William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

had done. She reached the top gasping for breath, but it was not from the physical effort, which was nothing, it was from the tight suffocation in her lungs because her heart was beating too hard, too fast, and the room was swimming around her.
    She heard Rathbone saying her name. She forced herself to concentrate and answer, to state who she was and where she lived, and to swear to tell the truth, all of it, and nothing else. She focused on Rathbone’s face in front and a little below her. He looked exactly as he always had, long nose, steady dark eyes, sensitive mouth full of subtle humor, a clever face, but without cruelty. He had loved her deeply not so long ago. As a friend, surely he still did?
    He was speaking. She must listen.
    “Is it true, Mrs. Monk, that you run a charitable house for the medical treatment of prostitutes who are ill or injured in the general area of Coldbath Square?”
    “Yes . . .” Why on earth had he asked that?
    “You have recently moved premises, but on the night of the death of Mr. Nolan Baltimore, was that house actually in Coldbath Square?”
    “Yes . . .”
    “Were you and Miss Margaret Ballinger in attendance there that night?”
    “Yes, we were.”
    Fowler was getting noticeably restless. Rathbone very deliberately ignored him—indeed, he kept his back towards him with some effort.
    “Mrs. Monk,” he continued, “were there any women who came to your house injured on that night?”
    She had no idea why he asked. Was it because he thought, after all, that Nolan Baltimore’s death had something to do with the railway fraud? Something Monk had missed?
    Everyone was watching her, waiting.
    “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, there were three women who came in together, and another two alone, later on.”
    “Badly injured?” he asked.
    “Not as badly as many. One had a broken wrist.” She tried to remember clearly. “The others were bruised, cut.”
    “Do you know how they came by their injuries?”
    “No. I never ask.”
    “Do you know their names?”
    Fowler could contain his impatience no longer. “My lord, this is all very worthy, but it is a total waste of the court’s time! I—”
    “It is vital to the defense, my lord!” Rathbone cut across him. “I cannot move any faster and make sense of it.”
    “Sense!” Fowler exploded. “This is the worst nonsense I have ever heard in twenty years in courtrooms—” He stopped abruptly.
    The judge’s eyebrows rose. “You may care to rephrase that observation, Mr. Fowler. As it stands it is somewhat unfortunate. On the other hand, you may wish to allow Sir Oliver to continue, in the hope that before tonight he may reach some conclusion.”
    Fowler sat down.
    “Do you know their names, Mrs. Monk?” Rathbone asked again.
    “Nell, Lizzie, and Kitty,” Hester replied. “I don’t ask for more than some way to address them.”
    “And do you tell them more than that about yourself?” he asked.
    The judge frowned.
    “Do you?” Rathbone insisted. “Would those women have known who you were or where you lived, for example? Please be very exact in answering, Mrs. Monk!”
    She tried to think back, remembering Nell’s banter, her admiration for Monk. “Yes,” she said clearly. “Nell knew. She said something about my husband, his appearance, his character, and she called me by name.”
    Relief flooded Rathbone’s face like sunlight. “Thank you. Did they by any chance also know, at least roughly, the area in which you live?”
    “Yes . . . roughly.”
    “Did anyone happen to mention Mr. Monk’s occupation?”
    “Yes . . . yes, Nell did. She . . . finds him interesting.”
    The judge looked at Rathbone. “Are you making any progress toward a point, Sir Oliver? I fail so far to see it. I shall not allow this indefinitely.”
    “I am, my lord. I apologize for the time it takes, but if the whole story is not shown, then it will not make sense.”
    The judge made a slight grimace and sat back.
    Rathbone returned his attention to Hester. “Did you continue to receive injured women in your house in Coldbath Square, Mrs. Monk?”
    “Yes.” Was he seeking to expose the fact that Baltimore had been the usurer in partnership with Squeaky Robinson? But why? His death had nothing to do with Dalgarno. Or Katrina Harcus.
    “Were any particularly severely injured?” Rathbone pressed.
    It must be what he was looking for. “Yes,” she answered. “There were two in particular, we were not certain if they