Funeral in Blue (31 page)

“When did they change the poster?” she asked.

The soldier’s eyes widened. “That’s it!” he said with a long sigh. “You’ve got it. That one was up the night you’re talking about—not the juggler they’ve got here. You can check at the music hall, check with anyone, they’ll tell you. This wasn’t made that night!” He poked his finger at the drawing. “He was here, all right, but not then.”

His face shone with triumph. “That help you?”

“Yes!” she said, smiling at him so widely it was a grin. “Yes, it does! Thank you very much. Now, let me get you a cider, and maybe something to eat. I could certainly do with a pie. Then I’ll go and make sure the music hall will swear to it, if necessary.”

“Thank you,” he accepted graciously. “I’ll have a mutton pie with mine, if you please. You’d like that, too. Real tasty, they are. Fill you up.”

She left the Bull and Half Moon and was startled as she stepped out into the street to see how the fog had surrounded everything with a dark shroud so thick she could barely see five or six yards in front of her. She had intended to go to the music hall and check to be absolutely certain about the dates of the juggler and the singer, and that they had actually changed the bill, but in this murk that had blown up from the river it would be almost impossible. She could not even see the other side of the street. Where was the carriage? It was not where she had left it, but the driver would not have been able to wait there. No doubt he was in the next side street.

She started to walk, and was aware of footsteps behind her, or was it an echo of her own? Fog distorted sound. But it muffled rather than magnified.

She whirled around, and saw a figure darkening the white vapor that islanded her in every direction. She stepped back, but he came forward. She went back again until she was under the street lamp and the light filtered down pale and patchy as the mist moved, and she saw Argo Allardyce’s ashen face and black hair. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she choked with blind terror. There was no point whatever in trying to deny what she had been doing. He must have followed her from the Bull and Half Moon, though she hadn’t seen him there. She still had the picture with her. Where was the carriage? How far away? Could she turn and run? Was she even going in the right direction?

She took another step back, and another. The fog thickened, then a gust of cold air blew it away again and he looked only feet from her. He must see in her face that she knew he had lied.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice hard and angry, or was it frightened because in a way he, too, was cornered? “Why are you asking questions about me? I didn’t kill Elissa or Sarah!”

“You lied!” she accused. “You said you were here that night, but you weren’t. If you didn’t kill them, why didn’t you tell the truth?” She was still moving away from him, and he was following.

“Because I was afraid they’d blame me anyway!” His voice was sharp and brittle. “I was in Acton Street at the gambling house, and one of the women I drew was furious about it. Her husband made a terrible scene and they knocked him senseless. She followed me out and practically tore the pictures of her away from me.”

With a wild mixture of misery and elation, Hester realized he was talking about Charles and Imogen. It wasn’t proof of his innocence, but that much at least was honest.

She gulped. “What was she like, the woman?”

He was incredulous. “What?”

“What was she like?” she all but shouted at him.

The cold mist swirled around in heavier wreaths, and the boom of a foghorn drifted up from the river, followed almost immediately by another.

“Dark,” he said. “Pretty. Soft features.”

It was enough. Imogen. “Then where did you go?” she demanded, taking another step back. Now she was in the gloom and he was under the light. She could see the droplets of moisture clinging to his hair and skin.

“Not to Acton Street!” he shouted back at her. “I got a hansom and went all the way to Canning Town. I never came back until morning.”

“If you can prove that, why did you lie?” she charged him. He was still coming towards her. Were all his words only a distraction, and when he was close enough and she was off guard, would he lunge for her, and with a swift movement, a wrenching pain, a crack, her neck would be broken, too? She wheeled around, picked up her skirts, and ran as fast as she could in the blind, clinging fog, her heart beating so violently it almost stopped her breathing, the sound of her footsteps muffled. She had no idea where she was going. She tripped over the curb of the cross street and lurched forward, almost losing her balance, flinging her arms wide to stop from pitching over.

There was a snort beside her, a blowing of air, and she stifled a scream. She shot forward and ran straight into the side of a horse. It jerked up and backwards, and the next moment a man’s voice called out angrily.

