He went to see a merchant banker for whom he had solved a small domestic mystery to his great satisfaction.

“Baltimore and Sons?” John Wedgewood said, hiding his curiosity with difficulty. They were sitting in his oak-paneled office. A crystal tantalus was on the side table, but Monk had declined whiskey. “Well-respected company. Financially sound enough,” Wedgewood went on. “A great tragedy, especially for the family. I take it that it is the family who has asked you to investigate? Don’t trust the police.” He pursed his lips. “Very wise. But you’ll need to move very swiftly if you are to forestall scandal.”

Monk had no idea what the man was talking about. It must have been clear from his face, because Wedgewood understood before Monk had time to frame a reply.

“Nolan Baltimore was found dead in a brothel in London,” Wedgewood said, puckering his brow with distaste, and something which might or might not have been sympathy. “I apologize. I rather leaped to the conclusion that you had been asked to find the truth of the matter before the police, and if possible to persuade them into some sort of discretion.”

“No,” Monk answered, wondering for an instant why he had not read about the case in newspaper headlines, then realizing the answer before the question was on his tongue. It must be the murder Hester had referred to, and which had set the police buzzing around the Farringdon Street area in what was very probably a hopeless quest. No doubt the press would learn the reason for all the activity soon enough. They had only to ask one of the local inhabitants sufficiently inconvenienced, and sooner or later the story would emerge, suitably dramatized.

“No,” he repeated. “I am interested in the reputation of the company, not Mr. Baltimore personally. How good is their work? What skill and honesty have their men?”

Wedgewood frowned. “In what regard?”

“All regards.”

“Are you asking on behalf of someone interested in investment?”

“In a manner of speaking.” It was true enough. Katrina Harcus was investing her life, her future, in Michael Dalgarno.

“Financially sound,” Wedgewood said without hesitation. “Weren’t always. Had a shaky spell fifteen or sixteen years ago, but weathered it. Don’t know what theirs was about specifically, but a lot of people did then. Great age of expansion. People took risks.”

“Their workmanship?” Monk asked.

Wedgewood looked a little surprised. “They use the traveling navvies, the same as everyone else. Platelayers, miners, masons, bricklayers, carpenters, and blacksmiths—all that sort of thing. And there are engine men and fitters, foremen, timekeepers, clerks, draftsmen and engineers.” He shrugged slightly, looking at Monk with puzzlement.

“But they’re all competent or they wouldn’t last. The men themselves see to that. Their lives depend on every man doing what he should, and doing it right. Best workmen in the world, and the world knows it! British navvies have built railways all over Europe and America, Africa, Russia, and no doubt will go to India and China as well, and South America too. Why not? They all need railways. Everybody does.”