Death of a Stranger (33 page)

Dalgarno glared at him, then at Rathbone.

Rathbone nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I met her at a garden party,” Dalgarno began, his tone now subdued. “She was charming, full of life. I thought she was the most interesting woman I had ever seen. But I knew nothing of her social background, except that she was obviously well-bred and had sufficient means to dress in the height of fashion.”

“Who were her friends?” Monk asked.

Dalgarno rattled off half a dozen names. They meant nothing to Monk, but he saw Rathbone register recognition.

“Maybe one of them killed her,” Dalgarno said desperately. “I can’t think why, but God knows I didn’t. Why would I? I didn’t want to marry her, and she seems to think I did.” He colored faintly. “But there was no fraud-I swear!” He waved his hands jerkily. “We may have shaved a little here and there, but everyone does.”

Monk did not comment on that. It was irrelevant now. “That is precisely why I need to know more about her, Mr. Dalgarno. Someone killed her. Where did she come from? What about her family?”

“I don’t know!” Dalgarno said impatiently. “We didn’t discuss it.”

“But you were intending to marry her,” Monk pointed out. “As an ambitious young man, surely you enquired?”

Dalgarno blushed. “I… I believe she came originally from the Liverpool area. She said both her parents were dead.”

It made excellent sense. The fraud she had accused Dalgarno of practicing was almost an exact copy of the one for which Dundas had been convicted. Had she grown up in the Liverpool area she could have heard of it, and of the crash she had told Monk about with such horror.

He asked other questions, but for a man who had claimed to be in love, Dalgarno knew surprisingly little about her. But then Monk recalled with brutal honesty how little he had known, or cared, about some of the young women with whom he had thought himself in love.

Perhaps it was because he had known Hester since the first months after the accident, and she had crowded all others out of anything but the surface of his mind. She was real; they were only idealizations he had thought he wanted.

Had Dalgarno been like that with Katrina Harcus? If he had, Monk could not blame him for it. There was little point in asking Dalgarno about their relationship; he would say what he wanted them to believe, and there was nothing against which to check it.

“What about your own family, Mr. Dalgarno?” he asked. “Did you introduce Miss Harcus to them? Surely your mother enquired? Perhaps she would know more about her?”

Dalgarno looked away. “My family are in Bristol. My father is in poor health, unable to travel, and my mother does not leave him.”

“But you and Miss Harcus could travel,” Monk argued.

Dalgarno swiveled around, his eyes angry. “I did not ask Miss Harcus to marry me!” he snapped. “She may have imagined I was going to, but women do that!”

“Especially if you give them cause to,” Monk said equally sharply.

Dalgarno opened his mouth as if to deny it, then closed it again in a thin line.

Monk could learn nothing more of use. In the end he left the overpoweringly oppressive air of the prison and walked side by side with Rathbone along Newgate Street. Neither of them mentioned a like or dislike for Dalgarno, or the fact that he had shown no pity for Katrina Harcus, no remorse that he had used her badly.

“Liverpool,” Rathbone said succinctly. “If it has anything to do with her past it will begin there. The police will be looking into everything in London, so don’t waste your time with that. Honestly, Monk, I don’t know what you are looking for.”

Monk did not answer. He did not know either, but to admit it seemed like a surrender he could not afford.

When Monk reached Fitzroy Street, the house was empty, but he had been there not more than ten or fifteen minutes when Hester came in in a whirl of excitement. Her face lit when she saw him, and she dropped her parcel of shopping on the table and went straight to him as if she had no flicker of hesitation that he would take her in his arms.

He could not help himself from doing so, clinging onto her hard, feeling the strength of her answering embrace.

She pulled away and looked up at him. “William, I have solved the murder of Nolan Baltimore, at least in part. I don’t know exactly who did it, but I know why.”

He could not help smiling. “We all know that, my darling. We always knew. Ask any bootboy or peddler. He didn’t pay his bills. Some pimp took exception and there was a fight.”

