Anne Perry - Death Of A Stranger

She felt the heat rush through her, and then the chill.

“The truth,” Rathbone finished. “I am trying to uncover the truth.” And before Fowler could do more than sound a jeer, he went on. “I call William Monk, my lord.”

It was a moment before Monk even registered what Rathbone had said.

“William!” Hester whispered anxiously.

Monk rose to his feet. He had to be aware of the enmity of the court. Hester could feel it in the air, see it in the eyes and the faces of those who turned to watch him make his slow, almost stumbling way forward across the open space of the court and up the steps of the witness stand.

Rathbone faced him without expression, as if he were controlling himself with such an intense effort not even ordinary contempt could escape it.

“I have little to ask you, Mr. Monk, simply for you to tell the court how Katrina Harcus was dressed when she met you on the several occasions you reported to her your progress regarding your search for evidence of fraud.”

“My lord!” Fowler said in an outburst of exasperation. “This is preposterous!”

Monk looked equally baffled. His face was as white as Dalgarno’s in the dock, and the jurors were staring at him as if they would as willingly have seen him there alongside the accused.

“If you please!” Rathbone said urgently, at last his own near-panic breaking through. “Were her clothes good or poor? Did she wear the same things each time?”

“No!” Monk said quickly, as if breaking out of his stupor at last. “She dressed very well indeed. I wish I could afford to dress my wife as well.”

Hester closed her eyes, wrenched inside with anger, pity, helplessness, fury with him for caring about something so trivial, and saying so in public. It was no one else’s business to know that.

“And she paid you appropriately for the work you did for her?” Rathbone went on.

Now Monk looked surprised. “Yes… she did.”

“Have you any idea where the money for this came from?”

“No… no, I haven’t.”

“Thank you. That is all. Mr. Fowler?”

“I am as lost as everybody else,” Fowler said with rising temper.

The judge regarded Rathbone grimly. “This raises several unanswered questions, Sir Oliver, but I do not see how they bear any relevance to the poor woman’s death.”

“It will become clear, my lord, with the evidence of my final witness. I call Hester Monk.”

She did not believe it. It made no sense. What on earth was Rathbone thinking of? Monk was staring at her. On her other side, Margaret was pale with fear, her lips red where she had bitten them. Her loyalties were tearing apart in front of her and she was helpless to control any of it.

Hester rose to her feet, her legs trembling. She walked unsteadily forward between the rows of people, feeling their eyes upon her, their loathing because she was Monk’s wife, and she was furious with them for their blind judgment. But she had no power to lash out, or to defend him.

She walked across the open space, telling herself over and over again to trust Rathbone. He would never betray friendship, not for Dalgarno, nor to win a case, nor for anything else.

But what if he truly believed Dalgarno was innocent and Monk was guilty? Honor came before any friendship. You do not let the innocent hang for anyone. Not anyone at all.

She climbed up the steps, holding the rail just as Rider had done. She reached the top gasping for breath, but it was not from the physical effort, which was nothing, it was from the tight suffocation in her lungs because her heart was beating too hard, too fast, and the room was swimming around her.

She heard Rathbone saying her name. She forced herself to concentrate and answer, to state who she was and where she lived, and to swear to tell the truth, all of it, and nothing else. She focused on Rathbone’s face in front and a little below her. He looked exactly as he always had, long nose, steady dark eyes, sensitive mouth full of subtle humor, a clever face, but without cruelty. He had loved her deeply not so long ago. As a friend, surely he still did?

He was speaking. She must listen.

“Is it true, Mrs. Monk, that you run a charitable house for the medical treatment of prostitutes who are ill or injured in the general area of Coldbath Square?”

“Yes…” Why on earth had he asked that?

“You have recently moved premises, but on the night of the death of Mr. Nolan Baltimore, was that house actually in Coldbath Square?”

“Yes…”

“Were you and Miss Margaret Ballinger in attendance there that night?”

“Yes, we were.”

Fowler was getting noticeably restless. Rathbone very deliberately ignored him-indeed, he kept his back towards him with some effort.

“Mrs. Monk,” he continued, “were there any women who came to your house injured on that night?”

She had no idea why he asked. Was it because he thought, after all, that Nolan Baltimore’s death had something to do with the railway fraud? Something Monk had missed?

Everyone was watching her, waiting.

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, there were three women who came in together, and another two alone, later on.”

“Badly injured?” he asked.

“Not as badly as many. One had a broken wrist.” She tried to remember clearly. “The others were bruised, cut.”

“Do you know how they came by their injuries?”

“No. I never ask.”

“Do you know their names?”

Fowler could contain his impatience no longer. “My lord, this is all very worthy, but it is a total waste of the court’s time! I-”

“It is vital to the defense, my lord!” Rathbone cut across him. “I cannot move any faster and make sense of it.”

“Sense!” Fowler exploded. “This is the worst nonsense I have ever heard in twenty years in courtrooms-” He stopped abruptly.

The judge’s eyebrows rose. “You may care to rephrase that observation, Mr. Fowler. As it stands it is somewhat unfortunate. On the other hand, you may wish to allow Sir Oliver to continue, in the hope that before tonight he may reach some conclusion.”

Fowler sat down.

“Do you know their names, Mrs. Monk?” Rathbone asked again.

“Nell, Lizzie, and Kitty,” Hester replied. “I don’t ask for more than some way to address them.”

“And do you tell them more than that about yourself?” he asked.

The judge frowned.

“Do you?” Rathbone insisted. “Would those women have known who you were or where you lived, for example? Please be very exact in answering, Mrs. Monk!”

She tried to think back, remembering Nell’s banter, her admiration for Monk. “Yes,” she said clearly. “Nell knew. She said something about my husband, his appearance, his character, and she called me by name.”

Relief flooded Rathbone’s face like sunlight. “Thank you. Did they by any chance also know, at least roughly, the area in which you live?”

“Yes… roughly.”

“Did anyone happen to mention Mr. Monk’s occupation?”

“Yes… yes, Nell did. She… finds him interesting.”

The judge looked at Rathbone. “Are you making any progress toward a point, Sir Oliver? I fail so far to see it. I shall not allow this indefinitely.”

“I am, my lord. I apologize for the time it takes, but if the whole story is not shown, then it will not make sense.”

The judge made a slight grimace and sat back.

Rathbone returned his attention to Hester. “Did you continue to receive injured women in your house in Coldbath Square, Mrs. Monk?”

“Yes.” Was he seeking to expose the fact that Baltimore had been the usurer in partnership with Squeaky Robinson? But why? His death had nothing to do with Dalgarno. Or Katrina Harcus.