Boyd smiled at her, curiosity and satisfaction in his face.

“How fortunate,” Marielle said coolly, indicating that the subject was closed. “Have you seen the new exhibition at the British Museum yet, Margaret? Mr. Boyd was just telling us how fascinating it is. Egypt is a country I have always wished to visit. The past must seem so immediate there. It would give one quite a different perspective upon time, don’t you think?”

“Unfortunately, it would not give me any more of it,” Margaret said, trying to sound casual and less embarrassed than she was at such an obvious ploy. She looked at Boyd. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Boyd. I hope you will excuse us leaving so abruptly, but there is no one to take our places should any injured be brought into the house in Coldbath Square.” She looked at her sister. “Thank you for being so generous, Marielle. I am extremely grateful to you.”

“You really must stay longer next time,” Marielle said resentfully. “You must come to dinner, or to the theater. There are many excellent plays on at the moment. You are allowing your interests to become too narrow, Margaret. It cannot be good for you!”

Margaret ignored her, bade everyone good-bye, and a few moments later she and Hester were outside in the cool air of the street, walking toward the corner where they might find a hansom easily.

“What did he say that was helpful?” Margaret demanded. “I don’t see what any of it means that is really any use.”

“Mr. Boyd hinted that Baltimore had other income, apart from the railway company,” Hester said a little tentatively.

“He went to Leather Lane on business?” Margaret was uncertain. “Does that help? We have no idea what business, or with whom. And actually didn’t you say his death wasn’t in Leather Lane anyway?”

“Yes, I did. I said it might very well have been in Portpool Lane.”

Margaret stopped walking abruptly and swung around to face Hester. “You mean… in the brothel that is run by the usurer?”

“Yes-I do mean that.”

“His tastes were… to humiliate young women who used to be respectable?” Disgust and anger were very clear in Margaret’s face.

“Possibly,” Hester agreed. “But what if that was his other source of income? His family would not know of it, nor would any gatherer of taxes or anything else. It would explain very nicely why he had more funds to spend on his pleasures than Baltimore and Sons could supply. And his death coincides just about exactly with Squeaky Robinson’s panic. Maybe the question has nothing to do with railways. Maybe the question is-was he killed as a client who went too far, or as a usurer who got too greedy?”

Margaret was tense, but her eyes did not waver even though her voice did. “So what must we do? How can we find out?”

“I don’t have any plan yet,” Hester replied. “But I will certainly make one.”

She saw a hansom and stepped off the curb, raising her hand in the air.

Margaret followed after her with equal determination.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monk arrived at the station in London exhausted. His head ached so fiercely all he wanted to do was go home, take as hot a bath as he was able to, then have several cups of tea and go to bed to sleep properly, lying flat and between clean sheets. It would be best of all if Hester were beside him, understanding everything and holding no criticism or blame, and that would be impossible. To do that she would have to be without moral judgment. And what use would she be then, what real person at all? Or that she would be unaware of any of the fears that tangled in his mind, simply there, a gentle presence in the darkness.

Except that, of course, she would know what he was feeling: the fear of truth, of finding in himself a greed and a cowardice he would despise, a betrayal for which there was no excuse. Greater than his wrong to Dundas was his wrong to himself, to all that he had made and built out of his life since the accident. If she did not know that, then in what sense was she actually there at all? None that mattered. She might as well be in another place. They would speak, touch, even make love with each other, and the heart would remain utterly alone. It would be a worse loneliness than to have stayed apart, because it was a negation of what had been real, and mattered infinitely.

So he would go to a public bath, and simply buy a new shirt. He would visit a barber to make himself look fit to go this afternoon and meet Katrina Harcus, and tell her that there was no reason whatever to suspect Michael Dalgarno of anything that was not usual practice among businessmen. There was no record of his having bought or sold any land in his own name, or of having made any profit other than for the company for which he acted.

Monk would also report that he had investigated the crash in which Baltimore and Sons had been peripherally involved sixteen years ago, and the land fraud proved against one of its bankers had no connection whatever with it. The cause of that tragedy was not known, but the track had been repaired and was still in use. It had been examined minutely, and no flaws or inadequacies had been found in it.

He was so tired he longed for sleep, even on a park bench in the bright April sun, but he was afraid of what horror might return to him the moment he lost control of his thoughts. He did not know how he could be guilty of anything, but the guilt remained, the helplessness, the blood, the screams, the awful squeal of metal on metal, and the glare and smell of fire, and always the certain knowledge that he could have prevented it.

He drank coffee bought from a corner peddler, then made his way back to the gingerbread seller to see what he had learned from his notorious acquaintances. He found him dispersing slices of hot, spiced loaf to a group of children, and waited a few yards off until he had finished.

“Well?” he asked. There was no need to question if the man remembered him; his crooked face was alive with anticipation.

“ ’E went out, all right,” he said triumphantly. “ ’Bout midnight. Face like thunder. Come back ’alf an hour later, no more.”

Half an hour. Not time enough to get to Leather Lane, find Nolan Baltimore, kill him, and return. Monk was overswept with relief, so sharp it was physical. He could tell Katrina that Dalgarno was innocent.

“And he didn’t go out again?”

“Not ’less it were close on daylight,” the gingerbread seller said firmly. “Crows ’as got eyes like ’awks. Don’t miss nothin’. Can’t afford to!”

He was right. The lookout men for burglars survived on their ability to see, remember and report.

“Thank you,” Monk said sincerely. He was so relieved he gave the man a sovereign, and added another half crown on top, then bought a piece of gingerbread.

At two o’clock he was tired and his feet were sore, but his step was light as he went in through the gate of the Royal Botanic Gardens, noticing briefly the blaze of color of the spring flowers. He had only five minutes to wait. She came to the entrance and stopped still, searching for him. Several other people turned to look at her. He was not surprised; she was most striking with her dramatic face and proud bearing, head high. She wore white muslin sprigged with dark blue, and the lines of the bodice echoed the same vivid color, accentuating the femininity of it. Her hat had roses on the brim, and her parasol was trimmed with blue ribbons. Several gentlemen stared at her, smiling for longer than was really polite, but their admiration robbed it of offense.

She saw Monk, and her face lit with pleasure, almost relief. He knew she must have been here many days, each time hoping to see him. He felt a welling up of satisfaction because at last he could tell her that as far as any investigation could show, Dalgarno was innocent of fraud, and even if there was land fraud by anyone else, it could have no connection with any crash. Her fears were honorable but needless.