William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

loved could have aroused such a fury in her. Strangers could never waken passion so deep.
    “Well, I intend to find out,” Runcorn said with scalding heat. “I’ll hunt him down and I’ll drag him all the way to the gallows. I promise you that, Monk!”
    “Good. I’ll help you—if I can.”
    “Help me look at the rest of this, in case you can explain any of it—to do with railways and so on,” Runcorn said. “Then you can go home, and I’ll go and find Mr. Dalgarno and see what he has to say for himself!”

    By quarter past ten Monk was at home in Fitzroy Street again. Hester was sitting by a low fire, but she started up as soon as she heard him at the door. She looked tired and a little pale; her hair was pinned rather lopsidedly, as if she had done it without a looking glass. She stared at him, the question in her eyes. If she had intended to speak, the look in his face must have been sufficient to silence her.
    The misery of his own failure was like a gray fog around him. He longed to be able to tell her all of it and allow her to comfort him, to say over and over that it did not matter, that it was not true of him, but only a collision of circumstances.
    But even if she said all that, he would not believe her. He was afraid that it was true, and he was even more afraid that she would be denying it out of pity, and loyalty, not because in her heart she could believe it. She would be disappointed, let down. It was not her standard of integrity ever to have done such a thing, or been so dishonest at the core.
    It was the past reaching out like a dark hand to pull him back from all he had built, staining the present, stopping him from being the man he tried to be.
    But he had to tell her something, and it must be true, if not all the truth.
    “I went to see Miss Harcus,” he said, taking off his coat with its torn button. He would have to replace it if he could, or get rid of the coat. “To tell her that I can find no proof that Dalgarno is guilty of anything . . . in fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything to be guilty of.”
    She waited, her face pale, eyes wide.
    “She was dead,” he told her. “Someone threw her off the balcony of her apartment. Runcorn was there.”
    “William . . . I’m so sorry . . .” She meant it; the pity was there in her face—for him, but far more for the woman she had never met. “Do you have any idea who—”
    “Dalgarno,” he said before she had finished. He suddenly realized how cold he was, and walked over to the fire.
    “Michael Dalgarno?” she said slowly, turning so she was still facing him.
    “Yes. Why?” He studied her face, the profound unhappiness in it more intense than even a moment before. “Hester?”
    “What relationship does she have to Dalgarno?” she asked, her eyes not leaving his. “Why did she think he was guilty of something, and why do you think he killed her, William?”
    “She was betrothed to him. Did I not tell you that?”
    “No, not by name.”
    “Why do you ask? Tell me!”
    She looked down, then up at him quickly, her face full of pain. “I went to see Livia Baltimore to tell her a little about what I have discovered regarding her father’s death. It isn’t much . . .” She must have seen his impatience. “I met Michael Dalgarno. He was there.”
    “He works for Baltimore and Sons. It’s not surprising.” He knew as he said it that she had not told him all that mattered.
    “He was paying court to Livia,” she answered. “And from the way she received him, she was expecting it, so he has been doing so for some time. If he was betrothed to Miss Harcus, then he was behaving disgracefully.”
    He knew she would not be mistaken in such a thing. She understood the nuances of courtship, even if she had never flirted in her life. She also knew the correct way for a young woman to behave, and what was acceptable for a man to do, and what was not.
    So Dalgarno had betrayed Katrina in love as well as in financial honesty. Had she known that? Had she found out that very night when she had challenged him over the land fraud? Had he shown himself the ultimate opportunist, and knowing that he had no intention of marrying her now that Baltimore’s daughter would accept him, had she threatened to expose the fraud? And so had he killed her?
    Monk bent to poke the fire, glad of the flames as it burned up, and of the excuse to look away from Hester.
    “Poor Katrina,” he said aloud. “He betrayed her in every way. First