. Neighbors waited in shocked silence or hasty, whispered conversations with each other. The uniformed constables were questioning them all, one by one, for anything they might have noticed either tonight or earlier.
    Runcorn was shown up the stairs to Katrina’s apartments. Monk was close on his heels, as if he belonged, and no one challenged him.
    “Right!” Runcorn said as soon as they were inside and the door closed. The gas was burning as she must have left it, but the corners were still full of shadows. Monk was grateful for it, conscious of the missing button as if it had been a bloodstain.
    “Where’d she keep her papers, anything that would be likely to tell us about this railway?” Runcorn asked, looking about him.
    “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before,” Monk replied, turning away from the light.
    “I thought you said she employed you? And you were on your way here tonight. You told me.” There was challenge in Runcorn’s voice.
    “It was the first time I’d come here,” Monk explained. “She came to my office, or we met in the Royal Botanic Gardens.” It sounded odd even as he said it.
    “Why’s that?” Runcorn said curiously, skepticism in his eyes.
    “She was very careful of her reputation,” Monk answered. “She was betrothed to an ambitious man. She wanted to be entirely discreet about having hired me. I imagine she intended it to appear that we were social acquaintances.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, then realized it would alter the sit of his coat, perhaps showing the missing button, and changed his mind. “After the first time, we always met in public, and by chance. She walked in the gardens every day at the same time, and if I had anything to report I knew where to find her.”
    “Extremely careful,” Runcorn agreed. “Poor creature,” he added softly. “Maybe she knew then that this Dalgarno was dangerous.” He shook his head. “Funny what attracts some women to a man. I’ll never understand that. Well, we’d better get on with it. We’ll just have to search.”
    Monk stared around at the room. It was simply furnished, but the taste was excellent and the few pieces were of good quality, giving it an air of spaciousness that was unusual. He was not surprised. Katrina herself had been a woman of character and strength, highly individual. Again his anger against Dalgarno boiled over, and he went across to the desk and opened it. He kept his back to Runcorn, who was still staring around, gaining an impression of the style of the room, and going instinctively to the glass doors which opened onto the balcony from which she must have fallen.
    The desk contained quite a few business papers, and Monk began leafing through them, only glancing at the subject. He did not know what he was looking for, and if Dalgarno had killed her because she had found proof of his fraud, then most certainly she would have shown it to him and he would have taken it to destroy. Nevertheless there might be more than one paper of interest, and he had to look.
    He found something surprisingly quickly, but it was not what he expected. It was a letter written but obviously never sent, addressed to someone named Emma.
    Dear Emma,
    I promised to tell you all I learned, so I must keep my word, even though it is extremely painful for me to acknowledge such a mistake. I have discovered papers to do with the original fraud in Liverpool, and it now seems incontrovertible that Mr. Monk, whom I had trusted profoundly, was actually involved in that terrible affair himself. I found an old receipt among the Baltimore papers, and it was signed by him!
    Upon further investigation, I learned that he once worked in merchant banking, and was connected with the loan for the railway Baltimore and Sons were building. He had kept it concealed from me, and no wonder—the fraud was profound and far-reaching. One man died for it, and a great deal of money is still unaccounted for, even to this day. And of course there was the crash! Mr. Monk is deeply implicated. You can only imagine how it grieves me.
    I have not confronted him yet, but I believe I must. How else can I behave honorably?
    Dear Emma, I wish you were here, so I could counsel with you what to do. I am suddenly deeply afraid.
    There was no more written.
    Monk stared at