But he had no time for indulgence of his own feelings, however crowding and urgent.
“Yes,” he agreed, to avoid the appearance of abruptness. “It is a narrowness common to most of us. Perhaps a little time being judged, instead of judging, would be a salutary thing.”
Rider smiled. “Perceptive of you, Mr. Monk.”
“Do you know who her benefactor was? Perhaps the father of her daughter, whom I knew, and attempted to help with a particular problem she was seeking to address.”
“Knew?” Rider said quickly, catching the past tense.
“I am afraid she is dead.” Monk did not have to pretend the grief. And it was more than guilt that he had not prevented it; it was a loss for someone who had been full of passion and urgency, much of which he had shared, even though she had not known it.
Rider looked crushed, a great weariness filled him. “Oh, dear… I am sorry,” he said quietly. “She was always so very full of life. Was it an accident?”
“No.” Monk risked the truth. “She was murdered…” He stopped as he saw the shock in Rider’s eyes, almost as if he had walked into something unseen and without any warning found himself bruised and on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I should have told you less frankly. I am concerned because I fear they may have arrested the wrong man, and there is little time to learn the truth.”
“How can I help?”
Monk was not sure, but he asked the obvious question. “Who was her father? And how long ago did she leave here?”
“About two years ago,” Rider answered, frowning in concentration.
“And her father?” Monk pressed.
Rider looked at him ruefully. “I don’t see how it can have anything to do with her death. It was many years ago. All those involved are dead now… even poor Katrina. Allow them to rest in peace, Mr. Monk.”
“If they are dead,” Monk argued, “then they cannot be hurt by it. I will tell no one, unless it is necessary in order to save the life of a man who will be hanged for killing her, and may be innocent.”
Rider sighed, his face crumpled with regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, but I cannot break the confidences, even of the dead. You already know from the baptismal record more than I would have told you. Apart from my personal regard, these people were my parishioners, and their trust was my charge. If the young man is innocent, then the law will find him so, and for poor Katrina’s sake, find the one who was guilty. Perhaps for his sake also, although it is not ours to judge.” He took a long, deep breath. “I am deeply sorry to hear of her death, Mr. Monk, but I cannot help you.”
Monk did not pursue it. He could see in Rider’s gentle, sad face that his conviction would not waver.
“I am sorry to have brought you such news,” he said quietly. “Thank you for your time.”
Rider nodded. “Good day, Mr. Monk, and may God guide you in your quest.”
Monk hesitated, steeling himself, and turned back.
“Mr. Rider, did Katrina have a friend named Emma?” His heart was beating so wildly he could feel it lurch inside him. He saw the answer in Rider’s face before he spoke.
“Not that I am aware of. I am sorry. To my knowledge there was only herself and her mother-and her aunt, Eveline Austin. But she died some ten or twelve years ago. But of course I shall mention her death in church next Sunday, and no doubt word will pass.” He smiled sadly. “Bad news so quickly does.”
Monk swallowed, his mouth dry. He could feel everything precious, all the life he knew, infinitely precious, slipping away like water between his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to hold on to it.
“Are you all right, Mr. Monk?” Rider said anxiously. “You look a little unwell. I am so sorry to be of… of so little assistance.”
“No!” Monk steadied himself. This was an escape, but he was far from free yet. “Thank you. You have simply told me the truth. Thank you for your time. Good day.”
“Good day, Mr. Monk.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The arrangement with Squeaky Robinson, at least so far, was working very well. It had been a major undertaking to move all the beds, other furniture, and medicines and equipment from Coldbath Square to Portpool Lane, but the women who were now released from debt were mostly overjoyed to find a way of earning their living which was completely admirable and required of them no lies or evasions. Nor was there fear of being dismissed for not meeting with the moral standards of some mistress because of a past which must be hidden.
Squeaky complained bitterly, but Hester believed that at least part of it was because he thought it was expected of him. His most urgent concern was gone, and he was immensely relieved, even if he refused to admit it.
She had had great satisfaction in telling Jessop that he would no longer be troubled by the questionable tenants in his Coldbath house, since they had found alternative premises, which were larger, and at better rental-in fact, at no rental at all-and would be leaving as soon as was possible, a day or two at the most.
He had looked nonplussed. “It was an agreement, Mrs. Monk!” he protested. “You still owe a month’s notice, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” she had said flatly. “You threatened to evict us, and I believed you. I have found another place, as you said I should.”
He had blustered, and refused to pay back the rent for the week paid for but apparently not to be used.
She had smiled at him, perhaps not as sweetly as she had meant to, and told him it did not matter in the slightest, which confused him. That in turn had made him angry. By the time the exchange was completed they had gathered quite an audience, all very plainly on Hester’s side.
Jessop had left enraged, but knowing better than to make any threats. It was not a neighborhood in which to incur enemies who might have more power than you did yourself, and Jessop knew his limitations. Whoever had given Hester and Margaret premises, at no charge, must have a good deal of money to waste, and money was power.
They watched him go with immeasurable satisfaction, Bessie chortling with joy.
She also assured both Hester and Margaret that she could manage very well without them during the daytime once the trial of Michael Dalgarno began. Should there be an emergency she would send one of the local urchins for Mr. Lockhart, and then if that was still not enough, for one of them as well. However, since there was still little business going on, and the people of the streets were generally allied together against circumstances, at least as long as this crisis lasted, there was greater peace than usual among them.
Constable Hart also promised to give discreet assistance, if such were needed. Hester thanked him profusely, to his embarrassment, and gave him a jar of black currant jam, which he accepted, taking it with both hands. Even Bessie decided that perhaps he was an exception to the general rules about police.
So when the trial opened, Margaret, Hester and Monk were all sitting in the public gallery. Dalgarno was white-faced in the dock, Jarvis Baltimore fidgeting unhappily a few rows in front of them, Livia silent and wretched beside him, as Mr. Talbot Fowler began the case for the prosecution.
He was extremely efficient. He called witness after witness to show that Dalgarno was talented, ambitious, gifted with figures, and that he was undoubtedly the one who had accomplished most of the land negotiations for Baltimore and Sons with regard to the London-to-Derby railway.
On the second day he demonstrated that Dalgarno had paid court to Katrina Harcus, albeit not as openly as he might have done. They had been seen together quite often enough to substantiate her belief in his affection for her. Indeed, two of the witnesses had expected them to announce an engagement within the month.
Margaret sat beside Hester, leaning forward a little. Several times she seemed to be on the edge of speech, and Hester knew she was wondering why Rathbone did not cross-examine the witnesses, at least to appear to offer some kind of a defense. It was only her care for Rathbone which prevented her each time from putting her anxiety into whispered words. It would seem like a criticism.
On the other side of Hester, Monk was sitting equally tense, his shoulders high and stiff, his eyes strained forward. He must be thinking the same thing, but for entirely different reasons. If Rathbone failed, for him it was far
