Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [107]
Runcorn stiffened. “You knew!” he accused him. “You lied. For God’s sake, Monk, what were you thinking of? Trying to protect her feelings or her dignity? She’s dead! And a pound to a penny Dalgarno killed her! It—”
“I only found out last night after I got home!” Monk cut across him, his voice sharp with anger at Runcorn for prejudging him, at Dalgarno for being greedy, dishonest and cruel, and at Katrina for loving so passionately a man unworthy of her, or of anyone.
Runcorn was regarding him with disbelief.
“Hester told me,” Monk snapped at him. Then, seeing Runcorn’s continued doubt, he went on. “She knew something was wrong. I told her Katrina Harcus was dead and that it looked as if Dalgarno had killed her. When she heard his name she said that she had been to see Livia Baltimore—”
“Why?” Runcorn interrupted.
“Because Livia Baltimore’s father was murdered in Leather Lane, everyone assumes by a prostitute,” Monk replied curtly. “You knew that. Hester has set up a house in Coldbath Square where injured women can get some medical help.” He felt a certain satisfaction at seeing the amazement, and then the admiration, in Runcorn’s face. He remembered the deep and powerful change of heart he had seen in him over the women driven to prostitution when they had investigated the death of the artist’s model together. It was the moment when Monk had been obliged, intensely against his will, to see a goodness in Runcorn that he could not ignore, or disdain. He had liked him for it, genuinely.
“So she went to see Miss Baltimore . . .” Runcorn prompted.
Hester came back with a fresh pot of tea and without speaking poured for Runcorn and passed the cup to him. He nodded his appreciation, but his eyes were on Monk.
“Yes,” Monk answered the question. “Dalgarno was there, and their feelings for each other were quite open.”
They both glanced at Hester and she nodded.
Runcorn made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, wordless and eloquent of his fury and contempt.
“Where was he last night?” Monk asked, knowing Runcorn would have found out.
Runcorn’s face split into a sudden smile. “Alone in his rooms,” he said with profound satisfaction. “Or so he claims. But he can’t prove it. Manservant out, no porter, no callers.”
“So he could have been in Cuthbert Street?” Monk was surprised at the mixture of emotions that awoke in him. Had Dalgarno been able to account for his time it would mean he could not be guilty, at least not in person, and that would have thrown the whole question wide open. Monk knew of no one else with any reason to harm Katrina. But it also caused him more distress than he would have imagined, because he thought of her facing the man she had loved so deeply, and seeing in his eyes that he meant to kill her. Had she known it immediately? Or had she waited, standing in the room, or out on the balcony, even until the last moment unable to believe he would, and then she had felt his hands on her and his strength, and knew she was pitching backward, falling?
“Monk!” Runcorn’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Yes . . .” he said sharply. “What else did he say? How did he react?”
“To her death?” Runcorn’s loathing was quite open. “With affected surprise—and indifference. He’s the coldest swine I’ve ever dealt with. One would have judged from his manner that the whole thing was a tragedy that barely touched on his life, a matter of regret for decency’s sake, but in reality of complete indifference. He’s got his eye on being part of the Baltimore company, and that’s all he cares about. I’ll get him, Monk, I swear it!”
“We’ve got to prove his motive,” Monk said, concentrating his mind on the issue. Fury, outrage, and pity were all understandable emotions, but they accomplished nothing now.
“Greed,” Runcorn said simply, as if the one word were damnation in itself. He picked up his tea and sipped it gingerly, afraid of burning himself.
“That doesn’t prove he killed her,” Monk pointed out