“Not quite,” she said like a displeased governess. “That is only an assumption. I told you there is a brothel where one partner hands money to respectable young women who have got into debt for one reason or another…”

“Yes, you did. What has that to do with it?”

“He was the partner!” she said. Then, seeing the disgust in his face. “I thought you’d think so. He lent the money, and Squeaky Robinson ran the brothel. But Baltimore was a client as well! That was why he was killed, for taking his tastes too far. One of the girls rebelled, and pushed him out of a top-floor window. Squeaky had the body moved to Abel Smith’s place.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No! I had a much better idea.”

She was glowing with satisfaction. He had a sinking dread that he would have to destroy it. “Better?” he said guardedly.

“Yes. I have burnt the IOUs and put Squeaky Robinson out of business. We shall take over the premises, without rent, and the young women there can nurse the others who are sick or injured.”

“You did that?” he said incredulously. “How?”

“Well, not by myself…”

“Indeed?” His voice rose in spite of himself. “And whose help did you enlist? Or would I very much prefer not to know?”

“Oh, it is perfectly respectable!” she protested.

“Margaret Ballinger and Oliver!”

“What?” He could not grasp it.

She smiled up at him and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then she told him precisely what they had done, ending with an apology. “I’m afraid it doesn’t help with the railway fraud. It doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“No,” he agreed, but there was a tiny spark of pride warm inside him. “I have to go back to Liverpool for that.”

“Oh…”

Then, in turn, he told her what Runcorn had said.

“It isn’t proof, is it?” she agreed. “But they must have rerouted the track for some reason, and Miss Harcus said they were expecting an enormous profit which must be kept secret.” She looked at him very steadily. “What are you going to do?”

It made it easier for him that without question she assumed he was going to do something.

“Go back to Liverpool,” he replied. “Try to find out exactly what mistakes Arrol Dundas made that he was caught.” He saw her eyes widen and heard her indrawn breath, let out again without speaking. “For this case,” he replied. “Not the past.”

She relaxed and smiled.

He went back to the same lodgings in Liverpool where he now felt familiar, even welcome. The first thing was to find if Katrina Harcus had been born here. It would be in the early 1830s, to judge from her age. That was just before the compulsory registration of births, so it would be a matter of finding a record of her baptism in a local church. There was nothing to do but go from one parish to another enquiring. He telegraphed Rathbone to that effect.

It took him four weary and tedious days to find the entry in the records of a small Gothic church on the outskirts of Liverpool. Katrina Mary Harcus. Her mother was Pamela Mary Harcus. Her father was not listed. The inference was obvious. Illegitimacy was a stigma from which few recovered. He felt a stab of pity as he saw the solitary entry. He stood in the faintly dusty aisle where the sunlight fell in vivid jewel patches from the stained-glass windows, watching the parish priest walking towards him. Perhaps it was not so surprising that Katrina had left home and gone to London, where she was unknown, even friendless, to seek some future better than the taint of being a bastard which would follow her everywhere here.

“Did you find it?” the minister asked helpfully.

“Yes, thank you,” Monk replied. “Does Mrs. Harcus still live in the parish?”

The Reverend Rider’s bland, pleasant face filled with sadness. “No,” he said quietly. “She died nearly three months ago, poor woman.” He sighed. “She used to be such a charming creature, full of life, full of hope. Always saw the best in everything. Never the same after…” He checked himself just before speaking. “After her benefactor died,” he finished.

Was that a euphemism for her lover, Katrina’s father?

“Were things hard for her after that?” Monk asked solicitously. He was affecting pity for the vicar’s sake; ordinarily he would have felt it, but at the moment he simply could not afford the emotional energy to let it fill him as it should.

“Yes… yes.” Rider pursed his lips and nodded his head. “To be alone, in failing health and with little means is a hard thing for anyone. People can be very unkind, Mr. Monk. We tend to look at our own weaknesses with such charity and other people’s with so little. I suppose it is because we know the fierceness of the temptation to our own, and all the reasons why that exception to the rule was understandable. With other people we know only what we see, and even that is not always the truth.”

