Funeral in Blue (34 page)

Pendreigh looked bewildered, as if he hardly knew where he was.

“I . . . I will question Mr. Monk!” he said abruptly, swinging around to stare up at the witness box. His face had no vestige of color, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“What you have said of my daughter is a damnable lie, but I give you the credit that you may have been led to believe it. Therefore I must suppose that those who told it to you may also imagine it to be true. I concede that in their sickness someone might have felt it motive for revenge, and made this parody of justice a last, dreadful act. If so, as you say, this court cannot, in any semblance of honor, convict Dr. Beck. The defense rests, my lord.”

He made his way back to his seat like a man walking in the dark, almost feeling his way. His junior stood as if to guide him, but did not indulge in the familiarity of actually reaching out his hand.

Mills had little more to say. He pointed out that such an avenger of Hanna Jakob was entirely imaginary. No one had named such a person nor was there any proof that he or she existed. Dr. Beck, on the other hand, was very much there. He summed up all the evidence, but briefly, knowing that in the emotion-charged room he could lose their sympathy if he appeared too tied to reason.

The judge instructed the jury and they retired.

Kristian was taken down to the cells, and the rest of the court was left to wait in an exquisite suspense. No one knew whether it would be minutes, hours, or even days.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Callandra left the courtroom without any clear idea of where she was going, except to where she could be alone without the pretense of courtesy or that she was more or less all right. She had been as shattered by Monk’s testimony as had the rest of the court. She had seen Pendreigh stagger as if seized by a physical pain, but it was Kristian she had turned to. She had wanted to find Elissa human, not a heroine she could never equal, but she would never have wished this searing tragedy, this desolation which left only a broken and terrible grief for what had once been so beautiful.

She could understand being so in love it robbed you of your balance, your judgment of good and evil, but she could not make the leap to acting out the passion or the violence as Elissa had. There was nothing worth winning at the cost of your own being, the soul, the integrity that was the core of who you were. The act of doing such a thing made it impossible for you to hold the good, even if you could grasp it for an instant.

She pushed through the crowd, oblivious of individuals, wanting only to escape for a while.

Had Elissa submitted to a moment’s insanity when she was exhausted, frightened, pressed in by danger and threat on all sides, then spent the rest of her life regretting it, and unable to redeem any part of herself because she had kept the prize?

Callandra had expected to feel loathing, and yet, walking slowly out of the courtroom entrance and down the steps with the rain in her face, she was amazed that it was pity that stirred inside her for all that had been thrown away.

She stood on the pavement alone as people brushed past her. When would they bring in the verdict? Monk had taken a terrible chance. He had been brilliant. She knew why he had done it. It was like him, a desperate throw when all else was lost. He would have known how it would lacerate to the core and create scars for which there was no healing.

She did not know whether she would be allowed to see Kristian. The verdict was not in yet, so he was technically still an innocent man. She could lay no claim to be family, but she was a representative from the hospital; Thorpe had never taken that from her. Surely if they would permit him to see anyone at all, other than his lawyer, since he had no relative, it would be a colleague from his place of work.

She should hurry. They could bring in the verdict at any time, and then it might be too late. She turned and began to climb back up the steps.

She did not know if he would even wish to see her, but she must try. Whatever happened, and she refused to think it through to the end, he must know now, before the verdict, that she believed in his innocence.

She had feared he could have killed Elissa. The provocation was so great it was too easy to understand a moment of fear overcoming a lifetime’s morality and restraint. The act could be over and irretrievable in moments, before the brain had caught up with the action of the hands.

But she did not believe he could then have gone on and deliberately killed Sarah Mackeson. No fear whatever would have driven the man she knew to do that. She must look him in the face and he must see in her eyes that it was so.

“Can’t give you long, ma’am,” the guard said reluctantly, his voice tense, his eyes glancing back to be sure he was not observed by any higher authority. He was doing this as an act of compassion, and it made him nervous.

“Thank you,” she accepted sincerely.

“I can give you ten minutes, that’s all,” he warned.

“Thank you,” she said again. Ten minutes seemed desperately short, but then ten hours would have been, too. Whatever the time, there was always an end to it, a parting which might be the last. If that was what she had, then she must make every second of value.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open with a scrape of iron on stone. “Visitor for yer!” he said, and allowed her to go in.

