button. He knew when it had been torn-but she had died with it in her hand. Why? What was she doing still holding it so long after?
Without the motive, Dalgarno was no more proved guilty than was Monk himself. Perhaps the evidence against Dalgarno was just as rooted in chance-or mischance?
“Monk!” Runcorn said loudly. “Are you saying Dalgarno was like you?”
Monk returned to the moment with a jolt. “Somewhat,” he answered.
“Somewhat like you?” Runcorn said, amazement showing in his face that Monk was considering it seriously.
Monk felt himself on the brink of a precipice and pulled back. “Superficially,” he answered. Already his mind was enmeshed in other thoughts, farther into his own doubts and necessities. “Only superficially.” He wanted to excuse himself as soon as he could. He was feeling more and more impelled to see Rathbone. It was imperative. Perhaps it was almost too late now.
“There isn’t anything more,” he said aloud. “You’ll have to trust your prosecution. Sorry.”
Runcorn grunted. “I suppose I should be grateful that you tried.”
He had to wait an hour and a half before Rathbone was free to see him. It was a wretched time, far too long to sit and consider the difficulty and the embarrassment of what he must do.
When eventually Rathbone came and he was conducted into his familiar, elegant office, he began without preamble.
“Michael Dalgarno has been charged with murdering Katrina Harcus, but the proof depends on his having a motive,” he said bluntly.
“Of course.” Rathbone nodded, looking at Monk with sharpening interest. They knew each other well enough for him to be aware that Monk would not be there to say something so obvious, nor would he be so tense, his body tight, his voice on edge, were it not of acute personal importance, even pain, to him. The relationship between them was deep, at times troubled by rivalry between the smooth, socially and intellectually confident Rathbone, who nevertheless lacked emotional courage, and the arrogant, uncertain Monk, who looked and behaved almost like a gentleman, yet had the inner passion to commit his heart, win or lose, and was now so desperately afraid that after all the effort, the change, the hope, it would be lose.
Rathbone was regarding him gravely, waiting for him to explain.
“Runcorn assumes it was because Katrina had proof of his being involved in fraudulent purchase and sale of land for Baltimore’s railway line to Derby,” he began. “I thought so too, but I’ve searched as thoroughly as I can, even comparing all the dealings with the fraud in Baltimore and Sons in Liverpool sixteen years ago, when I worked for the banks concerned myself.” He saw Rathbone’s slight start of surprise, concealed almost instantly. “But I can find no proof,” he went on. “Certainly not sufficient to hang a man for murder.”
Rathbone looked at his hands, then up at Monk. “Exactly what was your involvement in the first fraud, as much as you know?” he asked.
Now was the time when only the naked truth would do. Any evasion might come back as guilt, like a knife to destroy whatever good was left.
“Arrol Dundas, the man who taught me everything I knew and was almost a father to me, was accused of buying land cheaply and then selling it at huge profit after falsifying the surveys so the railway would divert its course,” he replied. “He was found guilty, and died in prison.” It was odd, put so baldly, devoid of the reality of passion that had made it acutely and irrevocably painful. It sounded like a legal issue, not people’s lives torn apart. Best to add the ugliest part of that now, get it over. “And while he was in prison, there was one of the most terrible rail crashes in history. A coal train collided with an excursion train full of children.”
Rathbone was so moved by his own imagination of the horror of it that for a moment or two he did not speak. “I see,” he said at last, his voice low enough to be almost inaudible. “And did it have anything to do with the fraud?”
“Not that I could tell. It was attributed to human error-possibly both driver and brakeman.”
“Proof?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows very slightly.
“None. No one ever knew for certain. But navvies have never been known to build a faulty track. There are too many checks, too many skilled people involved.”
“I see. And was Dundas guilty of the fraud, or was it someone still alive now? Dalgarno?”
“Not Dalgarno, he would have been a schoolboy sixteen years ago. I don’t know whether Dundas was guilty. I was certain he was innocent at the time… at least I think I was.” His eyes did not leave Rathbone’s. “I fought to get him acquitted… and I can remember the grief and the sense of helplessness when he wasn’t.”
“But…” Rathbone probed gently, like a surgeon with a knife, and like a knife, it hurt.
“But I can’t remember. I feel guilty about something. I don’t know whether it was because I couldn’t help. In Liverpool just now I looked into his financial affairs as far as I could with no authority. He was very wealthy while I knew him, and up until the time of the trial. He was supposed to have made a profit out of the land deal…”
Rathbone nodded. “Naturally. One presumes that was part of the evidence of fraud. What about it?”
“He died with very little.” This time Monk did not look at Rathbone as he said it. “He sold his large house and his widow lived extremely modestly in a far less salubrious area. When she died she left nothing. She had lived on an annuity which ended with her death.”
“And you don’t know where the money went?”
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.