“Albert!” she yelled as loudly as she could.

“Yes, Miss! Where are you?”

“Here! I’m here!” she sobbed, scrambling back past the horse to feel for the dark bulk of the carriage and fumble to open the door. “Drive me home! If you can see your way, get me back to Grafton Street, but hurry out of here, please!”

“Yes, Miss, don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It’ll not be this bad once we’re away from the river.”

She collapsed inside the coach and slammed the door shut.

They were over the bridge and climbing into clearer air before she thought to tell the coachman to go past the police station so she could leave a message for Runcorn, and return the picture with an abject apology.

In Vienna, Monk took his leave of Ferdi over a very early breakfast, thanking him for the inestimable help he had been not only in practical terms but also for his friendship.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Ferdi said quite casually, but his eyes never left Monk’s face, and there was a deep flush in his fair cheeks. “It was all rather important, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Very important indeed.”

“Will you . . . will you write and tell me what happens to Dr. Beck?” Ferdi asked. “I . . . I’d like to know.”

“Yes, I will,” Monk promised, fearing already that it would be hard news, and he would have to struggle to find a way of wording it so it would not wound the boy more than it had to.

Ferdi smiled. “Thank you. I don’t have a card, but I borrowed one of my father’s. The name is the same, so you could get in touch with me here. If you come to Vienna again . . .” He left it, suddenly self-conscious.

“I shall write you, of course,” Monk finished for him. “And most certainly I shall call.”

“Oh . . . good.” A smile lit Ferdi’s face, and he shot out his hand to clasp Monk’s, and then as suddenly let it go and bowed very formally, clicking his heels.
“Auf Wiedersehen,”
he said, looking at Monk through his lashes.

“
Auf Wiedersehen,
Herr Gerhardt,” Monk replied. “Now I must hurry, or I shall miss the train!”

Monk met Max Niemann at the railway station as arranged; half an hour later they were settled on the train as it pulled out. He was impatient to be home and to tell Hester what he had found. It was not the absolute solution he had hoped for, one which would save Beck, but it was as much as he could find, and he had run out of places to look.

Suddenly the burden of it was almost insupportable. Elissa had betrayed another woman to her death. Max Niemann had not known it, nor had Kristian. Assuredly, Fuller Pendreigh would not have, either. The truth he brought with him would shatter all of them.

He looked at Niemann, sitting opposite him in the carriage as they rattled and jolted, picking up speed into the dark countryside. If he knew, would he even be coming to London? What would he have paid for it not to be true? It would shatter an image he had loved and believed for years.

And what would Kristian feel? Had he ever guessed any of it? Hanna’s love for him, her knowledge that he was of her own people, even though he did not know it himself. Elissa’s single act of unbearable destruction . . .

Or did he know? That was the darkness greater and deeper than the night which lay beyond the carriage windows, ice-cold in the wind off the plains stretching north to the bounds of Russia. Had something happened which had told him of that awful betrayal, and had he exacted revenge for it?

Could any of it help, except possibly Max Niemann’s testimony that Allardyce had been in the neighborhood of the studio, not on the south side of the river, as he had sworn. Would Niemann’s testimony be believed? He was a foreigner, a longtime friend of Kristian’s. Might the jury think it was no more than old loyalties that prompted him now?

Of course, Monk would say nothing to Pendreigh or to Callandra about what had happened to Kristian years ago. It would be better for everyone if the tragedies and the guilt could be buried.

Unless Kristian already knew? If so, it seemed he was prepared to go to the grave keeping Elissa’s secret, and his own.

There were too many decisions to make now, without Hester.

He settled down a little further into the seat and prepared to sleep as much as he could during the long journey home, rattling and lurching through the darkness, troubled by dreams, permanently uncomfortable.

He had not intended to, but in the morning he found himself sharing the trials and wry amusements, the interest and the tribulation of travel, with Max Niemann. The Austrian was an intelligent man with quirks of character which were both unusual and pleasing. Talking with him made the time pass far more rapidly, and as long as they did not speak of Kristian, Elissa, or the uprising, there was no difficulty in avoiding the emotional traps of the knowledge he could not share.