Monk knew more exactly what he meant than the vicar could have known. His loss of memory had forced him to see his own actions with that partial and outward eye, mostly through the lens of others, and understanding nothing. To be judged that way was acutely painful. He could feel closing on him the threat of answering for wrongs committed in a time he could not remember, and as if by another man. He had tried so hard to shed the old ruthlessness, the indifference. Was the past not now going to allow him that?

But he had no time for indulgence of his own feelings, however crowding and urgent.

“Yes,” he agreed, to avoid the appearance of abruptness. “It is a narrowness common to most of us. Perhaps a little time being judged, instead of judging, would be a salutary thing.”

Rider smiled. “Perceptive of you, Mr. Monk.”

“Do you know who her benefactor was? Perhaps the father of her daughter, whom I knew, and attempted to help with a particular problem she was seeking to address.”

“Knew?” Rider said quickly, catching the past tense.

“I am afraid she is dead.” Monk did not have to pretend the grief. And it was more than guilt that he had not prevented it; it was a loss for someone who had been full of passion and urgency, much of which he had shared, even though she had not known it.

Rider looked crushed, a great weariness filled him. “Oh, dear… I am sorry,” he said quietly. “She was always so very full of life. Was it an accident?”

“No.” Monk risked the truth. “She was murdered…” He stopped as he saw the shock in Rider’s eyes, almost as if he had walked into something unseen and without any warning found himself bruised and on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I should have told you less frankly. I am concerned because I fear they may have arrested the wrong man, and there is little time to learn the truth.”

“How can I help?”

Monk was not sure, but he asked the obvious question. “Who was her father? And how long ago did she leave here?”

“About two years ago,” Rider answered, frowning in concentration.

“And her father?” Monk pressed.

Rider looked at him ruefully. “I don’t see how it can have anything to do with her death. It was many years ago. All those involved are dead now… even poor Katrina. Allow them to rest in peace, Mr. Monk.”

“If they are dead,” Monk argued, “then they cannot be hurt by it. I will tell no one, unless it is necessary in order to save the life of a man who will be hanged for killing her, and may be innocent.”

Rider sighed, his face crumpled with regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, but I cannot break the confidences, even of the dead. You already know from the baptismal record more than I would have told you. Apart from my personal regard, these people were my parishioners, and their trust was my charge. If the young man is innocent, then the law will find him so, and for poor Katrina’s sake, find the one who was guilty. Perhaps for his sake also, although it is not ours to judge.” He took a long, deep breath. “I am deeply sorry to hear of her death, Mr. Monk, but I cannot help you.”

Monk did not pursue it. He could see in Rider’s gentle, sad face that his conviction would not waver.

“I am sorry to have brought you such news,” he said quietly. “Thank you for your time.”

Rider nodded. “Good day, Mr. Monk, and may God guide you in your quest.”

Monk hesitated, steeling himself, and turned back.

“Mr. Rider, did Katrina have a friend named Emma?” His heart was beating so wildly he could feel it lurch inside him. He saw the answer in Rider’s face before he spoke.

“Not that I am aware of. I am sorry. To my knowledge there was only herself and her mother-and her aunt, Eveline Austin. But she died some ten or twelve years ago. But of course I shall mention her death in church next Sunday, and no doubt word will pass.” He smiled sadly. “Bad news so quickly does.”

Monk swallowed, his mouth dry. He could feel everything precious, all the life he knew, infinitely precious, slipping away like water between his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to hold on to it.

“Are you all right, Mr. Monk?” Rider said anxiously. “You look a little unwell. I am so sorry to be of… of so little assistance.”

“No!” Monk steadied himself. This was an escape, but he was far from free yet. “Thank you. You have simply told me the truth. Thank you for your time. Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Monk.”

