Death of a Stranger (27 page)

He found the diary just as he was about to give up. He had actually sat down on the bed, sweat on his face, frustration making his hands stiff and clumsy, when he felt a hardness in the lace-covered decorative pillow at the head, over the coverlet. He fished inside the fold at the back and drew out the hardcovered little book. He knew instantly what it was, and opened it, gulping his breath at fear of what he would find. It could be anything, more doubts of himself, words that would prove Dalgarno’s guilt, or even someone else’s, or nothing of use at all. And he hated the intrusion. Diaries were often intimate and shatteringly private. He did not want to read it, and he had to.

Inside the flyleaf was an inscription: “To my dearest Katrina, from your Aunt Eveline.” He only glanced at the pages. The first date was over ten years ago, and the entries were sporadic, sometimes merely the notation of a date, at others a page or more, even two for events of great importance to her. He had not time to read them all, and he concentrated on the more recent ones, particularly since meeting Dalgarno.

He felt guilty reading what were in some cases the inner thoughts of a young woman on the people in her life and the emotions they caused in her, but often her words were so cryptic he could only guess, and he preferred not to. He imagined what he would have felt, had he ever committed his own thoughts to paper like this, and some mere stranger had read them.

He found the letter from Emma almost at the end. It was in the same cramped backhand as the one he had destroyed. It was far less specific, only words of any general sympathy, as if in answer to a letter from Katrina which did not need repeating for her responding emotions to be understood.

He read it twice, then folded it up again, put it in the diary and then put the diary carefully in his pocket. Apparently, Runcorn had not found it so he would not now miss it. He could read it later, and see if anything in it would lead to Emma.

Within half an hour of going in, he was out in the street again, telling the constable that unfortunately he had found nothing, and then wishing him good day and walking rapidly back towards the main thoroughfare.

The news broke in the late edition that evening:MICHAEL DALGARNO ARRESTED FOR BRUTAL MURDER OF KATRINA HARCUS IN SECOND TRAGEDY FOR BALTIMORE AND SONS.

Runcorn must think he had enough to go to trial. Please heaven he was right!

But Runcorn was not certain. Monk knew that the moment he spoke to him the next morning, even though he denied it. They were in Runcorn’s office, papers scattered on the desk and the sunlight coming through the window making bright patterns on the rest of the floor.

“Of course it’s enough!” Runcorn repeated. “He was pulling a land fraud against the investors in Baltimore and Sons, and Katrina Harcus knew it. She told him so, begged him to stop. He had two reasons for wanting her dead.” He held up his fingers. “To keep her quiet about the fraud, for which she may well have had proof-and he destroyed it, she as good as told you that. And because he now had a chance of marrying Livia Baltimore, who was shortly going to be a rich woman.” He looked across at Monk challengingly. “And whether he had anything to do with Nolan Baltimore’s death or not, we’ll probably never know, but it’s possible.” He drew in his breath. He held up a third finger. “Added to that, he can’t prove where he was at the time of her death. He says he was at home, but there’s no one who can swear to it.”

“What about the cloak?” Monk asked, then instantly wished he had not. It had to remind Runcorn of the button as well, and he had not yet destroyed the jacket, or had a chance to find a replacement button, if he dared do that.

Runcorn sighed irritably. “No trace of it,” he said. “Can’t find anyone who saw him with a cloak anything like that. He had a cape for the opera.” His tone of voice suggested what he thought of that. “But he’s still got it.”

Monk was disappointed.

“Nothing with the button either,” Runcorn went on. “All his coats and jackets are complete, and his manservant says there’s nothing missing.”

“Then it all hangs on there being a fraud,” Monk pointed out. He hated having to say it, but it was the truth. “And we can’t prove that.”

“The land!” Runcorn said truculently, his chin forward. “You said there are rabbits in it. You told me you saw them yourself. Is there some kind of a rabbit that can build tunnels through a hillside that a team of navvies couldn’t blast through with dynamite, for God’s sake?”

“Of course there isn’t. At least I hope not,” Monk said wryly. “But even if there was a bit of sharp profit made on that, it wasn’t because Dalgarno owned the land they had to divert to.”

“If there was no profit, why do it?” Runcorn demanded.

Monk was patient. “I didn’t say there was no profit, only that it wasn’t because Dalgarno owned the land. He didn’t; neither did either of the Baltimores. It may have been a matter of bribery. Someone paid very nicely to have the line diverted from his land, but we haven’t any proof of it, and I don’t think Katrina did either. At least she didn’t tell me about it-” He stopped.

“What?” Runcorn said quickly. “What is it, Monk? You’ve remembered something!”