They passed through Cologne and moved onward towards Calais. Time dragged by interminably, but they were mile by mile getting closer to England.

The Channel crossing was rough and cold, and docking seemed to take ages. The London train was delayed, and they had to go up and down looking for seats, but eventually, in the evening of the third day, at last they pulled in. Doors were flying open and people were shouting; cases were heaved out, and the scramble began to find hansoms.

Monk was tired beyond any sharpness of sense. He walked as if in a dream. Every part of his body ached, and he felt as if his muscles would never move easily again. He wanted to see Hester so intensely he half imagined her in the back of every slender woman he saw. He began to wonder if he were awake or asleep.

Max Niemann said he would stay at his usual hotel. They always found a room for him, regardless of the lack of notice, and he would report to Monk at Grafton Street in the morning.

Monk bade him good-night and began to relax at last as his cab made for the Tottenham Court Road, and Grafton Street. He was almost asleep when it jerked to a halt and the driver informed him that he had arrived. He was startled, falling half forward as he staggered out, paid him, and pulled out his door key so that he might surprise Hester and see the delight in her face, feel the warmth of the house, the familiar smells of polish, burning coal, winter leaves in the vase, and above all feel her in his arms.

But it was dark, and there was no one there. He dropped his cases, then fumbled in the gloom to find the gas knobs. There was no fire lit. There had not been all day. He was so stunned with disappointment it was as if someone had struck him physically, bruising his flesh and driving the breath out of his lungs. Exhaustion took hold of him and he began to shiver uncontrollably.

He went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. It took him half an hour to light the stove and for it to burn up heat enough to boil the water. He was about to make tea when he heard the front door open. Still with the caddy in his hand, he strode through to the front room.

Hester was just inside the front door, her coat still on. Her face was white and there was a bruise on her cheek. Her hair was coming undone and her clothes were disheveled.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted at her. “Do you know what time it is?”

She looked astonished, then angry. “No! Nor do I care!” she retorted.

“Where were you?” he repeated, his voice shaking with emotion he could not conceal. He could not take his eyes from her face, drawing into himself every detail of her, furious that he cared more than he could control, or hide. He wished to hold her and never let her go, not all night, not tomorrow, not ever. The power of it frightened him. “Don’t stand there! Where were you?” he demanded.

“Are you saying that you may go halfway around Europe and I may not go around the corner to the police station?” she asked with a sharp lift to her voice. She stared at him, her eyes brilliant, her face almost colorless except for the dark bruise.

“The police station? Why?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

“I have discovered that Argo Allardyce was not in Southwark on the night Elissa was killed,” she replied. “He was in Swinton Street, at least earlier on.”

“Yes, Max Niemann saw him,” he replied. “How do you know?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I detected it,” she said icily. “The picture he gave Runcorn wasn’t drawn that night; the music hall poster was wrong. He admitted he was in the gambling club.”

“Runcorn told you?”

“No, I told him.”

“How the devil did you know? Where have you been?” He did not intend to, but his voice had risen until he was once more shouting at her. Fear drove him, fear that she had been in danger and he had not been there to protect her, or prevent her from taking risks. “Damn it, Hester!” He hurled the caddy into the corner and watched the tea fly all over the floor.

Without any warning she began to laugh. Tearing at the ribbons of her hat, she flung it away and walked into his arms. Her laughter turned to weeping and she clung to him so hard it bruised his skin, and he was happy just to feel the strength of her. He closed his own arms around her and held on to her while he lost all sense of time and it really did not matter anymore.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Monk could have held Hester in his arms all night, but the trial would resume in the morning and they could not afford to leave seeing Imogen and Pendreigh until then. It might be too late.

Hester pushed away and looked up at him. “The judge’s patience is all but ended,” she said. “We must prepare everything we can tonight.” She reached his eyes, seeing the exhaustion in him. “I’m sorry.”