The arrangement with Squeaky Robinson, at least so far, was working very well. It had been a major undertaking to move all the beds, other furniture, and medicines and equipment from Coldbath Square to Portpool Lane, but the women who were now released from debt were mostly overjoyed to find a way of earning their living which was completely admirable and required of them no lies or evasions. Nor was there fear of being dismissed for not meeting with the moral standards of some mistress because of a past which must be hidden.

Squeaky complained bitterly, but Hester believed that at least part of it was because he thought it was expected of him. His most urgent concern was gone, and he was immensely relieved, even if he refused to admit it.

She had had great satisfaction in telling Jessop that he would no longer be troubled by the questionable tenants in his Coldbath house, since they had found alternative premises, which were larger, and at better rental-in fact, at no rental at all-and would be leaving as soon as was possible, a day or two at the most.

He had looked nonplussed. “It was an agreement, Mrs. Monk!” he protested. “You still owe a month’s notice, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” she had said flatly. “You threatened to evict us, and I believed you. I have found another place, as you said I should.”

He had blustered, and refused to pay back the rent for the week paid for but apparently not to be used.

She had smiled at him, perhaps not as sweetly as she had meant to, and told him it did not matter in the slightest, which confused him. That in turn had made him angry. By the time the exchange was completed they had gathered quite an audience, all very plainly on Hester’s side.

Jessop had left enraged, but knowing better than to make any threats. It was not a neighborhood in which to incur enemies who might have more power than you did yourself, and Jessop knew his limitations. Whoever had given Hester and Margaret premises, at no charge, must have a good deal of money to waste, and money was power.

They watched him go with immeasurable satisfaction, Bessie chortling with joy.

She also assured both Hester and Margaret that she could manage very well without them during the daytime once the trial of Michael Dalgarno began. Should there be an emergency she would send one of the local urchins for Mr. Lockhart, and then if that was still not enough, for one of them as well. However, since there was still little business going on, and the people of the streets were generally allied together against circumstances, at least as long as this crisis lasted, there was greater peace than usual among them.

Constable Hart also promised to give discreet assistance, if such were needed. Hester thanked him profusely, to his embarrassment, and gave him a jar of black currant jam, which he accepted, taking it with both hands. Even Bessie decided that perhaps he was an exception to the general rules about police.

So when the trial opened, Margaret, Hester and Monk were all sitting in the public gallery. Dalgarno was white-faced in the dock, Jarvis Baltimore fidgeting unhappily a few rows in front of them, Livia silent and wretched beside him, as Mr. Talbot Fowler began the case for the prosecution.

He was extremely efficient. He called witness after witness to show that Dalgarno was talented, ambitious, gifted with figures, and that he was undoubtedly the one who had accomplished most of the land negotiations for Baltimore and Sons with regard to the London-to-Derby railway.

On the second day he demonstrated that Dalgarno had paid court to Katrina Harcus, albeit not as openly as he might have done. They had been seen together quite often enough to substantiate her belief in his affection for her. Indeed, two of the witnesses had expected them to announce an engagement within the month.

Margaret sat beside Hester, leaning forward a little. Several times she seemed to be on the edge of speech, and Hester knew she was wondering why Rathbone did not cross-examine the witnesses, at least to appear to offer some kind of a defense. It was only her care for Rathbone which prevented her each time from putting her anxiety into whispered words. It would seem like a criticism.

On the other side of Hester, Monk was sitting equally tense, his shoulders high and stiff, his eyes strained forward. He must be thinking the same thing, but for entirely different reasons. If Rathbone failed, for him it was far more than disappointment in someone with whom he was falling in love; it would almost certainly mean changing places with the man in the dock.

And yet as Fowler paraded one witness after another, Rathbone said and did nothing.

“For God’s sake!” Monk said desperately that evening as he paced his sitting room floor. “He can’t be going to let it go by default. He’s got to do more than just hope they can’t prove it. Does he want to get accused of an incompetent defense?” He was ashen-faced, his eyes hollow. “He’s not doing that to save me, is he?”