“I think she knew something more that she had not yet told me,” he admitted.

“Then that was it!” Runcorn’s face was alight. “That was the proof she was going to give you, but Dalgarno killed her before she could! She wanted to try one more time to persuade him to give it up-”

“We have no evidence of that!” Monk cut across him.

“Look!” Runcorn clenched his fist and stopped just short of banging it on the table. “This fraud is a copy of the first one, for which Arrol Dundas was jailed sixteen years ago-yes?”

Monk felt his body tense. “Yes,” he said very quietly.

“Which Nolan Baltimore had to have known about, either at the time or when it all came out in court?” Runcorn pressed.

“Yes…”

“All right. Now, this Dundas wasn’t a fool. He got away with it for quite a long time-in fact, he nearly got away with it altogether. Nolan Baltimore knew all about it, presumably so did Jarvis Baltimore-and so very possibly did Michael Dalgarno. It’s all part of the company’s history, after all. Find out how Dundas got tripped up, Monk. Find the details of it, piece by piece.”

“It was his land,” Monk said wearily. “He bought it before the railway was diverted, and then sold it to them expensively after falsifying the survey report as to the height and composition of the hill.”

“And Baltimore and Sons is doing exactly the same thing this time, and diverting the track again?” Runcorn’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence? Balderdash! Dalgarno knew all about the first time, and he pulled exactly the same trick… for a very good reason. There’s profit in it for him somewhere. And Katrina found proof of it. You know railways, you know banking-find it, and before we go to trial! I’ll see you get the money for going to Liverpool, or wherever it takes you. Just come back with proof.”

Monk could not refuse, for his own sake as much as Runcorn’s, or Katrina’s. He held out his hand and after a moment’s blank stare, Runcorn pulled open his desk and came out with six guineas which he put into Monk’s palm. “I’ll send you more if you need it,” he promised. “But don’t take any longer than you have to. They’ll put him up pretty soon.”

“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Yes, I imagine they will.” He put the money in his pocket and went out of the door.

When Hester returned home and found a message from Monk that he had gone to Liverpool hoping to find proof of Dalgarno’s guilt in the fraud, she understood exactly why he had done so. In his place she would have done the same. Still, she felt a great emptiness in the house, and within herself also. She had not been able to help him in this case, and for all the superficial explanation and understanding, she knew there were deep and intense feelings he had not shared with her, and most of them were painful.

Perhaps she had been so absorbed in the problems facing Coldbath Square that she had not insisted he tell her in the way that he had needed her to. He could not speak easily of the truth because it trespassed on that part of his life that hurt him, and in which he was afraid he had been so much less than the man he was now.

Why did he still not trust her to be generous of spirit, to hold back willingly and genuinely from needing to know that which was better buried? Did part of him still think she was critical, self-righteous, all the cold and pinched things of which he used to accuse her, before either of them would acknowledge that they were in love?

Or had she somehow failed to let him know that she had accused him of arrogance, cynicism, and opportunism only because she was afraid of her own vulnerability? She had been looking for something comfortable, a man she could love while retaining her inner independence. A love which would be agreeable, safe, never take from her more than she wished to give, never cause her pain that was as great as the laughter and the joy.

He had pulled back for the same reasons!

He had pursued women who were soft and compliant, pretty, who did not challenge him or hurt him or demand of him all he had to give, and more, who did not strip away the pretenses and the shields to reach his heart.

When he was back she would do better-stop playing games of accommodation, politeness, skirting around the truth. She would get back to the passion of honesty they had had in the beginning, things shared with such intensity that touch, words, even silence, was like an act of love.

But for now she must occupy herself, and do something about the women who owed money to the usurer and were being beaten because they could not pay. She was almost certain that Squeaky Robinson was the culprit. But until she had spoken to him again and probed a good deal deeper, her suspicions were not enough. He was afraid of something. It would be very helpful to know what it was.

It was a warm day outside. She barely needed a shawl, let alone a coat, and the streets were crowded as far as the Tottenham Court Road, where she looked for a hansom.

She thought of buying a peppermint water from a peddler-it looked inviting-but then she thought better of spending the money. She passed a newsboy and her eye caught an article on the war in America. Guiltily she hesitated in her step long enough to read at least the beginning, remembering with vivid horror being caught up in that war’s first fearful battle. It seemed that the Union forces had been profoundly embarrassed that many of the guns bristling out of miles of Confederate fortifications were actually only painted logs of wood. The cannoneers had retired south some considerable time before.

She smiled at the irony of it and hurried on, finding a hansom at the next corner.