“Have we enough to cast doubt?” he asked. “Allardyce was there, but what if someone can find proof he left before the murders?” His mind was racing over all he had learned in Vienna, and about Max Niemann, who he could not believe had killed Elissa. But deeper and more bitter than anything else was the betrayal of Hanna Jakob. He did not want to tell Hester of it, he wanted to bury it in a silence that would recede into the past until the details blurred and whole months went by without it troubling his mind. Perhaps implicating Allardyce as a suspect would be sufficient, without anything else being said?

“I told Runcorn,” she said quietly. “He’s bound to look for the cabbie he says picked him up. Of course, he may not find him before the end of the trial. It may not even be true.”

He told her Niemann’s theory that Sarah killed Elissa, and then Allardyce in turn killed Sarah.

She looked skeptical. “I don’t believe it, but I know of no reason why it couldn’t be possible. But we must persuade Imogen to testify. That will corroborate what Niemann says about Allardyce definitely being there. If she won’t, I suppose we can always oblige her to?”

“Yes . . . but it would be . . . unpleasant.”

“I know.” She straightened her shoulders. “We need to go tonight.” As she said it she turned and went for her coat.

They had to walk in the fine rain down to Tottenham Court Road before they could find a hansom, and directed it to Charles and Imogen’s house. They rode in silence. There was no point in planning what to say, there was only the truth, and no time or purpose in dressing it this way or that.

The butler opened the door looking startled and considerably put out. He was obviously about to give a very abrupt answer until he recognized Hester, then his expression turned to alarm. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Monk?” he said nervously.

“There has not been any accident, thank you,” she replied. “But we do have a concern which unfortunately cannot wait until morning. Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Latterly that we are here, and Mrs. Latterly also. We need to speak with them as urgently as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at Monk. “Sir. If you will come this way, I shall rake the fire in the withdrawing room and get it going again—”

“I can do that,” Monk cut across him. “Thank you. If you would be good enough to fetch Mrs. Latterly.”

The butler looked startled, but he did not argue.

In the withdrawing room, Monk lit the gas and turned it up until the room was as light as possible, then moved over and worked at the fire until it started to burn again. It was not difficult; the embers were still hot and it only required the riddling away of the clogging ash and a little new coal. He was finished before the door opened and Charles came in.

“What is it?” he asked, turning from Hester to Monk, and back again. He looked tired and drawn, but not as if he had been asleep. He greeted them only perfunctorily. “What’s happened?” No one mentioned the trial; it was unnecessary to say that it was concerning Kristian, and Elissa’s death, that they had come. The subject crowded everything else from their thoughts.

Hester answered him, to save Monk the difficulty of trying to word it so as to spare his feelings. There was no time for that. She hated having to tell Charles, to see his fear and embarrassment, but there was no evasion possible.

“Max Niemann saw Imogen leaving the gambling house on the night Elissa was killed.” Odd how she spoke of her, even thought of her, by her Christian name, as if she had known her. “Niemann saw Allardyce there, too, meaning that he was not miles away, as he swore. If Imogen also saw him, it could help to raise reasonable doubt enough to acquit Kristian.”

Charles was very pale, almost jaundiced-looking in the yellow glare of the gas. “I see,” he said slowly. “And you want her to testify.”

“Yes!” Thank heaven at least he understood. “I am afraid it is necessary.”

Silence almost clogged the air. There was no sound at all but the faint whickering of the flames in the fireplace as they burned up and caught the new coal Monk had placed in there.

“I’m sorry,” Hester said gently.

The tiniest of smiles touched Charles’s mouth.

The door opened and Imogen came in. She had dressed, but not bothered to pin up her hair. It hung loose in a cloud of dark waves about her head. Just for an instant, before she came into the direct light of the lamp, she could have been one of Allardyce’s paintings of Elissa come to life.

“What is it?” she asked, looking straight at Hester. “What’s happened?”

It was Charles who answered. It was clear he was torn between swift honesty and trying to soften the blow for her to shield her from embarrassment. He should have known it was impossible. Perhaps he did, but still could not break the habit of a lifetime. “Allardyce was seen near his studio on the night Mrs. Beck was killed,” he began. “That means he could be guilty after all. The person who saw him also saw you . . .” He flushed as her body stiffened. “And if you saw him, then that would be additional proof that he was there.”

