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Monk looked up. “No, I don’t. I’ve done everything I can to remember, been to the places again, read the newspapers, and it still won’t come.”
“What are you afraid of?” Rathbone spared him nothing. Perhaps that was as necessary as a doctor pushing to see where it hurt most.
Could he lie? At least about this? What was the point? He had to tell Rathbone that he had burnt the letters which implicated him—falsely. And there could be others saying that.
“That I did know at the time,” he replied. “I was executor of his will. He must have trusted me.”
Rathbone did not stay his hand at all, although the reluctance, the hurt at having to do it was in his voice. “Could you have taken this money yourself?”
“I don’t know! I suppose so. I can’t remember.” Monk sat forward, staring at the floor. “All I can see clearly in my mind is her face, his widow, telling me he was dead. We were in a very ordinary house, small and neat. I didn’t have the money, but I don’t know if I did something with it. I’ve racked my mind, but I just don’t remember!”
“I see,” Rathbone said gently. “And if Dundas were innocent, as you thought at the time, then was the truth that there was no fraud or that someone else was guilty?”
“I think that’s the difference,” Monk said, straightening up slowly and meeting Rathbone’s eyes. “Sixteen years ago there was definitely fraud. The grid references on the survey map were altered. If it wasn’t Dundas, then it was someone else, possibly Nolan Baltimore—”
“Why?” Rathbone interrupted. “If Dundas profited personally, why would Baltimore have forged a survey report?”
“I don’t know. It makes no sense that I can see,” Monk admitted, defeated again. It closed in on him on every side. “But I don’t believe there was fraud this time. The track was rerouted, but Dalgarno didn’t own the land. If there was illegal profit, then it was bribery in order to change the route and not divide farms or estates. And placed as they are, anyone could have done that out of a sense of preservation of the land, without being bribed to.”
Rathbone stared at him, his face very grave. “Monk—what you are saying is that Dalgarno had no reason that you know of to kill this woman. If he had no motive, and no one saw him do it, then there is no evidence to tie him into the crime at all.”
“There is a little,” Monk said slowly, very distinctly, hearing the words drop like stones, irretrievable. He must tell Rathbone all of it. “There is the paper Katrina Harcus left accusing him. But she also left one which, on the face of it, accuses me. And the button.” Now it would be impossible to retract. Rathbone would force him to tell the whole truth.
“Button?” Rathbone frowned.
“She died with a man’s coat button in her hand.”
“Torn off in the struggle? Why the devil didn’t you say so?” Now Rathbone’s face was keen, his eyes alight. “That ties him in completely—motive or not!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Monk said flatly, even at this awful moment aware of the bitter humor of it.
Rathbone opened his mouth to speak, then sensed something deeper and beyond words, and said nothing.
“I met her in the Botanic Gardens earlier in the day,” Monk went on. “She was very distressed, and still passionately convinced that Dalgarno was guilty. We more or less quarreled about it, at least that is what it would appear to be to any onlookers, and there were many.”
Rathbone leaned forward a little across the desk, concentrating intensely.
Monk felt hot, and then cold. He was shivering. “She grasped at me, as if to demand my attention. Then, in pulling away she tore the button off my coat. It was my button in her hand.”
“Several hours later? When fighting with her murderer?” Rathbone said softly. “Monk, are you telling me the whole truth? If I am to defend you, I need it.”
Monk looked up at him slowly, dreading what he would see. “I came to ask you to defend Dalgarno,” he said, ignoring Rathbone’s surprise. “I think he may be innocent. Either way, I need him to be defended to the best of anyone’s ability. If he hangs, I have to be certain, beyond any doubt at all—reasonable or otherwise, that he killed her.”
“I am more concerned about keeping your neck out of the noose,” Rathbone said earnestly. “You knew this woman, you were seen to quarrel with her the day of her death, and your coat button was in her hand. And you didn’t tell me what happened to the letters which incriminated you.”
“I took them,” Monk told him. “Runcorn asked me to show him the rooms where she lived. I saw them before he did. I took them, and burnt them when I got home.”
Rathbone let out a long sigh. “I see. And to whom were these letters written?”
“Someone called Emma, but I don’t know anything else, except that she did not live in London. I went back”—he saw Rathbone wince, and ignored it—“and looked for more, an address book, but I didn’t find one.”
“Were they regular correspondents?”
Monk’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t know!” He did not mention the diary. No one had heard about it, and he clung to the tiny thread of hope that somehow it would still tell him something about Katrina which could provide a link, however fragile. And there was something of her dreams in it he wanted to protect. Perhaps if he were honest, that was it.
“I see,” Rathbone repeated softly. “And you are afraid your actions will hang a man who may be innocent.” That was not a question. He knew Monk well enough for it not to need to be.
Monk looked at him steadily. “Yes. Please?”
