Anne Perry - Death Of A Stranger

“May I speak to some of your girls, to ask if anyone saw Mr. Baltimore around the streets here, or knows where he could have gone?” Hester requested.

Ada considered for a few moments. “I s’pose,” she said at last. Apparently she had weighed what Hester had told her and decided a degree of trust might get her what she wanted. “But don’ take all night! Times is ’ard. We in’t got opportunities ter waste!”

Hester did not bother to answer.

She spent nearly an hour speaking with one bored or frightened woman after another, but none of them were marked as far as she could see. Certainly none of them were prepared to admit having seen Nolan Baltimore in Leather Lane, only at the bottom of the stairs here on the night of his death.

“Daft question, if yer ask me!” one woman called Polly said with total disdain. “ ’E were a toff. Money comin’ outer ’is ears, an’ all.” Her laugh changed into a snarl, more disgust than anger. “Look at us, lady! D’yer think someone like that’s gonna come ’ere ter the likes o’ us? ’E wants summink special, an’ ’e can pay fer it.” She shrugged, and yanked the sliding shoulder of her dress back up again. “ ’E prob’ly goes up Squeaky Robinson’s way. ’E could pay ’is prices, an’ no trouble.”

“Squeaky Robinson?” Hester repeated, almost afraid to believe. “Who is he?”

“Dunno,” Polly said immediately. “Nearer Coldbath, an’ the brewery. ’Atton Wall, or Portpool Lane, mebbe. Don’ wanner know. Neither d’ you, if yer knows wot’s good fer yer.”

“Thank you.” Hester stood up. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”

“In’t told yer nothin’,” Polly denied bluntly, jerking the dress back into position again and swearing under her breath.

“No,” Hester agreed. “Except that Baltimore didn’t die here. In fact, he didn’t do business here at all.”

“Yer right,” Polly said with feeling. “ ’E din’t!”

Hester believed her. All the way back to Coldbath Square she turned it over in her mind and was sure that Nolan Baltimore had met his death somewhere else and been carried to Abel Smith’s house in order to move the blame.

But she was a little closer to finding out where he had been killed, or why, though she would not forget the name of Squeaky Robinson, or the fact that, according to Polly, he catered to men with expensive and different tastes.

Monk had considered very carefully all the information he possessed regarding the Baltimore and Sons railway, and he could see no obvious fraud in the purchase of land or any other part of the project. But even if there had been illegitimate profit made in either the buying or not buying of certain stretches of the track, he could think of no way in which it could be connected with a risk of accident. And that was what exercised his mind in ways Katrina Harcus could not imagine. Of course a present danger mattered, and he was acutely aware that if such existed he had a moral duty as well as a desire to do everything in his power to avoid it. But what hurt with a massive, drowning pain-because it was irretrievable-was the fear that in the past the fraud for which Arrol Dundas had died was in some way responsible for the crash Monk remembered with such awful guilt.

He strode across the grass of Regent’s Park toward the Royal Botanic Society Gardens, barely noticing the other people strolling by. His mind was torn between past and present. Each held the key to the other, and he might find both in the few snatches of information Katrina held, locked in and obscured by her emotions. They had at least that in common. She was terrified for Dalgarno and what she did not know about him, and dreaded could be true. Monk was terrified in exactly the same way, but for himself.

It was bright sunshine with all the aching silver-and-gold clarity of spring, and the gardens were busy with people. Having nerved himself to meet her, he felt a sharp disappointment that he looked for her for several minutes in vain. There were dozens of women of all ages. He could see colored silk and lace, embroidered muslin, hats with flowers, parasols in a jungle of points above the spread domes of cloth. They walked in twos and threes, laughing together, or on the arms of admirers, heads high, a flounce of skirts.

He stood in the gateway with a sense of acute disappointment. He had steeled himself for the meeting, and now he would have to do it again tomorrow. He had no idea where she lived or how to find her, and no other avenue of investigation to pursue to fill in the time until she might be here again.

“Mr. Monk!”

He swung around. She was there behind him. He was so pleased to see her he did not notice what she was wearing, except that it was pale and faintly patterned. It was her face he watched, her amazing, dark-fringed eyes, and he knew he was smiling. It probably misled her, as if he had good news to tell, and even though that was a lie, he could not alter it. The sheer relief bubbled up inside him.

“Miss Harcus! I… I was afraid you would not come,” he said hastily. It was not really what he meant, but he could think of nothing more exact.

She searched his face. “Have you news?” she said almost breathlessly. He noticed only now how pale she was. He could feel the emotion in her as he could in himself, tight, curled like a spring ready to break.

“No.” He said the word more brusquely than he had intended to, because he was annoyed with himself for misleading her. “Except that I have found nothing out of order in Mr. Dalgarno’s conduct.” He stopped. There was no relief in her eyes, and he had expected it. It was as if she could not believe him. If anything, the tension in her increased. Under the fine fabric of her dress her shoulders were rigid, her breathing so intensely controlled that merely watching her he could feel it himself. She started to shake her head very slowly from side to side. “No… no…”

“I have searched everything!” he insisted. “There may be irregularity in the purchase of land…”

“Irregularity?” she said sharply. “What does that mean? Is it honest or not? I am not completely ignorant, Mr. Monk. People have gone to prison for ’irregularities,’ as you call them, if they were intentional and they have profited from them. Sometimes even if they were not intended but they were unable to prove that.”

An elderly gentleman hesitated in his step and glanced at Katrina as if uncertain what the tone of her voice might mean. Was it anger or distress? Should he intervene? He decided not, and walked on with considerable relief.

Two ladies smiled at each other and passed by a few feet away.

“Yes, I know,” Monk said very quietly, old, sickening memories coming back to him as he stood in the sunlit gardens. “But fraud has to be proved, and I can find nothing.” Katrina drew in her breath as if to interrupt again, but he hurried on. “The sort of thing I am thinking of is routing a railway line through one piece of land rather than another to oblige a farmer or the owner of an estate so as not to divide his land. There might have been bribery, but I would be very surprised if it is traceable. People are naturally discreet about such things.” He offered her his arm, aware that by standing in one place they were making themselves more noticeable.

She grasped at it till he could feel her fingers through the fabric of his jacket.

“But the crash!” she said with panic rising in her voice. “What about the dangers? That is not just a matter of”-she gulped-“of making personal profit that is questionable. It’s…” She whispered the word. “Murder! At least morally.” She pulled him to a stop again, glaring with a depth of horror in her eyes that frightened him.