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He was so tired he longed for sleep, even on a park bench in the bright April sun, but he was afraid of what horror might return to him the moment he lost control of his thoughts. He did not know how he could be guilty of anything, but the guilt remained, the helplessness, the blood, the screams, the awful squeal of metal on metal, and the glare and smell of fire, and always the certain knowledge that he could have prevented it.
He drank coffee bought from a corner peddler, then made his way back to the gingerbread seller to see what he had learned from his notorious acquaintances. He found him dispersing slices of hot, spiced loaf to a group of children, and waited a few yards off until he had finished.
“Well?” he asked. There was no need to question if the man remembered him; his crooked face was alive with anticipation.
“ ’E went out, all right,” he said triumphantly. “ ’Bout midnight. Face like thunder. Come back ’alf an hour later, no more.”
Half an hour. Not time enough to get to Leather Lane, find Nolan Baltimore, kill him, and return. Monk was overswept with relief, so sharp it was physical. He could tell Katrina that Dalgarno was innocent.
“And he didn’t go out again?”
“Not ’less it were close on daylight,” the gingerbread seller said firmly. “Crows ’as got eyes like ’awks. Don’t miss nothin’. Can’t afford to!”
He was right. The lookout men for burglars survived on their ability to see, remember and report.
“Thank you,” Monk said sincerely. He was so relieved he gave the man a sovereign, and added another half crown on top, then bought a piece of gingerbread.
At two o’clock he was tired and his feet were sore, but his step was light as he went in through the gate of the Royal Botanic Gardens, noticing briefly the blaze of color of the spring flowers. He had only five minutes to wait. She came to the entrance and stopped still, searching for him. Several other people turned to look at her. He was not surprised; she was most striking with her dramatic face and proud bearing, head high. She wore white muslin sprigged with dark blue, and the lines of the bodice echoed the same vivid color, accentuating the femininity of it. Her hat had roses on the brim, and her parasol was trimmed with blue ribbons. Several gentlemen stared at her, smiling for longer than was really polite, but their admiration robbed it of offense.
She saw Monk, and her face lit with pleasure, almost relief. He knew she must have been here many days, each time hoping to see him. He felt a welling up of satisfaction because at last he could tell her that as far as any investigation could show, Dalgarno was innocent of fraud, and even if there was land fraud by anyone else, it could have no connection with any crash. Her fears were honorable but needless.
She came toward him swiftly, stopping so close to him he could smell the perfume she wore, warm and musky, quite different from the sweet, fresh smell of the flowers around them.
“You have news?” she said with a gasp. “I can see it in your face.”
“Yes.” He smiled back at her.
There was a wildness in her eyes, and he saw her bosom rise and fall in the effort to control her breathing. He put his hand up as if to touch her arm, to reassure her, then realized how little he really knew her. The understanding of her fears, the feeling of identity with her, was on his side only. She would regard his touch as intrusive, which it would be. He let his hand fall again.
“Most importantly, I have been able to ascertain that Mr. Dalgarno did not leave his house at a time or for a duration where he could possibly be involved in Nolan Baltimore’s death.”
She was startled. “How?” she said incredulously. “How could anyone know that?”
“Burglars leave men on watch,” he explained dryly. “They call them crows. There was at least one on that street between midnight and dawn.”
She breathed out very slowly, her face very pale. “Thank you. Thank you very much. But . . . but what about . . .”
“I have searched exhaustively in London and in Liverpool, where the company was based earlier, Miss Harcus,” he said. “And I can find no evidence of fraud at all.”
“None . . .” She started, her voice high, her head moving very slowly in a gesture of denial, disbelief.
“A little oversharp profit on certain deals,” he conceded. “But that is common.” He stated it with authority, realizing only afterwards that he was speaking from memory. He was not guessing, he knew. “And everything was in the company name, not that of Mr. Dalgarno. He is a successful businessman, and as honest as most.”
“Are you certain?” she pleaded, her face flooded with amazement and dawning joy. “Absolutely certain, Mr. Monk?”
“I am sure there is nothing whatever to raise doubt as to his honor,” he repeated. “You may rest in confidence that his reputation is in no peril.”
She jerked back, her eyes wide. An onlooker might have thought he had insulted her from the disbelief in her face, which seemed almost like anger. “Rest?” she said fiercely
. “But the crash! What about the danger of another?”
“The Liverpool crash had nothing to do with the track,” he said patiently. “It was driver error, with a possibility that the brakemen also were—”
Now she was angry, flinging her hand back, almost as if to strike the person behind her. “What—all of them?” she challenged. “They all chose the same moment to make a mistake?”
He caught her wrist. “No, they don’t mean that. They mean it was one of them, and possibly the others panicked and didn’t know how to right it.”
“Are you saying that Baltimore and Sons was innocent?” she demanded. “Always? Then and now?”
