William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

ruthlessness, the indifference. Was the past not now going to allow him that?
    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