Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [155]
Monk must attract his attention, if possible in a manner which would not cause embarrassment. He moved discreetly until he was close enough to grasp Baltimore’s arm by the elbow, firmly, so he could not brush him off.
Baltimore turned to him, startled by the pain. He recognized Monk after a second’s hesitation, and his face hardened.
“Mr. Baltimore,” Monk said levelly, staring at him without blinking. “I have news for you from London which you need to hear as soon as possible. I think privately would be best.”
Baltimore took his meaning and was eager not to mar his moment of triumph with an awkward interview. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I will only be a moment. Please enjoy yourselves. Accept our hospitality.” He turned to Monk, saying something under his breath as he half pushed him out of the door into an unoccupied compartment of the carriage they were in.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. “I thought by now they’d be questioning you on Dundas’s money! Or is that what you’re doing? Attempting to escape!” His face hardened. “Well, I’m damned if I’ll help you. My father told me on the night of his death how you tried to put him out of business. What was that for? Revenge because he exposed Dundas?”
“I tried to save hundreds of lives—without putting you out of business!” Monk said between his teeth. He kept his grasp on Baltimore’s arm. “For God’s sake, just hold your tongue and listen. We haven’t much time. If—”
“Liar!” Baltimore snarled. “I know you made my father sign a letter that he would never manufacture the brakes again. What did you threaten him with? He’s not an easy man to frighten . . . what did you do to him?” He snatched his arm away from Monk’s grip. “Well, you won’t frighten me. I’ll see you in jail first.”
“Why do you think your father agreed to it?” Monk demanded, containing his temper with intense difficulty as he stared at Baltimore’s arrogant, angry face, and felt the train sway and jolt beneath them as it gathered speed, hurtling towards the long incline, and the viaduct beyond. “Just because I asked him?”
“I don’t know,” Baltimore replied. “But I won’t give in to you!”
“Your father never did favors for anyone,” Monk said between his teeth. “He stopped manufacturing the brakes after the Liverpool crash because I paid to have the enquiry return a verdict of human error, not to ruin the company . . . but on condition he signed that letter never to make them anymore.” He startled himself with the clarity with which he remembered standing in Nolan Baltimore’s magnificent office with its views of the Mersey River, and seeing Baltimore sit at his desk, his face red, his head shaking with shock and fury as he wrote the letter Monk dictated, and then signed it. The sunlight had been streaming across the floor, picking out the worn patches on the lush, green carpet. The books on the shelves were leather bound, the wood of the desk polished walnut. This was the piece at last! This was it! It made sense of it all.
Now Jarvis Baltimore stared at him, his eyes round and wide, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. He gulped and tried to clear his throat. “What . . . what are you saying? That the Liverpool crash . . .” He stopped, unable to put it into words.
“Yes,” Monk said harshly; there was no time to spare anyone’s feelings. “The crash was due to your brakes failing. There were two hundred children on that excursion train!” He saw the blood drain from Baltimore’s skin, leaving it pasty white. “And there must be a hundred people on this one. Order the driver to stop while you still can.”
“What money?” Baltimore argued, struggling to deny it, shaking his head. “How would you get enough money to silence an enquiry? That’s absurd. You’re trying . . . I don’t know why—to cover yourself! You stole Dundas’s money. You had charge of it all! You didn’t even leave anything for his widow—damn you!”
“Dundas’s money!” Monk tried not to shout at him. They were both swaying back