William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

Hester has been charged with murdering her.”
    Charles Latterly stared at him as if he did not understand the meaning of the words.
    “She was neglectful?” he said, blinking his eyes. “That is not like Hester. I do not approve of her profession, if you can call it such, but I believe she is more than competent in its practice. I do not believe, sir, that she has conducted herself improperly.”
    “She is not charged with negligence, Mr. Latterly,” Rathbone said slowly, hating having to do this. Why could the man not have understood without his having to repeat it? Why did he have to look so injured and bewildered? “She is charged with having deliberately murdered her, in order to steal a brooch.”
    “Hester? That’s preposterous!”
    “Yes, of course it is,” Rathbone agreed. “And I have already employed an agent of inquiry to go to Edinburgh, tonight, in order to investigate the matter so that we can learn the truth. But I’m afraid we may not be able to prove her innocence before the whole matter comes to trial, and most likely it will be in the newspapers by tomorrow morning, if not this evening. That is why I have come to inform you so you do not discover it that way.”
    “The newspapers! Oh dear heaven!” Every vestige of color fled from Charles’s already pallid face. “Everyone will know. My wife. Imogen must not hear of this. She could be …”
    Rathbone felt unreasonably angry. Charles’s every thought had been for his wife’s feelings. He had not even asked how Hester was—or even where she was.
    “I am afraid that is something from which you cannot protect her,” he said a little tartly. “And she may well wish to visit Hester and take her whatever comfort she can.”
    “Visit?” Charles looked confused. “Where is Hester? What has happened to her? What have they done with her?”
    “She is in prison, where she will be until she comes to trial, Mr. Latterly.”
    Charles looked as if he had been struck. His mouth hung slack, his eyes stared as disbelief turned to horror.
    “Prison!” he said, aghast. “You mean …”
    “Of course.” Rathbone’s tone was colder than he would have made it were his own emotions less engaged. “She is charged with murder, Mr. Latterly. There is no possibility of them allowing her free in those circumstances.”
    “Oh …” Charles turned away, his thoughts inward, his face at last showing pity. “Poor Hester. She always had courage, so much ambition to do the most extraordinary things. I used to think she must be afraid of nothing.” He gave a jerky little laugh. “I used to wish she would be afraid, that it would give her a little sense of caution.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wouldn’t have had it happen this way.” He looked back at Rathbone, his features still touched with sorrow, but quite composed now. “Of course I will pay you whatever I can towards her defense, Mr. Rathbone. But I am afraid I have very little, and I cannot rob my wife of the support and care I owe her, you understand?” He colored unhappily. “I have some knowledge of your reputation. Perhaps in the situation in which we find ourselves, it would be better if you were to pass over the case to some less …” He searched for a euphemism for what he meant, and failed to find one.
    Rathbone assisted him, partly because he did not enjoy seeing the man struggle—although he felt little liking for him—but mainly because he was impatient.
    “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Latterly, but your financial help will not be necessary. My regard for Hester is sufficient recompense. The greatest boon you can offer her will be to go to her aid personally, comfort her, assure her of your loyalty, and above all, keep your spirits high so that she may draw strength from you. Never, in any circumstances, allow her to think you fear the worst.”
    “Of course,” Charles said slowly. “Yes of course. Tell me where she is, and I shall go to her—that is, if they will allow me in?”
    “Explain to them that you are her only family, and they will certainly allow you in,” Rathbone answered. “She is in Newgate.”
    Charles winced. “I see. What am I permitted to take her? What might she need?”
    “Perhaps your wife could find her some change ofclothes and of personal linen? She will have no facilities for laundering.”
    “My wife? No—no, I should not permit Imogen to go. And to such a place as Newgate. I shall keep as much of this from her as I am able