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“So they were financially supported after he died?”
Rider’s voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. “No sir, they were not.”
“They were not?” Rathbone repeated.
Rider gripped the railings. “No. Arrol Dundas died in prison, for a fraud I personally do not believe he committed, but the proof at the time seemed unarguable.”
“But his will?” Rathbone argued. “Surely that was executed according to his decisions?”
“I imagine so. The provision for Pamela and Katrina must have been a verbal one, perhaps to protect the feelings of his widow. She may have known of them, or she may not, but since a will is a public matter, it would be deeply hurtful for them to be mentioned,” Rider replied. He looked down at his hands. “It was a written note, or so he told me. A personal instruction to his executor.”
“Who was?” Rathbone stared at him, not for an instant turning towards the gallery where Monk sat white-faced and rigid.
“His protégé, William Monk,” Rider said.
“Not the colleague to whom you referred earlier?” Rathbone asked.
“No. He trusted Mr. Monk uniquely.”
“I see. So all the money went to Dundas’s widow?”
“No. Not even she received more than a pittance,” Rider answered him. “Dundas was a rich man at the time of his trial. When he died a few weeks later he had barely enough to provide a small house and an annuity for his widow, and that ceased upon her death.”
There was a low rumble of anger in the room. Several people turned and glared at Monk. There were ugly words, catcalls.
“Silence!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel with a loud crack of wood on wood. “I will not have this unseemly noise in here. You are to listen, not to make judgments. Any more of this and I shall clear the court.”
The sound subsided, but not the anger in the air.
Hester moved closer still to Monk, but she could think of nothing to say. She could feel the pain in him as if it were communicable, like heat.
On the other side of her, Margaret put her hand gently on Hester’s. It was a generous moment of friendship.
“Then unless someone else assisted them, I assume that Pamela and Katrina Harcus lived in extremely straitened circumstances after Dundas’s death?” Rathbone asked relentlessly.
“Extremely,” Rider agreed. “I am afraid there was no one else to assist them. Her aunt, Eveline Austin, was also dead by this time.”
“I see. Just one more thing, Mr. Rider. Would you be good enough to describe Katrina Harcus for us, if you please?”
“Describe her?” For the first time Rider looked puzzled. Until now he had understood everything with tragic intimacy, but this escaped him.
“If you please? What did she look like, as exactly as you can tell us?” Rathbone insisted.
Rider floundered a little. He was obviously uncomfortable with the personal details of such a thing.
“She . . . was . . . she was quite tall—for a woman, that is. She was handsome, very handsome, in an unconventional way . . .” He floundered to a stop.
“What color of hair had she?” Rathbone asked.
“Oh . . . dark, dark brown, with a sort of shine to it.”
“Her eyes?”
“Ah . . . yes, her eyes were unusual, very fine indeed. Sort of golden brown, very fine.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rider. I appreciate that this has been very difficult for you indeed, both because it concerns the tragic death of a woman you knew since her infancy, and because it required you to speak publicly of matters you would very much prefer to have kept in confidence.” He turned to Fowler, still not looking up at Monk, or Hester beside him. “Your witness, sir.”
Fowler regarded Rider, shaking his head slowly. “A sad but not uncommon story. Has any of it got anything whatsoever to do with Michael Dalgarno having thrown her off the roof of her house?”
