“Torn off in the struggle? Why the devil didn’t you say so?” Now Rathbone’s face was keen, his eyes alight. “That ties him in completely—motive or not!”

“No, it doesn’t,” Monk said flatly, even at this awful moment aware of the bitter humor of it.

Rathbone opened his mouth to speak, then sensed something deeper and beyond words, and said nothing.

“I met her in the Botanic Gardens earlier in the day,” Monk went on. “She was very distressed, and still passionately convinced that Dalgarno was guilty. We more or less quarreled about it, at least that is what it would appear to be to any onlookers, and there were many.”

Rathbone leaned forward a little across the desk, concentrating intensely.

Monk felt hot, and then cold. He was shivering. “She grasped at me, as if to demand my attention. Then, in pulling away she tore the button off my coat. It was my button in her hand.”

“Several hours later? When fighting with her murderer?” Rathbone said softly. “Monk, are you telling me the whole truth? If I am to defend you, I need it.”

Monk looked up at him slowly, dreading what he would see. “I came to ask you to defend Dalgarno,” he said, ignoring Rathbone’s surprise. “I think he may be innocent. Either way, I need him to be defended to the best of anyone’s ability. If he hangs, I have to be certain, beyond any doubt at all—reasonable or otherwise, that he killed her.”

“I am more concerned about keeping your neck out of the noose,” Rathbone said earnestly. “You knew this woman, you were seen to quarrel with her the day of her death, and your coat button was in her hand. And you didn’t tell me what happened to the letters which incriminated you.”

“I took them,” Monk told him. “Runcorn asked me to show him the rooms where she lived. I saw them before he did. I took them, and burnt them when I got home.”

Rathbone let out a long sigh. “I see. And to whom were these letters written?”

“Someone called Emma, but I don’t know anything else, except that she did not live in London. I went back”—he saw Rathbone wince, and ignored it—“and looked for more, an address book, but I didn’t find one.”

“Were they regular correspondents?”

Monk’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t know!” He did not mention the diary. No one had heard about it, and he clung to the tiny thread of hope that somehow it would still tell him something about Katrina which could provide a link, however fragile. And there was something of her dreams in it he wanted to protect. Perhaps if he were honest, that was it.