Kristian was standing, staring up towards the high window where a square of gray daylight was visible. He turned in surprise, but when he saw Callandra his expression was closed, unreadable. He had no idea what to expect from her, and he was exhausted in mind and spirit. He had no reserves with which to face her needs or doubts. Every certainty had been torn from him, even his own identity was no longer what he had believed. His heritage had been an illusion, and the reality was alien, worse than alien, because it was known and faintly, subconsciously, held to be inferior. He was no longer one of “us.” Without his having changed or done anything, he was inexplicably one of “them.”

The wife he had admired for her courage and honor had committed a fearful act of betrayal, and kept it secret from everyone, seeing him, talking to him every day, and hiding it.

Callandra knew he was not able to discuss any of it. As happens to someone who is desperately ill, everything in the world had changed and he was no longer supple or strong enough to react to it.

She smiled at him, as if it were a normal day. Should she say anything that mattered, say that she believed in him? That it made no difference whatever to her whether he was a Jew or a Christian? That she was not outraged by Elissa’s acts, nor did she hold him accountable for how he reacted now?

He met her eyes, his own hollow, skin blue around the sockets as if he were physically ill. He was searching her, and not able to find the words to ask, perhaps not knowing whether it was unfair, expecting of her something she could not give. Perhaps he was even afraid of the answer. Was she here from pity, loyalty, anything that was half a lie, and entirely a hurt?

She made herself smile at him fully, without reservation, and felt the tears brim her eyes. “I cannot imagine what you must be suffering,” she heard herself say without thinking first. “Or how you can absorb what you have heard. But families are not who you are, good or bad. You cannot judge why they did what they did. We were not there to see the passions or know for whom the sacrifice was made. What you believe, how you behave towards others, and within your own truth, is who you are. No one can alter that except you. And you should not try, because who you are is good.”

He bent his head to hide the well of emotion in his eyes.

“Is it?” he said, his voice choked.

“Yes,” she answered with certainty. “Maybe you were not always wise with Elissa, or even fair to her boredom or lack of purpose. But you cannot have known the guilt within her, because it sprang from an act beyond your imagination.”

He looked up suddenly. “I did not kill her!”

“I know,” she answered, and he saw in her face that she did know. She smiled very slightly. “I never imagined that you could have killed the artists’ model, no matter what provocation there was to hurt Elissa, or to stop her destruction of both of you.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His skin was only just warm. She ached to do something more, to reach him in an infinitely comforting way and take some of his pain and tiredness to herself, and bear it for him, but she could already hear the guard’s footsteps and she knew time was up.

She stepped back so their intimacy should not be intruded upon. She would not say good-bye; she would not use those words. She just looked at Kristian for a moment, then as the door opened, she faced the guard and thanked him for his courtesy. She left without looking back or speaking again. Her throat was aching too much and she was blind with tears anyway.

Hester and Monk also left the courtroom and went outside into the hallway.

“Where is Callandra?” Monk asked, looking around and failing to see her. He took a step forward as if to search, and Hester put her hand on his arm to stop him.

“No,” she said quietly. “She’ll find us if she needs us. I think she may prefer to be alone.”

He stopped, turning to meet her eyes. For a moment he seemed about to question her, then he saw her certainty and changed his mind.

People were milling all around them, trying to decide whether to leave and find supper, or even to go home. Would the jury return tonight? Surely not. It was too late, after six already.

Hester looked at Monk. “Could they still come in tonight?” she asked, not knowing if she wanted the verdict sooner or if it would be even worse to wait all night. “Is it better if . . .”

“I don’t know,” he answered gently. “Nobody does.”

She closed her eyes. “No, of course not. I’m sorry.” She started to push her way towards a clearer space a few yards from the door and was just short of the entrance when Charles came striding towards her. His hair was falling forward and his cheeks were flushed.

“Have you seen Imogen?” he demanded, urgency making his voice rough-edged. “Is she with you?”

“No,” she answered, trying to ignore the fear she felt in him. “Did she say she was looking for me?”

“No . . . I thought . . .” Charles stared around, searching for sight of Imogen.

“Perhaps she has gone to the cloakroom,” Hester suggested. “Is she all right? Was she a little faint, or distressed? It was very close in there. Shall I go and look?”

“Please!” Charles accepted instantly. “She was . . .” He swore under his breath, his jaw clenched.

“What?” Monk demanded. “What is it? Charles?”

Hester saw in her mind’s eye Imogen’s white face and staring eyes. “Why did you come?” She caught Charles’s sleeve. “Not for me!”

