The clock had struck nine by the time Monk stood in the Newgate cell, Rathbone sitting to the side in the only chair. Dalgarno, pale and unshaven, paced back and forth restlessly, his face already haggard from the shock of realization that ahead of him lay the possibility of the gallows.

“I didn’t kill her!” he said desperately, his voice rising, close to breaking.

Monk kept his own emotions icily under control. It was the only way to approach thinking with any clarity.

“Then someone else did, Mr. Dalgarno,” he replied. “No jury will acquit you unless you provide them with an alternative.”

“I don’t know who did, for God’s sake!” Dalgarno cried out wildly. “Do you think I’d be standing here in prison if I did?” He stared at Monk as if he were a complete fool.

Monk felt a pity for him, and a guilt for his own part in it, but he also could not like the man. He had treated Katrina Harcus badly, whether he had killed her or not.

“Hysteria won’t help,” he said with chill. “Logic is the only thing that may. What do you know about her? And please tell me everything, and the truth, whether it is flattering to you or not. Your life may depend upon it. It is no time for protecting your reputation or your vanity.”

Dalgarno glared at him, then at Rathbone.

Rathbone nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I met her at a garden party,” Dalgarno began, his tone now subdued. “She was charming, full of life. I thought she was the most interesting woman I had ever seen. But I knew nothing of her social background, except that she was obviously well-bred and had sufficient means to dress in the height of fashion.”

“Who were her friends?” Monk asked.

Dalgarno rattled off half a dozen names. They meant nothing to Monk, but he saw Rathbone register recognition.

“Maybe one of them killed her,” Dalgarno said desperately. “I can’t think why, but God knows I didn’t. Why would I? I didn’t want to marry her, and she seems to think I did.” He colored faintly. “But there was no fraud—I swear!” He waved his hands jerkily. “We may have shaved a little here and there, but everyone does.”

Monk did not comment on that. It was irrelevant now. “That is precisely why I need to know more about her, Mr. Dalgarno. Someone killed her. Where did she come from? What about her family?”

“I don’t know!” Dalgarno said impatiently. “We didn’t discuss it.”

“But you were intending to marry her,” Monk pointed out. “As an ambitious young man, surely you enquired?”

Dalgarno blushed. “I . . . I believe she came originally from the Liverpool area. She said both her parents were dead.”