Monk knew more exactly what he meant than the vicar could have known. His loss of memory had forced him to see his own actions with that partial and outward eye, mostly through the lens of others, and understanding nothing. To be judged that way was acutely painful. He could feel closing on him the threat of answering for wrongs committed in a time he could not remember, and as if by another man. He had tried so hard to shed the old ruthlessness, the indifference. Was the past not now going to allow him that?

But he had no time for indulgence of his own feelings, however crowding and urgent.

“Yes,” he agreed, to avoid the appearance of abruptness. “It is a narrowness common to most of us. Perhaps a little time being judged, instead of judging, would be a salutary thing.”

Rider smiled. “Perceptive of you, Mr. Monk.”

“Do you know who her benefactor was? Perhaps the father of her daughter, whom I knew, and attempted to help with a particular problem she was seeking to address.”

“Knew?” Rider said quickly, catching the past tense.

“I am afraid she is dead.” Monk did not have to pretend the grief. And it was more than guilt that he had not prevented it; it was a loss for someone who had been full of passion and urgency, much of which he had shared, even though she had not known it.

Rider looked crushed, a great weariness filled him. “Oh, dear . . . I am sorry,” he said quietly. “She was always so very full of life. Was it an accident?”

“No.” Monk risked the truth. “She was murdered . . .” He stopped as he saw the shock in Rider’s eyes, almost as if he had walked into something unseen and without any warning found himself bruised and on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I should have told you less frankly. I am concerned because I fear they may have arrested the wrong man, and there is little time to learn the truth.”

“How can I help?”

Monk was not sure, but he asked the obvious question. “Who was her father? And how long ago did she leave here?”

“About two years ago,” Rider answered, frowning in concentration.

“And her father?” Monk pressed.

Rider looked at him ruefully. “I don’t see how it can have anything to do with her death. It was many years ago. All those involved are dead now . . . even poor Katrina. Allow them to rest in peace, Mr. Monk.”

“If they are dead,” Monk argued, “then they cannot be hurt by it. I will tell no one, unless it is necessary in order to save the life of a man who will be hanged for killing her, and may be innocent.”