“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 protégé, 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 protégé, 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.

“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.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

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?”