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“She was very careful of her reputation,” Monk answered. “She was betrothed to an ambitious man. She wanted to be entirely discreet about having hired me. I imagine she intended it to appear that we were social acquaintances.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, then realized it would alter the sit of his coat, perhaps showing the missing button, and changed his mind. “After the first time, we always met in public, and by chance. She walked in the gardens every day at the same time, and if I had anything to report I knew where to find her.”
“Extremely careful,” Runcorn agreed. “Poor creature,” he added softly. “Maybe she knew then that this Dalgarno was dangerous.” He shook his head. “Funny what attracts some women to a man. I’ll never understand that. Well, we’d better get on with it. We’ll just have to search.”
Monk stared around at the room. It was simply furnished, but the taste was excellent and the few pieces were of good quality, giving it an air of spaciousness that was unusual. He was not surprised. Katrina herself had been a woman of character and strength, highly individual. Again his anger against Dalgarno boiled over, and he went across to the desk and opened it. He kept his back to Runcorn, who was still staring around, gaining an impression of the style of the room, and going instinctively to the glass doors which opened onto the balcony from which she must have fallen.
The desk contained quite a few business papers, and Monk began leafing through them, only glancing at the subject. He did not know what he was looking for, and if Dalgarno had killed her because she had found proof of his fraud, then most certainly she would have shown it to him and he would have taken it to destroy. Nevertheless there might be more than one paper of interest, and he had to look.
He found something surprisingly quickly, but it was not what he expected. It was a letter written but obviously never sent, addressed to someone named Emma.
Dear Emma,
I promised to tell you all I learned, so I must keep my word, even though it is extremely painful for me to acknowledge such a mistake. I have discovered papers to do with the original fraud in Liverpool, and it now seems incontrovertible that Mr. Monk, whom I had trusted profoundly, was actually involved in that terrible affair himself. I found an old receipt among the Baltimore papers, and it was signed by him!
Upon further investigation, I learned that he once worked in merchant banking, and was connected with the loan for the railway Baltimore and Sons were building. He had kept it concealed from me, and no wonder—the fraud was profound and far-reaching. One man died for it, and a great deal of money is still unaccounted for, even to this day. And of course there was the crash! Mr. Monk is deeply implicated. You can only imagine how it grieves me.
I have not confronted him yet, but I believe I must. How else can I behave honorably?
Dear Emma, I wish you were here, so I could counsel with you what to do. I am suddenly deeply afraid.
There was no more written.
Monk stared at it. Who was Emma? Where did she live? There was no address. What else might Katrina have written to her?
He flicked very carefully through the other papers in the first drawer and found bills, an old invitation, and another letter, written in a cramped, sloping backhand:
My dearest Katrina,
It is so good to hear from you, as always, but I confess I do not care for the sound of this man, Monk, whom you have employed, and all you have told me only adds to my foreboding. Please, my dear, be very careful. Do not trust him.
He scanned the rest, but it was merely pleasant gossip about mutual acquaintances, mentioned only by Christian name. If Runcorn found these he would think Monk himself could have killed her. Fingers fumbling, moving slowly so as to not rattle the paper, he slid both of them off the pile and heard them rustle.
Runcorn had come in from the balcony. He was holding up a large, slightly crumpled man’s cloak. In the gaslight it appeared to be black.
“What’s that?” Monk asked, moving to shield the papers from Runcorn’s view, and put out his other hand to leaf the pages and mask the sound of the two he was taking out. He folded them quickly and slid them inside his shirt, around the side of his body where movement would not make them crackle.
“It was out there,” Runcorn said with a frown. “Lying on the ground near the edge where she must have gone over.” He looked at it. “It’s too long for her, and anyway it’s not a woman’s.”
Monk was surprised. “That’s a careless thing to do—leave it behind.”
“Must have come off when he struggled with her.” Runcorn wrapped it over, lining to the outside. “Doesn’t have a tailor’s name, but we’ll find out where it comes from and whose it is. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing significant yet,” Monk replied, keeping his voice perfectly level, unnaturally so. He leafed through another few sheets and saw a scribbled note. The sweat stood out on his skin as he read it.
Tell Monk of conversation I overheard which makes me certain that there is a fraud currently at Baltimore and Sons and that I am deeply afraid that Michael Dalgarno is involved. A very great deal of money is to be made shortly, but the matter must be kept completely secret.
The land fraud is basically the same as before—he will see that when he looks carefully enough. Questions to raise—is it cheaper, and therefore illegal profit to be made by diverting the line and somehow stealing the difference from investors? Or is there bribery, either by someone to use their land—or not to use it? There are several possibilities.
Again, Michael has to know of it! His signature is on the wages receipts and on the land purchase orders.
There was nothing more, as if it were written as an aid to her own memory.
Runcorn looked at Monk. “Well?” he demanded. “Are those the papers you looked into?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you found nothing to incriminate this Dalgarno?” Runcorn was skeptical. “Not like you to miss something—’specially if you know all about railways! You’re slipping, aren’t you?” There was only the very faintest trace of the old animosity in his voice, but Monk heard it. He was too sensitive to years of enmity not to know every shade and nuance of a jibe when it was there. He had made enough of his own; more often than not, Runcorn had been the victim.
“There wasn’t any land fraud like the first,” he said defensively.
