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He alighted and stood on the pavement as the hansom pulled away from the curb immediately and was lost in the traffic.
Monk went home to Fitzroy Street and an empty house. He washed and slept at last. At ten past eight, as the light was fading, he took a hansom to twenty-three Cuthbert Street. He was startled back to attention from his thoughts when they stopped abruptly and the cabbie looked in and told him that he could not go any further.
“Sorry, sir,” he said apologetically. “P’lice blockin’ the road. Dunno wot’s ’appened, but there’s a big ruckus up front. Can’t go no further. Yer’ll ’ave ter walk, if they’ll let yer.”
“Thank you.” Monk scrambled out, paid him, leaving the change of eight pence, and started to walk toward figures he could see standing under the street lamps. There were three men, two arguing with each other, the third, familiar in its tall, stiff outline, looking down at something like a bundle of clothes that lay at his feet. It was Runcorn, who had been Monk’s rival in the old days, then his superior; who had always hated and feared him until the quarrel when he had dismissed Monk at the same moment Monk had resigned in fury. Then the case of the artist’s model just months before had drawn them together again, and in shared emotions, painful and unexpected pity, they had formed an uneasy alliance.
But what was Runcorn doing here?
Monk lengthened his stride, only just restraining himself from running the last few yards.
“What is it?” he demanded, although as Runcorn swung around to face him, he could already see. The figure of a woman was sprawled on the ground. Her white muslin dress trimmed in blue was crumpled, and dirty, and deeply stained with blood. She lay half on her front, half sideways, as if she were broken. Her neck was at an awkward angle, one arm doubled under her, her legs crooked.
Instinctively, he looked upward and saw the flat roof of the building’s third floor, and then the rest of it going up another story beyond that. There was a railing as if it were an extended balcony from the upstairs room. He could not see the door; it was hidden by the wall above them.
A wave of nausea overtook him, and then overwhelming, consuming pity. He stared at Runcorn, his mouth too dry to speak.
“Looks like she fell off,” Runcorn replied to Monk’s original question. “Except she’s a bit far out, as the eye sees it. And people usually fall backward. Might have twisted in the air.” He squinted upward. “It’s a fair distance. Get a better idea from up there. Could’ve jumped, I suppose.”
Monk started to speak, then stopped.
“What is it?” Runcorn asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Monk said hastily. He should say nothing . . . not yet. His mind raced. What on earth could have happened? She would never, ever have jumped! Not Katrina Harcus. She was on the edge of exposing an ancient wrong. She wanted revenge, and she had had it almost within her grasp. And Dalgarno was innocent, which was what she had wanted above all from the beginning.
A uniformed constable came across the pavement, pushing his way past the bystanders who had begun to gather. “Got a witness, sir,” he said to Runcorn. His face was pinched and unhappy, expression exaggerated in the shadows cast by the street lamp. “Says there were two people up there, quite definite. ’E saw them strugglin’ back and forward. ’Eard ’er scream out summink, and then she staggers back an’ ’e comes after ’er, an’ next thin’ ’e turns, an’ she’s gorn over the edge.” He looked down at the figure on the ground. “Poor creature. Looks like she were youn’ . . . an’ right ’andsome too. It’s a cryin’ shame.”
“What happened to the man?” Runcorn asked, glancing at Monk, then back to the constable.
The constable straightened up. “Dunno, sir. I asked the witness but ’e didn’t see. Light was very fitful, like. ’E saw ’er partic’lar because of ’er wearin’
white an’ all. Man were in summink very dark, an’ ’e’ad a cloak on, sort o’ . . .” He shrugged. “Well, a cloak. Witness says ’e saw it billowin’ out when they was fightin’ just before she went over.”
Monk felt sick imagining it, Katrina struggling with someone, crying out for help, and no one did more than watch! They did not even know who had been there on the roof fighting with her . . . killing her! Dalgarno? It must have been. He was the only person involved. He must have come here when she had contacted him, as she had told Monk she would. Something she had said, some evidence she had found and he had missed, for all his meticulous searching, had driven Dalgarno to defend himself this murderous way.
But what? How had he committed the fraud? Why had Monk not been able to find it? Why was he so stupid, so blind all over again? And now someone else was dead, another he had been doing everything he could to help. He had promised her . . . and failed.
Runcorn was still talking to the constable. Monk bent onto his knees beside the body. Her eyes were wide open. This side of her face was barely damaged at all; there was just a trickle of blood. He knew better than to touch her, but he wanted to brush back the hair from her cheek, as if she could feel it across her skin. One hand was under her, the other outstretched, and as he looked more closely he could see there was something held inside it, something very small. Had she clutched at her murderer the last moment before he pushed her over, and torn something from him?
Runcorn and the constable were still absorbed in conversation, facing each other. Monk put out one finger and moved Katrina’s hand very slightly, just enough for the object to slip out of the slack grasp and fall onto the stones. It was a button, a man’s coat button. He drew in his breath to tell Runcorn, then a wave of heat engulfed him, bringing the sweat out on his skin, and the instant after he was cold. It was his own button, the one she had torn off in a heated moment in the Botanic Gardens! But that had been hours ago!
“What have you got?” Runcorn’s voice broke into his daze of horror, shattering his indecision. He could do nothing now, certainly not hide it. With clumsy fingers he fastened the lower buttons on his jacket so the top would be closed as well, hiding the fact that a button was gone, seeming as if it were simply not done up. He rose to his feet, his legs trembling. “A button,” he said huskily. He cleared his throat. “There was a button in her hand.”
Runcorn bent down and lifted it from the pavement, turning it over and over curiously.
Monk held his breath. Please God, Runcorn would not notice that it was exactly like the ones on Monk’s coat! It was dark; he was half turned from the street lamp. He would leave as soon as he could.
“Man’s coat button, by the look of it,” Runcorn observed. “Must have pulled it off as she struggled with him.” He put it in his own breast pocket. “Good piece of evidence.” He gave his attention to the constable again. “You talk to the people around here. See what you can find. Do we know who she was yet?”
“No, sir,” the constable answered. “They seen ’er comin’ an’ goin’, but not to speak to, like. Seemed very respectable. A Miss Barker, or Marcus, or summink like that, but not sure.”
To evade it was a pointless lie, and he would be caught in it sooner or later. “Harcus,” Monk said quietly. “Katrina Harcus.”
Runcorn stared at him. “You know her?”
“Yes. I was working on an investigation for her.” Now the die was cast, but he could not have hidden it, and neither should he want to. It was one coat button, easily enough explained. There might even be people in the gardens who had seen them and would recall the gesture in which she had accidentally ripped it off. “I can help,” he went on. Now that fierce anger overtook the initial shock, he wanted to. He wanted to be revenged for her, to find who had done this and see him punished. It was all he could do for her now. He had failed in everything else, but she had wanted revenge; he remembered very clearly the fury in her face. He could get at least that for her.
Runcorn’s eyes were wide. He let out his breath slowly. “So you weren’t here by accident. I should have known. What would you be doing in Cuthbert Street at this hour of the evening?” It was a rhetorical question to which he expected no answer. “What was it, this case you were working on?” he asked. “Do you know who did this to her?”
