Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [127]
In that same instant Colman recognized him, his jaw momentarily slack with amazement.
“Monk?” He stared more closely. “It is Monk, isn’t it?”
Monk kept his voice steady with difficulty. “Yes, Mr. Colman. I would appreciate it if you could spare me a little of your time.”
Colman hesitated only a moment, then he swung the door wide. “Come in. What can I do for you?”
Monk had already decided that the only way to achieve what he needed was for the complete truth to come out, if indeed it was possible at all. The truth necessarily involved being honest about his loss of memory, and that bits and pieces were now coming back.
Colman led the way to the room in which he received parishioners and invited him to be seated. He regarded Monk with curiosity, which was most natural. He had not seen him in sixteen years. He must be looking at the changes in him, the character more deeply etched in his face, the tiny differences in texture of skin, the way the lean flesh clothed the bones.
Monk was acutely aware of Colman’s personality and the force of emotion he had felt in him before—nothing had diminished it. The grief was all still there, the memory of burying the dead, of trying to scrape together some kind of comfort for stricken families.
Colman was waiting.
Monk began. It was difficult, and his voice stumbled as he summarized the years between then and now, ending with the story of Baltimore and Sons and the new railway.
As Colman listened the guardedness was there in his face, the echoes of old anger and shattering grief. They had been on opposite sides of the issue then, and it was clear in his expression, in his careful eyes and slightly pinched lips, and above all in the tightness in his body as he sat, one leg still crossed over the other. His fists were closed, his muscles rigid. They were opponents still. That would never be forgotten.
“Nolan Baltimore has been murdered,” Monk stated. He saw Colman’s start of surprise, then a gleam of satisfaction, and immediately afterwards guilt for it, even a flush in his cheeks. But he was in no haste to express the usual regrets. There was an honesty in him which prevented it.
“By a prostitute,” Monk added. “While in the pursuit of somewhat irregular pleasures.”
Disgust was plain in Colman’s eyes.
“And that brings you here?” he said in disbelief.
“Not directly,” Monk replied. “But it does mean we cannot question him about anything to do with what very much appears to be another fraud in Baltimore and Sons, almost exactly like the first.”
Colman sat upright with a jolt. “Another? But Dundas is dead, poor soul. You, of all people, must know that. Surely your memory cannot be so affected . . . I mean . . .” He stopped.
Monk rescued him in his embarrassment. “I remember that. But what I don’t recall is how the fraud was discovered . . . not in detail. You see, it seems this time as if a man named Dalgarno is responsible, only the person who was his main accuser is also dead . . . murdered.” He saw the pity in Colman’s face, this time unmixed with anything else. “A woman,” Monk continued. “She was betrothed to him, and because of her privileged position as his fiancée, discovered certain things about the business, overheard conversations, saw papers, which made her realize there was something seriously wrong. She brought it to me. I investigated it as far as I was able, but I could find no fraud. A little questionable profiteering, but that’s all.”
“But she was murdered?” Colman interrupted, leaning forward with urgency.
“Yes. And Dalgarno is charged with it. But in order to prove his guilt we need to show the fraud beyond question.”
“I see.” It was clear from his expression that he