Rider looked wretched. “He intended to. He was very torn. His wife had no children. Pamela Harcus had given birth to one, and might have had more. But he had a protégé, a young man whom he regarded almost as a son, who in the end persuaded him not to. I daresay it was for Mrs. Dundas’s sake.”

Monk was so white Hester was afraid he was going to faint. He seemed scarcely to be breathing and was oblivious of her fingers gripping his arm. She did not even glance at Margaret.

“Do you know his name?” Rathbone repeated.

“Yes . . . it was William Monk,” Rider replied.

Monk very slowly put his hands up to his face, hiding it even from Hester. Rathbone did not turn, but he could not have been unaware of the effect the words would have.

“I see,” he said. “And do you know if either Pamela Harcus or Katrina was aware of who stopped their financial comfort, and far more than that, their honor, their legitimacy, their social acceptance?”

“Katrina was only a child, perhaps seven or eight years old,” Rider answered. “But Pamela was aware, that I know for certain. It was she who told me, but I did verify it for myself. I spoke to Dundas.”

“Did you try to change his mind?”

“Of course not. All I said was that he should be certain to make financial arrangement for them in the event of his death. He swore to me that he had already done so.”

“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?”