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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 would live. One was knifed in the stomach, the other was beaten so hard she had fourteen broken bones in her limbs and body. We thought she might die of internal bleeding.” She heard the fury in her own voice, and the pity.
There was a murmur of protest in the court, people shifting uncomfortably in their seats, embarrassed for a way of life they preferred not to know so much about, and yet stirred to emotion in spite of themselves.
The judge frowned at Rathbone. “This is appalling, but this court is not the place for a moral crusade, Sir Oliver, justified as it might be at another time.”
“It is not a moral crusade, my lord, it is part of the case of the death of Katrina Harcus, and how it came about,” Rathbone replied. “I have not a great deal further to go.” And without waiting he spoke to Hester again. “Mrs. Monk, did you learn how these women had been so badly injured?”
“Yes. They had been respectable women, one a governess who married a man who put her into debt and then abandoned her. They both borrowed money from a usurer in order to pay what they owed, and when the debt to him could not be settled by honest means of work, he forced them into the brothel in which he was a partner, where they catered to the more unusual tastes of certain men . . .” She could not continue for the increasing sound of outrage and disgust in the courtroom.
The judge banged his gavel, and then again. Slowly the sound subsided, but the fury was still prickling in the air.
“Respectable y
oung women, with some education, some dignity and a desire to be honest?” Rathbone said, his own voice rough with emotion.
“Yes,” Hester replied. “It happens to many if they have been abandoned, put out of a job and have no reference to character—”
“Yes,” he cut her off. “Did this cause you to take any action, Mrs. Monk?”
“Yes.” She knew the judge’s tolerance would not last a great deal longer. “I was able to learn exactly where this brothel was, and by means of questioning, who the partner was who practiced the usury. I never learned exactly who carried out the beatings or the knifing.” She did not know if he wanted this part or not, but she added. “It does not continue any longer. We were able to put the brothel out of business and turn the house into better premises for the Coldbath refuge.”
He smiled very slightly. “Indeed. What happened to the usurer?”
“He was killed.” Did he want to know it was Baltimore? She stared at him, and could not tell.
“But his record of the debts?” he asked.
“We destroyed it.”
“Did you then know he was killed?”
“Yes . . . he was a client as well as the usurer. He took his own tastes too far, and one of the women, who was new to the trade, was so revolted by what he asked of her that she lashed out at him, and he fell backwards out of the window onto the pavement beneath, to his death.”
There was a rumble of profound emotion from the courtroom. Someone even cheered.
“Order!” the judge said loudly. “I will have order! I understand your outrage—indeed, I share it—but I will have respect for the law! Sir Oliver, this story is fearful, but I still see no connection to the death of Katrina Harcus, and Mr. Dalgarno’s guilt or innocence in the matter.”