She went into the house in Coldbath Square, really only to tell Bessie where she intended to be, so that if she was needed she could be sent for, and also so that someone would know where she had gone. It was the nearest she could come to any kind of security. Not that she thought Squeaky Robinson was any threat to her. He had no reason to wish her harm-they were ostensibly on the same side, at least he thought they were. Still, it was a kind of precaution.

Bessie was highly dubious about it. She stood with her arms folded, her lips pursed. “Well, all I can say is if yer in’t back ’ere safe an’ sound in two hours-an’ I can tell the time-then I’m goin’ fer Constable ’Art! An’ I’ll not mince me words! I’ll let’im know w’ere yer are an’ wot’s goin’ on. I swear! An’ ’e’ll come right arter yer! Likes yer, ’e does!” She said that fiercely, as if it were a threat in itself. But that Bessie would speak willingly to a policeman at all, let alone confide in him and ask his help, was eloquent witness to the gravity with which she viewed Hester’s undertaking.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Hester thanked her, and wrapped her shawl over her head in spite of the sun, and set out for Portpool Lane.

Squeaky received her stiffly, sitting upright in his chair behind the desk. A tray of tea sat in the only space clear of papers. He had spectacles perched on the end of his long nose, and there were ink stains on his fingers. He seemed profoundly unhappy. His hair stood on end as if he had been continually running his fingers through it.

“What do you want?” he said abruptly. “I haven’t got anything to tell you. I haven’t seen Jessop.”

“I have,” Hester said quickly, sitting down on the chair opposite him and arranging her skirts more elegantly, as if she meant to stay for some time. “He is still greedy for more money… which we don’t have.”

“Nobody has money!” Squeaky said resentfully. “I certainly don’t, so there’s no use looking to me. Times are hard. You of all people ought to know that.”

“Why me?” Hester asked innocently.

“ ’Cos you know there’s hardly a soul on the streets!” he said savagely. “Toffs are starting to go other places for their pleasure. We’re all going to end up in the workhouse, an’ that’s a fact!” It was an exaggeration. He would steal long before he allowed such a disaster to happen, but there was an underlying note of panic in his voice which was real.

“I know it’s serious,” she said gravely. “Political pressure is still keeping the police all over the place, although no one expects them to find out now who killed Baltimore.”

A curious expression flickered over his face, a kind of suppressed fury. Why? If he knew who it was, why did he not inform, secretly of course, and get the whole thing over with? Then he and everyone else could get back to normality.

There was only one possible answer to that-because it implicated him in some way, or at least his house. Did he protect his women, even at the cost of business? She found that very hard to believe. He used women until they were of no value anymore, then discarded them, as all pimps did. They were property.

But his were particularly valuable property, not easily replaced. He could not go out and get them; they had to walk into this trap.

“They won’t find out,” he sneered, but there was rising tension underneath it, and he watched her every bit as closely as she did him. “If they’d had any idea at all they’d have sewn it up by now,” he went on. “They’re here to please some bleedin’ toff’s feelings of outrage ’cos a tart dared to hit back.” There was hatred in his eyes, but for whom she could not tell.

What had happened to the woman who had killed Baltimore, if it was a woman? Or had she simply struck him, and perhaps screamed, and someone like the would-be butler at the door had actually killed him? Perhaps even unintentionally, in a fight at the top of the stairs, Baltimore had lost his balance and fallen.

“Somebody must be sheltering her,” she said aloud, then stopped, seeing the instant denial in his face. “You think not?”

He wiped his expression blank. “How’d I know? Mebbe.”

“You’d make it your business to know,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his. “Do you wish to be thought incompetent-stupid?” she added for clarity in case he misunderstood.

He flushed with anger-or possibly a kind of embarrassment?

“You’ve a reputation to keep up,” she continued.

“What do you want?” he snapped, his voice high with barely controlled tension. “I can’t stop Jessop, I told you that. If you want someone to go an’ beat a little consideration into’im, it’ll cost you. I don’t care whether you’ve got money or not, you’ll get nothin’ for nothin’.”

It was not just greed driving him, it was fear as well; she could see it and hear it, almost feel it in the room. Fear of what? Not the police; they were nowhere near any kind of solution. She knew that from Constable Hart. Fear of the silent man who loaned money to young women and then blackmailed them into prostitution? A man who would do that must be a cruel and possibly dangerous partner. Was he threatening Squeaky if he did not produce the usual income in spite of the circumstances?

She smiled slowly. The idea of the would-be butler’s giving Jessop a couple of black eyes and a thoroughly good fright was very appealing. She could be tempted.

Squeaky was watching her as a cat does a mouse.

“Five pounds,” he said.

