regarding Katrina Harcus. My duty to the living is too great to deny in order to protect the dead.”
There was a slight rustle of movement in the court, and then total silence.
Hester looked across at Dalgarno, as did several of the jurors, but they saw only complete confusion.
“You knew Katrina Harcus?” Rathbone asked.
“From her birth,” Rider replied.
Fowler shifted in his seat in apparent discomfort, but he did not interrupt.
“Then I presume you also know her mother?” Rathbone said.
“Yes. Pamela Harcus was my parishioner.”
“You say was,” Rathbone observed. “Is she now dead?”
“Yes. She died some three months ago. I… I am glad she did not live to see this.”
“Indeed, Mr. Rider.” Rathbone bowed his head in acknowledgment of the tragedy of it. “Did you also know Katrina Harcus’s father?”
“Not personally, but I knew of him.” Then, without waiting for Rathbone to ask, he added, “His name was Arrol Dundas.”
Monk let out an involuntary cry, and Hester reached out and put her hand on his arm, feeling the muscles hard underneath her touch.
The judge leaned forward. “Is this the same Arrol Dundas who was convicted of railway fraud sixteen years ago, Sir Oliver?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let me understand you,” the judge continued. “Was she his legitimate daughter or illegitimate?”
Rathbone looked at Rider in the witness-box.
“Illegitimate, my lord,” Rider replied.
“What has that to do with her death?” Fowler demanded. “We all know that illegitimacy is a stigma that ruins lives. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children whether we wish them to be or not, but it is irrelevant to her death, poor creature. It excuses nothing!”
“It is not offered as an excuse,” Rathbone said tartly. He turned back to Rider. “To your knowledge, was Katrina aware of her father’s identity?”
“Most certainly,” Rider replied. “He provided handsomely for both Pamela Harcus and her daughter. He was a wealthy man and not ungenerous. She knew both him and his colleague, who apparently regarded her as if she were his niece.”
“He was a man her father’s age, I presume?” Rathbone said.
“As closely as I could judge,” Rider agreed.
“But in spite of this her father could not legitimize her,” Rathbone went on.
Rider looked even more unhappy. He moved his weight slightly, and his hands, swollen-jointed, gripped the railing of the box. It was obvious that he still struggled with revealing such information, which in his view was private and painful.
Hester looked at Monk, seeing in his face the crumbling of disillusion, the fighting for memory, hunting for any bright shards to redeem the darkness that was closing in. She ached for something to help him, but there was no shelter or balm for the truth.
“He could have,” Rider said so quietly that the silence became even denser as everyone strained to catch his words. “It was perhaps a dishonorable thing to do. His wife was in no way at fault. To leave her in her middle years would be barbarous… a breaking of the covenant he had made in his marriage. But it would not have been impossible. Men do put away their wives. With money, and lies, it can be achieved.”
“But Arrol Dundas did not?”
Rider looked wretched. “He intended to. He was very torn. His wife had no children. Pamela Harcus had given birth to one, and might have had more. But he had a protege, a young man whom he regarded almost as a son, who in the end persuaded him not to. I daresay it was for Mrs. Dundas’s sake.”
Monk was so white Hester was afraid he was going to faint. He seemed scarcely to be breathing and was oblivious of her fingers gripping his arm. She did not even glance at Margaret.
“Do you know his name?” Rathbone repeated.
“Yes… it was William Monk,” Rider replied.
Monk very slowly put his hands up to his face, hiding it even from Hester. Rathbone did not turn, but he could not have been unaware of the effect the words would have.
“I see,” he said. “And do you know if either Pamela Harcus or Katrina was aware of who stopped their financial comfort, and far more than that, their honor, their legitimacy, their social acceptance?”
“Katrina was only a child, perhaps seven or eight years old,” Rider answered. “But Pamela was aware, that I know for certain. It was she who told me, but I did verify it for myself. I spoke to Dundas.”
“Did you try to change his mind?”
“Of course not. All I said was that he should be certain to make financial arrangement for them in the event of his death. He swore to me that he had already done so.”
“So they were financially supported after he died?”
Rider’s voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. “No sir, they were not.”
“They were not?” Rathbone repeated.
Rider gripped the railings. “No. Arrol Dundas died in prison, for a fraud I personally do not believe he committed, but the proof at the time seemed unarguable.”
“But his will?” Rathbone argued. “Surely that was executed according to his decisions?”
“I imagine so. The provision for Pamela and Katrina must have been a verbal one, perhaps to protect the feelings of his widow. She may have known of them, or she may not, but since a will is a public matter, it would be deeply hurtful for them to be mentioned,” Rider replied. He looked down at his hands. “It was a written note, or so he told me. A personal instruction to his executor.”
“Who was?” Rathbone stared at him, not for an instant turning towards the gallery where Monk sat white-faced and rigid.
“His protege, William Monk,” Rider said.
“Not the colleague to whom you referred earlier?” Rathbone asked.
“No. He trusted Mr. Monk uniquely.”
“I see. So all the money went to Dundas’s widow?”
“No. Not even she received more than a pittance,” Rider answered him. “Dundas was a rich man at the time of his trial. When he died a few weeks later he had barely enough to provide a small house and an annuity for his widow, and that ceased upon her death.”
There was a low rumble of anger in the room. Several people turned and glared at Monk. There were ugly words, catcalls.
“Silence!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel with a loud crack of wood on wood. “I will not have this unseemly noise in here. You are to listen, not to make judgments. Any more of this and I shall clear the court.”
The sound subsided, but not the anger in the air.
Hester moved closer still to Monk, but she could think of nothing to say. She could feel the pain in him as if it were communicable, like heat.
On the other side of her, Margaret put her hand gently on Hester’s. It was a generous moment of friendship.
“Then unless someone else assisted them, I assume that Pamela and Katrina Harcus lived in extremely straitened circumstances after Dundas’s death?” Rathbone asked relentlessly.
“Extremely,” Rider agreed. “I am afraid there was no one else to assist them. Her aunt, Eveline Austin, was also dead by this time.”
“I see. Just one more thing, Mr. Rider. Would you be good enough to describe Katrina Harcus for us, if you please?”
“Describe her?” For the first time Rider looked puzzled. Until now he had understood everything with tragic intimacy, but this escaped him.
“If you please? What did she look like, as exactly as you can tell us?” Rathbone insisted.
Rider floundered a little. He was obviously uncomfortable with the personal details of such a thing.
