death was as tangible as another person watching him, waiting.
He jerked his attention back to the moment. There was no time to think about what had happened here, to try to picture Dalgarno, if it had been him, standing probably where Monk was now, charming her, quarreling, whatever it had been, then going out onto the balcony with her, the last furious words, the struggle, and her falling…
He was looking for papers, letters, address books. Where would they be? In the desk where Runcorn had already looked, or in some other similar kind of place. He moved quickly to the desk, opened it and started with the pigeonholes, then the drawers. There was surprisingly little for a woman who conducted her own affairs, and nothing dating farther back than a few months. Presumably that was when she had come to London.
There was nothing else to Emma, which was not surprising. They would naturally all have been posted. He was chilled inside at the thought of what Emma might have. And it seemed Katrina had not kept Emma’s other letters, at least not in the desk. Nor was there any note of her address. Was it one that she knew so well there was no need to note it down?
He stood in the middle of the floor, staring around him. Where else might she keep anything on paper? Where did she cook? Did she have recipe books, kitchen accounts that were separate? A diary? Where did women keep diaries? Bedside table or cabinet? Under the mattress, if it were private enough.
He searched more and more frantically, trying to steady his hands and be methodical, miss nothing, replace everything as he had found it. There were no other letters, no address book, only the cooking notes any woman might have, a book of recipes handed on from Eveline Mary M. Austin, and brief memos on how to launder certain difficult fabrics.
He found the diary just as he was about to give up. He had actually sat down on the bed, sweat on his face, frustration making his hands stiff and clumsy, when he felt a hardness in the lace-covered decorative pillow at the head, over the coverlet. He fished inside the fold at the back and drew out the hardcovered little book. He knew instantly what it was, and opened it, gulping his breath at fear of what he would find. It could be anything, more doubts of himself, words that would prove Dalgarno’s guilt, or even someone else’s, or nothing of use at all. And he hated the intrusion. Diaries were often intimate and shatteringly private. He did not want to read it, and he had to.
Inside the flyleaf was an inscription: “To my dearest Katrina, from your Aunt Eveline.” He only glanced at the pages. The first date was over ten years ago, and the entries were sporadic, sometimes merely the notation of a date, at others a page or more, even two for events of great importance to her. He had not time to read them all, and he concentrated on the more recent ones, particularly since meeting Dalgarno.
He felt guilty reading what were in some cases the inner thoughts of a young woman on the people in her life and the emotions they caused in her, but often her words were so cryptic he could only guess, and he preferred not to. He imagined what he would have felt, had he ever committed his own thoughts to paper like this, and some mere stranger had read them.
He found the letter from Emma almost at the end. It was in the same cramped backhand as the one he had destroyed. It was far less specific, only words of any general sympathy, as if in answer to a letter from Katrina which did not need repeating for her responding emotions to be understood.
He read it twice, then folded it up again, put it in the diary and then put the diary carefully in his pocket. Apparently, Runcorn had not found it so he would not now miss it. He could read it later, and see if anything in it would lead to Emma.
Within half an hour of going in, he was out in the street again, telling the constable that unfortunately he had found nothing, and then wishing him good day and walking rapidly back towards the main thoroughfare.
The news broke in the late edition that evening:MICHAEL DALGARNO ARRESTED FOR BRUTAL MURDER OF KATRINA HARCUS IN SECOND TRAGEDY FOR BALTIMORE AND SONS.
Runcorn must think he had enough to go to trial. Please heaven he was right!
But Runcorn was not certain. Monk knew that the moment he spoke to him the next morning, even though he denied it. They were in Runcorn’s office, papers scattered on the desk and the sunlight coming through the window making bright patterns on the rest of the floor.
“Of course it’s enough!” Runcorn repeated. “He was pulling a land fraud against the investors in Baltimore and Sons, and Katrina Harcus knew it. She told him so, begged him to stop. He had two reasons for wanting her dead.” He held up his fingers. “To keep her quiet about the fraud, for which she may well have had proof-and he destroyed it, she as good as told you that. And because he now had a chance of marrying Livia Baltimore, who was shortly going to be a rich woman.” He looked across at Monk challengingly. “And whether he had anything to do with Nolan Baltimore’s death or not, we’ll probably never know, but it’s possible.” He drew in his breath. He held up a third finger. “Added to that, he can’t prove where he was at the time of her death. He says he was at home, but there’s no one who can swear to it.”
“What about the cloak?” Monk asked, then instantly wished he had not. It had to remind Runcorn of the button as well, and he had not yet destroyed the jacket, or had a chance to find a replacement button, if he dared do that.
Runcorn sighed irritably. “No trace of it,” he said. “Can’t find anyone who saw him with a cloak anything like that. He had a cape for the opera.” His tone of voice suggested what he thought of that. “But he’s still got it.”
Monk was disappointed.
“Nothing with the button either,” Runcorn went on. “All his coats and jackets are complete, and his manservant says there’s nothing missing.”
“Then it all hangs on there being a fraud,” Monk pointed out. He hated having to say it, but it was the truth. “And we can’t prove that.”
“The land!” Runcorn said truculently, his chin forward. “You said there are rabbits in it. You told me you saw them yourself. Is there some kind of a rabbit that can build tunnels through a hillside that a team of navvies couldn’t blast through with dynamite, for God’s sake?”
“Of course there isn’t. At least I hope not,” Monk said wryly. “But even if there was a bit of sharp profit made on that, it wasn’t because Dalgarno owned the land they had to divert to.”
“If there was no profit, why do it?” Runcorn demanded.
Monk was patient. “I didn’t say there was no profit, only that it wasn’t because Dalgarno owned the land. He didn’t; neither did either of the Baltimores. It may have been a matter of bribery. Someone paid very nicely to have the line diverted from his land, but we haven’t any proof of it, and I don’t think Katrina did either. At least she didn’t tell me about it-” He stopped.
“What?” Runcorn said quickly. “What is it, Monk? You’ve remembered something!”
“I think she knew something more that she had not yet told me,” he admitted.
“Then that was it!” Runcorn’s face was alight. “That was the proof she was going to give you, but Dalgarno killed her before she could! She wanted to try one more time to persuade him to give it up-”
“We have no evidence of that!” Monk cut across him.
“Look!” Runcorn clenched his fist and stopped just short of banging it on the table. “This fraud is a copy of the first one, for which Arrol Dundas was jailed sixteen years ago-yes?”
Monk felt his body tense. “Yes,” he said very quietly.
“Which Nolan Baltimore had to have known about, either at the time or when it all came out in court?” Runcorn pressed.
“Yes…”
“All right. Now, this Dundas wasn’t a fool. He got away with it for quite a long time-in fact, he nearly got away with it altogether. Nolan Baltimore knew all about it, presumably so did Jarvis Baltimore-and so very possibly did Michael Dalgarno. It’s all part of the company’s history, after all. Find out how Dundas got tripped up, Monk. Find the details of it, piece by piece.”
“It was his land,” Monk said wearily. “He bought it before the railway was diverted, and then sold it to them expensively after falsifying the survey report as to the height and composition of the hill.”
“And Baltimore and Sons is doing exactly the same thing this time, and diverting the track again?” Runcorn’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence? Balderdash! Dalgarno knew all about the first time, and he pulled exactly the same trick… for a very good reason. There’s profit in it for him somewhere. And Katrina found proof of it. You know railways, you know banking-find it, and before we go to trial! I’ll see you get the money for going to Liverpool, or wherever it takes you. Just come back with proof.”