It was, relatively speaking, a modest enough sum. Margaret would be able to come by it. Why was Squeaky offering to do such a thing for only five pounds? Was the partner really so demanding? He was a usurer. Money was his stock-in-trade. Was Squeaky down to so little that five pounds made a difference?

“For you, in your position?” she asked.

“Me!” he snapped. “He’s…” Then the derision vanished from his face and he conceded everything. “Me,” he repeated.

It was a second or two before she realized what he was saying, then it came in a flood of understanding-he was alone. For some reason the partner was no longer there. That was his panic-the fact that he did not know how to run the business by himself.

The wild idea gained at Marielle Courtney’s house hardened into close to a certainty. Nolan Baltimore had been Squeaky’s partner, and his death, murder or accident, had left Squeaky without anyone to run the usury side of the business.

He needed a new partner, someone with access to the sort of young women who might get into debt, the polished manner to earn their confidence, and the business acumen to loan them money and insist on its repayment in this way.

An even wilder idea came almost unbidden into her mind. It was outrageous, but it just might work. If it did, if she could persuade him, it could solve their own problem. It would not reveal who killed Baltimore, or get the police out of the area, but she found to her surprise that she did not care greatly. If Baltimore had been the usurer, and also a client of his own appalling trade, then she could not mourn his death.

“I will consider your offer, Mr. Robinson,” she said with aplomb. She rose to her feet. Now that she had thought of a plan, she was in a fever to put it to the test.

He looked vaguely hopeful. Was that for the money or the prospect of seeing Jessop severely frightened? Either would do. “Let me know,” he said with a very faint smile.

“I will,” she promised. “Good day, Mr. Robinson.”

Hester had to wait until the evening before she could put her idea to Margaret. After the initial business of the house was over, Alice and Fanny were resting fairly easily. The two were actually talking to one another; Hester heard the occasional soft giggle. Hester sat down with Margaret to a cup of tea, and she could contain herself no longer.

Margaret stared at her wide-eyed with disbelief. “He’ll never do it! Never!”

“Well, he might not,” Hester admitted, reaching for the butter and jam for her toast. “But it could work, don’t you think-if he would?”

“If… do you think…” Margaret could scarcely admit the possibility, but she was glowing with excitement, her cheeks pink.

“Will you come with me to try?” Hester asked.

Margaret hesitated. Her eagerness was plain in her face, also her fear of embarrassment, and of failure. She might be thought too forward, and invite a rebuff which would hurt more than she would find easy to accept.

Hester waited.

“Yes,” Margaret agreed, then took a deep breath as if to retract it, and let it out in a sigh and picked up her tea.

“Good.” Hester smiled at her. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. I shall meet you at Vere Street at nine o’clock.” She gave Margaret no chance to change her mind. She stood up and, carrying her toast with her, went to speak to Fanny as if the whole matter were settled and there could be nothing more to discuss.

The morning was bright and chilly again, and Hester dressed smartly in a plain dark blue dress and coat. She took a hansom to Vere Street to be there just before nine. She knew Margaret would be on time, and trembling with tension. She cared for her feelings, but apart from that, she did not wish to give her any opportunity to retreat.

Actually, Margaret was late, and Hester had begun to pace up and down the pavement anxiously. At last the hansom drew up and Margaret, beautifully dressed, scrambled out with less grace than usual.

“I’m sorry!” she said hastily after paying the driver. “The traffic was terrible. Somebody clashed wheels and broke an axle in Trafalgar Square, and they started shouting at each other. What a mess. Are we…”

“Yes,” Hester replied, too relieved to be angry. “We are! Come on!” And she took Margaret by the arm and entered Rathbone’s chambers.

They were too early, as Hester expected they would be. She was immensely relieved simply to find that Rathbone was not due in court that morning, and if they waited, there was an excellent chance he would be able to see them after his first client, who was due at half past nine, exactly the time the clerk expected Rathbone himself.

As it transpired, they were invited to go into his office shortly after ten o’clock, but Hester had the feeling that had Margaret not been with her he might have kept her waiting longer.

Rathbone came forward to greet them, hesitating an instant as to which of them he should speak to first. It was so slight Hester barely saw it, but she knew him far better than Margaret did, and she had not mistaken it. He addressed Hester, because of their long friendship, but he had wanted to go to Margaret.

“Hester, how pleasant to see you,” he said with a smile. “Even if I am perfectly sure that at this time in the morning you must have come on business, no doubt to do with your house in Coldbath Square.” He turned to Margaret. “Good morning, Miss Ballinger.” There was the very faintest flush on his cheeks. “I am glad you were able to come also, although I am afraid I have not yet thought of any way in which your usurer can be stopped by the law. And believe me, I have tried.”