Death of a Stranger (36 page)

“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.

“She… was… she was quite tall-for a woman, that is. She was handsome, very handsome, in an unconventional way…” He floundered to a stop.

“What color of hair had she?” Rathbone asked.

“Oh… dark, dark brown, with a sort of shine to it.”

“Her eyes?”

“Ah… yes, her eyes were unusual, very fine indeed. Sort of golden brown, very fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rider. I appreciate that this has been very difficult for you indeed, both because it concerns the tragic death of a woman you knew since her infancy, and because it required you to speak publicly of matters you would very much prefer to have kept in confidence.” He turned to Fowler, still not looking up at Monk, or Hester beside him. “Your witness, sir.”

Fowler regarded Rider, shaking his head slowly. “A sad but not uncommon story. Has any of it got anything whatsoever to do with Michael Dalgarno having thrown her off the roof of her house?”

“I do not know, sir,” Rider replied. “I had assumed that was what we were here to decide. From what I have heard from Sir Oliver, I believe it may.”

“Well, from what we have heard from Sir Oliver, it is simply a piece of very moving but totally irrelevant tragic theater,” Fowler said dryly. “The poor woman is dead… they both are! And Arrol Dundas and his wife also, and all except Katrina herself were gone before the crime which brings us here.”

“Do I assume that means you have no questions to ask, Mr. Fowler?” the judge enquired.

“Oh, I certainly have a question, my lord, but I doubt Mr. Rider is in a position to answer it,” Fowler said tartly. “It is-when is Sir Oliver going to address the defense of his client?”

“I am addressing something a little higher, but which will answer the same purpose, my lord,” Rathbone said, and perhaps Hester was the only one in the room who could hear the edge of tension in his voice. Even through her own fear, and her agony for Monk, she knew that Rathbone was afraid also. He was gambling far more than he could afford to lose-Monk’s life still lay in the balance. Rathbone was traveling, at least partially, blind.

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.

“Were any particularly severely injured?” Rathbone pressed.

It must be what he was looking for. “Yes,” she answered. “There were two in particular, we were not certain if they would live. One was knifed in the stomach, the other was beaten so hard she had fourteen broken bones in her limbs and body. We thought she might die of internal bleeding.” She heard the fury in her own voice, and the pity.

There was a murmur of protest in the court, people shifting uncomfortably in their seats, embarrassed for a way of life they preferred not to know so much about, and yet stirred to emotion in spite of themselves.

The judge frowned at Rathbone. “This is appalling, but this court is not the place for a moral crusade, Sir Oliver, justified as it might be at another time.”

“It is not a moral crusade, my lord, it is part of the case of the death of Katrina Harcus, and how it came about,” Rathbone replied. “I have not a great deal further to go.” And without waiting he spoke to Hester again. “Mrs. Monk, did you learn how these women had been so badly injured?”

“Yes. They had been respectable women, one a governess who married a man who put her into debt and then abandoned her. They both borrowed money from a usurer in order to pay what they owed, and when the debt to him could not be settled by honest means of work, he forced them into the brothel in which he was a partner, where they catered to the more unusual tastes of certain men…” She could not continue for the increasing sound of outrage and disgust in the courtroom.

The judge banged his gavel, and then again. Slowly the sound subsided, but the fury was still prickling in the air.

“Respectable young women, with some education, some dignity and a desire to be honest?” Rathbone said, his own voice rough with emotion.

“Yes,” Hester replied. “It happens to many if they have been abandoned, put out of a job and have no reference to character-”

“Yes,” he cut her off. “Did this cause you to take any action, Mrs. Monk?”

“Yes.” She knew the judge’s tolerance would not last a great deal longer. “I was able to learn exactly where this brothel was, and by means of questioning, who the partner was who practiced the usury. I never learned exactly who carried out the beatings or the knifing.” She did not know if he wanted this part or not, but she added. “It does not continue any longer. We were able to put the brothel out of business and turn the house into better premises for the Coldbath refuge.”

He smiled very slightly. “Indeed. What happened to the usurer?”