“Why should anyone doubt it?” she said quickly. “If this other person says he saw him, isn’t that enough?”

Charles looked at Monk questioningly.

“He is a friend of Kristian Beck’s,” Monk answered. “They may believe he is saying it simply to defend him. He needs corroboration.”

Imogen looked at Charles, her eyes wide. Hester tried to read her expression. It was more than fear alone. Was it shame, even some kind of apology for having to admit publicly where she was and that she had gone without him? It would humiliate him publicly. Had she any idea what else had happened to him at the club that night?

Charles was standing close to her, as if in some way he could physically protect her. She looked at him, but the angle of his shoulders kept a distance between them, a separation.

“It is the only honorable thing to do,” Charles said quietly. He looked at Monk. “Describe this man, exactly where he was, and when. Perhaps Imogen should see him in person?”

“No,” Monk responded hastily. “If we bring him here we shall be prejudicing her testimony. The prosecution will very quickly point out that we, too, are friends of Kristian’s and could have arranged it. It is best the first time she sees him is in court. Pendreigh can call him, and then call Imogen to testify.”

Imogen turned to him. She was shivering, her eyes fever-bright. “But I can’t help! I have no idea who else was in the street that evening. I wouldn’t be able to point to the right man. I think I might only make things worse. I . . . I’m sorry.”

Charles stared at her. “Are you sure? Think back. Try to put yourself there again. Think of leaving the . . . the house, stepping—”

“I can’t remember!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry. I was simply staring ahead of myself. I could have passed anyone, for all I noticed!” She turned away and smiled apology at Monk, then at Hester, but the refusal in her face was final.

Monk put Hester into the hansom to send her back home to Grafton Street, and he took another to Lamb’s Conduit Street, where Runcorn lived. It was after midnight when he woke Runcorn by banging on the door. As he had expected, it was several minutes before Runcorn appeared, rumpled and half asleep, but as soon as he recognized Monk in the eerie glow of the streetlights, his hair plastered to his face in the rain, he opened the door wider to invite him in.

“Well?” he said as soon as they were in the small hallway. “What did you find in Vienna? Anything?”

“Yes.” Somehow being with Runcorn in this close, ordinary hallway took Monk back to the facets of police procedure, of the law, of what the realities were, separated from the emotions of love and need. As Runcorn went into the kitchen ahead of him, Monk pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.

Runcorn turned up the gas and went to riddle the ashes out of the black stove and try to get it burning hot again. “Well?” he said with his back to the room.

“I brought Niemann back,” Monk replied. “He’s more than willing to testify, both to Kristian’s good character . . .”

Runcorn swiveled around on his haunches and glared at Monk.

Monk rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. For all the years of rivalry and dislike, the petty quarrels between them, they shared more beliefs than he had thought even a month ago, and they knew each other too well to hedge around with half-truths. He looked up at Runcorn, who had risen to his feet. The stove was beginning to draw again, and the heart of the fire burned red.

“Niemann says he was in Swinton Street near the gambling house just before the murders, and saw Allardyce leaving.” Of course, Runcorn knew Allardyce had been there, from Hester. He must also know that she had stolen the picture, although she had returned it.

Runcorn stared at him unblinkingly, only the barest, momentary reflection of that in his eyes. “Go on,” he prompted. Absentmindedly, he moved the kettle over onto the hot surface. “There’s more to it, or you wouldn’t be looking like a wet weekend in Margate. Maybe Allardyce is lying, but maybe he isn’t. Is Niemann Dr. Beck’s friend, or his enemy? Was he Elissa’s lover?”

“Friend. And no, I don’t think so.”

Runcorn leaned forward over the table. “But you don’t know! Have you got time to sit here half the night while I pull out of you whatever it is?”

Monk looked up at him. It was extraordinary how familiar he was, every line of his face, each intonation of his voice. Evidence said that they had known each other since early manhood, over twenty years. And yet there were vast areas of emotion, belief, inner realities Monk was seeing only now. Perhaps he had never cared before?

