Death Of A Stranger

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 i

“I

She took a step towards him. Now she seemed almost excited. Her eyes were bright, her body tense, her cheeks flushed with pink. She put her hands on the front of his chest, closing her fingers tightly over the edges of his jacket. “Is there proof of their i

He felt his own body tighten and the blood pound in his veins. He clasped her wrists. “How do you know that?” he said between his teeth. He was startled to find that he was shaking.

She pulled away from him violently. He felt the button in her hand rip off his coat, but it hardly mattered. Her face was filled with emotion so intense her eyes blazed and her color was hectic. She stared at him for a long, desperate moment, then spun on her heel and all but ran back toward the gate.

Monk was aware that several people were staring at them, but he did not care. What did she know about Arrol Dundas? That question filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He strode after her, almost catching up with her at the gate out onto I

“How do you know that?” he repeated the demand. “What have you heard? From whom-Dalgarno?”

“Dalgarno?” she said incredulously, then she started to laugh, a wild sound, close to hysteria. But she did not answer. Instead, she turned away from him again and half ran along York Gate towards the Marylebone Road and the general traffic with carriages and hansoms going in both directions. “I’m going home!” she called at him over her shoulder.

He ran after her, catching up again and walking beside her as she reached the road and raised her parasol to hail a cab. One pulled up almost immediately and Monk helped her in, climbing in after her.

She made no protest, almost as if she had expected him to.

“If it was not Dalgarno, then from whom?” he insisted after she had given the driver instructions to take her to Cuthbert Street in Paddington.

She turned to face him. “You mean the fraud case, all those years ago?”

“Yes, of course I do!” He kept his temper only with the greatest difficulty. It mattered intensely. What did she know? How could she know anything, except from Baltimore’s records or something she had overheard him say?

She stared straight ahead, smiling, but there was a hollowness in her eyes. “Did you imagine I made no enquiries myself, Mr. Monk?” Her voice was hard-edged, grating. “Did you think I learned nothing about the past history of Baltimore and Sons when I knew how deeply Michael was involved in it, and expected to make his fortune through it?”

“You said that you knew an i

“Didn’t they?” she asked, staring ahead of her.

“Of course they didn’t, or he wouldn’t have died in jail!” He grasped her arm. “How do you know? What happened?”

She turned in the seat to stare at him, her face twisted with a fury so intense he drew back from it, loosening his hold on her.

“A great wrong, Mr. Monk,” she said softly, her voice trembling, her words almost a hiss. “People were wronged then, and are wronged now. But revenge will come-that I promise you. It will come… on my mother’s grave… on mine if need be.”

“Miss Harcus…”

“Please get out!” Her face was ashen now. “I need to think, and I must do it alone.” She snatched her hand from him and, picking up the parasol, banged on the front of the hansom to draw the driver’s attention. “I will tell you… this evening.”

She banged on the front again, more fiercely.

“Yes, miss?” the driver answered.

“Mr. Monk is alighting. Would you be so good as to stop,” she ordered.

“Yes, miss,” he said obediently, and pulled in to the curb. They were at the corner of Marylebone Street and the Edgware Road, traffic streaming around them in both directions.

Monk was touched by a deep concern for her. She looked so torn by conflicting passions it was almost as if she had a fever. He wanted desperately to know what she meant by stating so vehemently that Dundas was i