William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

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?”
    “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