“There’s quite a lot of feeling against Jews in Vienna, in Austria,” he said slowly. “They’ve been persecuted for generations. I suppose centuries would be more accurate.”

Runcorn waited patiently, his eyes steady on Monk’s face.

“In order to survive, to escape discrimination, even persecution,” Monk went on, “some Jews denied their race and their faith and changed their names to German ones. They even became Roman Catholic.”

“This must be going to mean something, or you wouldn’t be telling me,” Runcorn observed.

“Yes. The kettle’s boiling.”

“Tea can wait. What about people changing their names? What has it to do with the murder of Elissa Beck?”

“I don’t know. But Kristian Beck’s family was one of those who did that. Elissa knew, but she never told Kristian, and he himself did not know. At least not at the time. She even went out of her way to protect him, knowing that if he were caught, and it became known he was really a Jew, it would be even harder for him.” Why was he still telling less than half the truth? To protect Kristian or Pendreigh?

Runcorn’s face tightened. There was a flash of pity in his eyes, something that might even have been understanding. He turned away, hiding it from Monk, and began to make tea for both of them, clattering the teapot, spilling a few leaves onto the bench. The silence in the kitchen was heavy as he left the tea to steep. Finally he poured it, putting in milk and passing over two cups onto the table, pushing one across to Monk. He did not need to ask how he liked it.

“And if she told him recently, perhaps in a quarrel over money and her gambling it away,” Runcorn said, stirring sugar into his own tea, clicking the spoon against the side of the cup, “that only gives him more reason to kill her.”

“The prosecution doesn’t know that!” Monk said sharply.

Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to testify?”

“Yes, but I shan’t tell them that. It may have nothing to do with it. It would prejudice them against him . . .”

Runcorn lifted up his tea, decided it was still too hot, and put it down again. “Because he’s a Jew?”

“No! For God’s sake! Because his family denied it in order to make things easier for themselves. There’s nothing wrong with being a Jew—there’s everything wrong with being a hypocrite! Neither Christian nor Jew would own the Becks for that.”

“You’re sure he didn’t know?”

Monk had no answer, but as he sat staring at his tea, and the scrubbed boards of the kitchen table in front of him, the possibility was inescapable that Elissa had told Kristian and that it had been the final straw that had broken his self-control. And the jury would see it far more easily than he did. They would not be reluctant, hating the thought, pushing it away with every shred of will and imagination, and finding it returning, stronger each time. And always there was the other, immeasurably worse thought as well, that somehow he had discovered the betrayal of Hanna Jakob. No one would find it difficult to believe he had killed her in revenge for that. Any man might. But always the shadow of Sarah Mackeson robbed it of pity or mitigation.

Runcorn sipped his tea. Monk’s steamed fragrantly in front of him, and he ignored it.

“If you’d been her, desperate for money to pay your debts, frightened of the gamblers coming after you,” Runcorn said grimly, “and you’d saved him in Vienna, knowing what his family was, wouldn’t you have been tempted now to tell him? Especially if he was angry with you, a bit condescending about your bad habits of losing on the tables, perhaps.”

“I don’t know . . .” Monk was prevaricating. He sipped his tea also, aware of Runcorn staring at him, imagining the disbelief and the contempt in his gray-green eyes.

The silence grew heavier. Monk was damned if he was going to be manipulated by Runcorn, of all people. Runcorn who disliked him, who had spent years resenting him, trying to trip him up. They had watched each other’s weaknesses, probing for a place to hurt, to take advantage, always misunderstanding and seeing the worst.

Runcorn who had once been his friend, before ambition and envy eroded that away. That had been a painful discovery, but undeniable. Perhaps he had been the more to blame of the two of them. He was the stronger. Runcorn was full of prejudices, always trying to do the things others would approve of, and yet who had felt pity for Sarah Mackeson, and was embarrassed by it, and defiant. Runcorn half hated Monk, half wanted his approval . . . and wholly expected him to love the truth above all else, no matter what other pain it brought.