“No.” Charles looked wretched. “I thought if she heard what had happened to Elissa Beck, the tragedy and the waste of it, the terrible way she died, she might be shocked enough never to gamble again. I thought if I brought her today . . . just at the end . . . the summing up . . .”

“It was a good idea,” Monk agreed vehemently.

“Was it?” Charles seemed almost to be pleading for assurance. “I’m afraid I might have frightened her too much. She excused herself when the judge adjourned, and I thought she had just gone to . . . but that was fifteen minutes ago, and I haven’t seen her since.” Again, as if he could not help himself, he craned around to search for her.

“I’ll go,” Hester said quickly. “Stay here, so that if I find her we don’t lose each other again.” And without waiting she moved away to find the cloakroom and the convenience. Perhaps Imogen just needed a little time to be alone and compose herself after the distress of what she had heard. In her place, Hester felt she would have herself. If the trial had had the effect on her that Charles had desired, it would produce a change which could hardly be accommodated in a few moments.

She pushed her way against the crowd, who were now leaving for the night, and ended up in the cloakroom, but Imogen was not there. There was a woman in charge. Hester described Imogen as well as she could, her clothes, particularly her hat, and asked if the woman had seen her.

“Sorry, ma’am, no idea.” The woman shook her head. “All I can tell yer is there’s no one ’ere now, ’ceptin’ us. But nob’dy ’ere bin wot yer’d call poorly.”

“Thank you.” Hester gave her a halfpenny and left as quickly as she could. Where on earth could Imogen be? And why would she go off alone, now of all times? Suddenly fury boiled up inside her for the sheer thoughtlessness of causing more grief and anxiety at a moment when they had almost more burden than they could bear.

She marched to the clerk she saw standing at the top of the stairs to the nearest entrance.

“Excuse me,” she said peremptorily. “My sister-in-law appears to have gone looking for her carriage without us.” It was the first lie which sprang to her mind. “She is about two inches less than I in height, she has dark hair and eyes and is wearing a green coat and hat with black feathers. Have you seen her?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said immediately. “Carrying a green umbrella. At least it sounds like the lady you describe. She left several minutes ago, with Mr. Pendreigh.”

“What?” Hester was stunned. “No, that can’t—”

“Sounded like the young lady you described, ma’am. Sorry if I made a mistake.” He inclined his head towards the open doors. “They went that way. Almost ten minutes ago, walking quite quickly. I think he was helping her. She seemed a bit upset. I daresay one of the trials had affected someone she knew. He might only have been taking her as far as her carriage, just making sure she was all right.”

“Thank you!” she said abruptly, and swinging around, she ran back to where Monk and Charles were still waiting. They saw her and started towards her.

“What is it?” Monk said breathlessly. “Where is she?”

Hester looked beyond him at Charles. “Did she have an umbrella, a green one?”

Charles was ashen. “Yes! Why? What’s happened?”

“I think she left with Pendreigh. A clerk at the door over there says someone exactly like her went out with him about ten minutes ago.”

Charles lunged forward and ran across the now almost empty hallway and down the steps, Monk and Hester racing after him, feet flying, clutching the rails to keep from tripping. Outside was that unique darkness of very late autumn and fog. It was almost like disappearing into a muffling layer of cloths, ice-cold and gripping as if a solid touch, except that it parted in front of you and closed behind, leaving you without sense of direction. Even sound seemed swallowed by the wall of vapor.

“Why would she go with Pendreigh?” Charles said from a few feet away in the gloom. “What could he do for her? How could he help? With what he’s just heard about his daughter, how could he even think of anyone else’s grief?” He spun around, almost colliding with them in the thick darkness. “Do you think he’s trying to save her, because he lost Elissa?” His voice was wild with hope, soaring up out of control.

“I don’t know,” Monk said roughly. He swore as he stumbled on the edge of the curb. “But why in God’s name did they leave the courthouse? She must have known you’d be frantic with worry for her.”

“Perhaps she’s still angry with me for bringing her to see just how gambling can destroy everything she loves,” Charles said, trying to choke back his emotions and hold on to some kind of control.

Hester was beginning to shiver, as much from fear as cold. There was something profoundly wrong. Imogen did not know Fuller Pendreigh. Why on earth would she go out into the fog alone with him? No matter how distressed she was over Elissa, or gambling, or anything else, no matter how much she might grieve for Pendreigh because they had both known Elissa at wildly different times of her life, she would not have left Charles and walked off into the fog.