AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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 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!”