“He was killed.” Did he want to know it was Baltimore? She stared at him, and could not tell.

“But his record of the debts?” he asked.

“We destroyed it.”

“Did you then know he was killed?”

“Yes… he was a client as well as the usurer. He took his own tastes too far, and one of the women, who was new to the trade, was so revolted by what he asked of her that she lashed out at him, and he fell backwards out of the window onto the pavement beneath, to his death.”

There was a rumble of profound emotion from the courtroom. Someone even cheered.

“Order!” the judge said loudly. “I will have order! I understand your outrage-indeed, I share it-but I will have respect for the law! Sir Oliver, this story is fearful, but I still see no connection to the death of Katrina Harcus, and Mr. Dalgarno’s guilt or innocence in the matter.”

Rathbone swiveled to face Hester again. “Mrs. Monk, among those records did you find those of the young woman, Kitty, who came to you with cuts and bruises on the night Nolan Baltimore’s body was discovered in Leather Lane, near Coldbath Square?”

“Yes.”

“Was she among the once-respectable young women who had been reduced to selling her body for a particularly repulsive type of abuse in order to pay the ever-mounting debt of such high rates of usury that she could never be free of it?”

“Yes.”

“Could you describe her for the court, Mrs. Monk? What did she look like?”

Now she understood. It was so terrible she felt sick. The room swam around her as if she were at sea, the silence was a roar like waves. She heard Rathbone’s voice only distantly.

“Mrs. Monk? Are you all right?”

She clung onto the rails, gripping them hard so the physical pain would bring her back to the moment.

“Mrs. Monk!”

“She was…” She gulped and licked her dry lips. “She was fairly tall, very handsome. She had dark hair and golden brown eyes… very beautiful. She gave me the name of Kitty… and the records said Kitty Hillyer…”

Rathbone turned very slowly to face the judge. “My lord, I believe we now know where Katrina Harcus obtained the money to dress as well as was necessary for a handsome but penniless young woman, born illegitimate, left destitute when her father died and his promised legacy did not come. She traveled south to London to try and make a fortunate marriage. However, within the space of two months her mother died, her fiancé rejected her for a richer bride, and her debts became so urgent she was drawn into the most repellent form of prostitution to satisfy the usurer, her father’s colleague, a man she had known as a child and to whom she had turned for help in a strange city, and who had so betrayed her. Perhaps because of who he was, his demands revolted her so intensely that she fought him off, to his death.”

The judge commanded silence in the growing swell of fury within the room, but it was several long seconds before he received it, so intense was the wave of emotion in the room. He nodded to Rathbone to continue.

“And that very night when she was taken by two other prostitutes to Coldbath Square to have her own injuries treated,” Rathbone resumed, facing the jury now, “who should be the nurse who helped her, but the wife of the man who was, in her mind, the author of her grief, all the injustices against her from childhood? She heard the name of Mrs. Monk, and the description both of Monk’s appearance and his nature, and his new occupation. I believe from that moment on she began to plan a terrible revenge.”

A hideous, unbelievable thought danced at the edge of Hester’s mind.

Fowler stood up, but did not know what to say. No one was listening to him anyway.

Hester could think only of Monk. Dalgarno, the jury, even Rathbone, melted from her vision. Monk was sitting motionless, his eyes wide and hollow, his skin bleached of every vestige of color. Margaret had moved closer to him, but she had no idea what to do to offer any word or gesture.

“Katrina Harcus had nothing left,” Rathbone said quietly, but in the now total silence every word was clear. “Her mother was dead, the man she loved had deserted her, and she had no hope of ever winning him back because there was, only too obviously, nothing to win. He was incapable of love or even of honor. She was in debt beyond her means ever to repay, and she had sold her body to a particularly degraded form of prostitution from which she may well have felt she would never again be clean. And now she was also guilty of a man’s death. She was wise enough in the ways of the world to know that society would see it as murder, regardless of the provocation she endured, or that she may not have intended him to die. It would be only a matter of time before the police found her, and she would live in fear of it for the rest of her life.”