“No, of course not,” Hester said instantly, standing in front of him.

“Not for me,” Monk said with painful humor. “For you.”

She caught his arm. “He’s not still in love with me.”

“The more fool he!” he retorted.

“He’s in love with Margaret,” she explained. “At least he soon will be.”

He drew in his breath, staring at her. “I didn’t know that!”

A flash of impatience crossed her face and disappeared. “You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, William, but he’ll do something-for honor, pride, all kinds of things. He won’t let it go without a fight.”

But Rathbone was unavailable all weekend. When Hester went to fetch fresh milk on Saturday morning, Monk snatched a few moments alone to look again at Katrina’s diary. He hated doing it, but he was desperate enough to grasp after any clue at all.

But he still could understand only fragments of it. It was cryptic, scattered words as if simply to remind herself of emotions; the people who inspired them were so woven into her life she needed nothing more to bring them back to her. Nothing made a chain of sense.

He struggled with his own memory. There was something just beyond his grasp, something that defined it all, but the shadows blurred and the harder he looked the more rapidly it dissolved into chaos, leaving him dependent on the slow, minute process of the law.

On Monday morning, when the trial resumed for the third day, it looked as if letting go without a fight was exactly what Rathbone was going to do.

Monk, Hester and Margaret all sat in an agony of impatience as Fowler brought on the police witnesses, first the constable called to the scene who found the body, then Runcorn, who described his own part in the proceedings.

At last Rathbone accepted the invitation, now offered somewhat sarcastically, to cross-examine the witness.

“Good gracious!” Fowler said in amazement, playing to the jury, who until now had had nothing to consider but uncontested evidence.

“Superintendent Runcorn,” Rathbone began courteously. “You described your conduct in excellent detail. You appear to have overlooked nothing.”

Runcorn eyed him with suspicion. He was far too experienced at giving evidence to imagine a compliment was merely that. “Thank you, sir,” he said flatly.

“And presumably you tried to find evidence proving that this cloak found on the roof from which Miss Harcus fell belonged to Mr. Dalgarno?”

“Naturally,” Runcorn conceded.

“And did you succeed?” Rathbone enquired.

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Dalgarno doesn’t have a cloak?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s not that one.”

“Has he two, then?”

“Not that we can trace, sir. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t his,” Runcorn said defensively.

“Of course not. He purchased this one secretly in order to leave it on the rooftop after he had thrown Miss Harcus off it to her death.”

There was a nervous titter around the room. Several jurors looked confused. Jarvis Baltimore reached across and slid his hand over Livia’s.

“If you say so, sir,” Runcorn replied blandly.

“No, no, I do not say so!” Rathbone retorted. “You say so! I say it belonged to someone else… who was on the roof and was responsible for Miss Harcus’s death… someone you never thought of trying to trace.”

“No one else had reason,” Runcorn said calmly.

“That you know of!” Rathbone challenged him. “I will presently show you a completely different interpretation of circumstances, Superintendent, one beyond your wildest ideas… which you would never seek to prove because it is extraordinary beyond anything else I have ever heard, and no man could be expected to think of it. Thank you. That is all.”

Monk swiveled to look at Hester, his eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “I’ve no idea.”

The jurors were staring at each other. There was a buzz of speculation in the body of the court.

“Grandstanding!” Fowler said audibly, disgust heavy in his voice.

Rathbone smiled to himself, but Hester had a hideous fear that he was doing exactly that, and that Fowler was not blustering, but knew it.

Margaret sat with her knuckles white, leaning forward a little.

Fowler called his next witness-the police surgeon, of whom Rathbone asked nothing-and then began on the neighbors who had seen or heard something that evening.

Rathbone glanced at his watch now and then.

“What is he waiting for?” Monk hissed.

“I don’t know!” Hester said more sharply than she had intended. What could Rathbone hope for? What other solution was there? He had not shaken any of the testimony at all, let alone suggested the alternative he had spoken of so dramatically.

