William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

of Liverpool.
    “Why are you here, Mr. Rider?” Rathbone asked gravely.
    Rider spoke very quietly. “I have been wrestling with my conscience ever since Mr. Monk came to see me over a week ago, and I have come to the conclusion that my greater obligation is to tell that part of the truth that I know 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 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