They adjourned for the day and people trooped out into the halls and corridors. Hester overheard more than one say that they would not bother to return.

“I don’t know why a man like Rathbone would take such a case,” one man said disgustedly as he began down the broad steps into the street. “There’s nothing in it for him but defeat, and he knows it.”

“He can’t be doing as well as we thought,” his companion replied.

“He knows his client’s guilty!” The first man pursed his lips. “Still, I’d have thought he’d try, for the look of it.”

Hester was so angry she started forward, but stopped as she felt the pressure of Monk’s hand on her arm. She swung around to face him.

“What were you going to say?” he asked.

She drew breath to reply, and realized she had nothing prepared that made sense. She saw Margaret’s misery and growing confusion. “He’ll fight!” she assured her, because she knew how badly Margaret wanted to believe it.

Margaret made an attempt at a smile, but excused herself to find a hansom home before facing the evening in Coldbath Square.

Hester began the fourth day of the trial with a sinking heart. She had lain awake in the night wondering whether to go to Rathbone’s house and demand to see him, but realized there was nothing she could learn that would help, and certainly she had nothing to offer him. She had no idea who could have killed Katrina Harcus, or why. She knew it was not Monk, and was less and less certain that it was Dalgarno, although she could not like the man. Looking at him through the days so far she had seen fear in his face, in the hunched angle of his shoulders, the tight lips and pallor of his skin, but she had not seen pity for the dead woman. Nor had she seen any concern for Livia Baltimore, who was growing more miserable with each new piece of testimony that showed how callously he had treated a young woman who had believed he loved her, and whom, all evidence showed, deeply loved him.

In court in the morning she looked at Livia. Her skin was pale and puffy around the eyes, her body rigid, and Hester knew she was still clinging to hope. But even if Rathbone could somehow perform a miracle and gain an acquittal of murder for Dalgarno, was there anything on earth he could do to show him innocent of duplicity and opportunism?

Fowler concluded for the prosecution.

Hester slipped her hand over Monk’s briefly. It was easier than trying to find words when she had no idea what to say.

Rathbone rose to begin the defense. The public gallery was almost half empty. He called the surveyor again.

Fowler complained that he was wasting the court’s time. The surveyor had already testified in great detail. The subject had been more than exhausted.

“My lord,” Rathbone said patiently, “my learned friend knows as well as the rest of us that I was able only to cross-examine him on the subjects already spoken of in direct examination.”

“Can there possibly be any other subjects left?” Fowler asked to a ripple of laughter from the crowd. “We already know far more about the building of railways than we need to, or I imagine than we wish to.”

“Possibly than we wish to, my lord.” Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Not than we need to. We have still reached no unarguable conclusion.”

“You are lawyers,” the judge said dryly. “You can argue any conclusion on earth! However, proceed, Sir Oliver, but do not waste our time. If you appear to be talking for the sake of it I shall sustain Mr. Fowler’s objection-indeed, I shall object myself.”

Rathbone bowed with a smile. “I shall endeavor not to be tedious or irrelevant, my lord,” he promised.

The judge looked skeptical.

Rathbone faced the surveyor when he had been duly reminded of his previous oath and had restated his professional qualifications. “Mr. Whitney,” he began, “you have already told us that you surveyed both the originally intended route for the railway of Baltimore and Sons from London to Derby and the route now taken. Is there a significant difference in cost between the two?”

“No, sir, not significant,” Whitney replied.

“What do you consider significant?” Rathbone asked.

Whitney thought for a moment. “Above a few hundred pounds,” he replied at length. “Hardly as much as a thousand.”

“A lot of money,” Rathbone observed. “Sufficient to buy several houses for an ordinary family.”

Fowler rose to his feet.

The judge waved him down again and looked at Rathbone. “If you are intending to reach any conclusion, Sir Oliver, you have diverted further than the railway in question. You would be better occupied justifying your own circuitous journey.”