Funeral in Blue (8 page)

She gave him a withering look.

“Well . . . not you, of course . . .” He foundered again, his face pale, blotches of dull color on his cheeks.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she contradicted. “I can be as irrational as anybody else, or at least I can appear so to a man who doesn’t understand me. If you recall, Papa thought so. But that was because he didn’t wish to understand that I wanted something to do just as much as you or James.”

“Oh, far more!” The faint ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. “I never wanted anything with the fierceness you did. I think you terrified him.”

“I shall go and see Imogen this afternoon,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “At least warn her. Tell her how dangerous it is. She doesn’t listen to me.”

When she arrived in Endsleigh Gardens she was let in by Nell, the parlormaid she had known for years.

“Oh, Miss Hester!” Nell looked taken aback. “I’m afraid Mrs. Latterly’s out at the minute. But come in. She’ll be back in half an hour or so, and I’m sure she’d want to see you. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, Nell, but I will wait, thank you,” Hester accepted, and followed her to the drawing room to possess herself with patience until Imogen should arrive. She sat down as Nell left, then, the moment after the door was closed, stood up again. She was too restless to remain on the sofa with her hands folded. She began to wander around the room, looking at the familiar furniture and pictures.

How could she gain Imogen’s confidence sufficiently to learn what it was that had changed her? Surely her husband’s sister was the last person Imogen would trust with the confidence that she was betraying him. And if Hester asked her a question to which the answer was a lie, it would only deepen the gulf between them.

She stopped in front of a small watercolor next to the mantelpiece. It was attractive, but she did not recognize it. Somehow in her mind she had seen a portrait there, a woman wearing a Renaissance pearl headdress.

She lifted it slightly and saw underneath a darker oval on the wallpaper. She was right, the portrait had been there. She looked around the room and did not find it. She went through to the dining room and it was not there, either, nor was it in the hall. It hardly mattered, but its absence occupied her mind while she waited.

She noticed other small differences: a vase she did not recognize; a silver snuffbox, which had been on the mantelpiece for years, was not there now; a lovely alabaster horse was gone from the side table near the hall door.

She was still wondering about the changes when she heard the front door close, a murmur of voices, and a moment later Imogen’s footsteps across the hall.

She threw the door open and swept in, her skirts wide, a lace fichu around her neck. Her dark eyes were shining and there was a flush on her cheeks. “Hello, Hester,” she said cheerfully. “Twice in the space of four days! Have you suddenly taken to visiting everyone you know? Anyway, it’s very pleasant to see you.” She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then stepped back to look at the table. “No tea? I suppose it’s far too early, but surely you’d like something? Nell says you have been here for three quarters of an hour. I’m so sorry. I’ll speak to her . . .”

“Please don’t,” Hester said quickly. “She offered me tea and I declined. And don’t go to any trouble now. I expect you have only just come from luncheon?”

“What?” Imogen looked for a moment as if nothing had been farther from her mind, then she laughed. It was an excited, happy sound. “Yes . . . of course.” She seemed too restless to sit down, moving around the room with extraordinary energy. “Then if you don’t want to eat or drink, what can I offer you? I’m quite sure you don’t want gossip. You don’t know any of the people I do. Anyway, they are the most crashing bores most of the time. They say and do the same things every day, and nearly all of them are completely pointless.” She whirled around, sending her skirts flying. “What is it, Hester? Are you collecting support for some charity or other?” She was speaking rapidly, the words falling over each other. “Let me guess! A hospital? Do you want me to see if I know any friends whose daughters want to become respectable, hardworking young ladies in a noble cause? Miss Nightingale is such a heroine they just might! Although it’s not quite as fashionable as it was at the end of the war. After all, we aren’t fighting with anyone just now, or are we? Of course, there’s always America, but that’s really none of our business.” Her eyes were bright and she was staring at Hester expectantly.

“No, it never occurred to me to solicit help from any of your friends,” Hester replied with a slight edge. “People have to go into nursing because they care about it, not because anyone asked them, or they couldn’t marry the people they wished to.”

“Oh, please!” Imogen said with a sharp wave of her hand. “You sound so pompous. I know you don’t mean to, but really . . .”

Hester kept her temper with difficulty. “Do you know Argo Allardyce?” she asked.

Imogen’s eyebrows rose. “What a marvelous name! I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“An artist whose model has just been murdered,” Hester replied, watching her closely.

“I don’t read newspapers.” Imogen shrugged very slightly. “I’m sorry, of course, but things like that happen.”

“And a doctor’s wife was murdered at the same time,” Hester continued, watching her face. “In Acton Street, just around the corner from Swinton Street.”

Imogen froze, her body stiff, her eyes wide. “A doctor’s wife?”

“Yes.” Hester felt a flutter of fear inside her like nausea. “Elissa Beck.”

Imogen was sheet white. Hester was afraid she was going to faint. “I’m sorry,” she said swiftly, going to Imogen to support her in case she staggered or fell.

Imogen waved her away sharply and stepped back to the sofa, sinking down on it, her skirts puffing around her. She put her hands up to cover her face for a moment. “I was there,” she said hoarsely, her voice scratching as if her throat ached. “I mean, just around the corner! I . . . I called on a friend. How awful!”

Hester hated pursuing matters now, but the thought of Charles drove her. “What kind of friend?”

Imogen looked up, startled. “What?”

“What kind of friend do you have in that area?”

A flash of temper lit Imogen’s eyes. “That is not your concern, Hester! I have no intention of explaining myself to you, and it is intrusive of you to ask!”

“I’m trying to save you from getting involved in a very ugly investigation,” Hester said sharply. “You were in Swinton Street, one block from where the murders took place. What were you doing there, and can you explain it satisfactorily?”

“To you? Certainly not. But I was not murdering people! Anyway, how do you know where I was?” This was a demand, challenging and offended.

There was no reasonable answer but the truth, and that was going to make things worse, perhaps stop all practical help in the future.

“Because you were seen,” Hester replied. That was a good compromise.

“By somebody who told you?” Imogen said disbelievingly. “Who would you know in Swinton Street?”

Hester smiled. “If it’s respectable enough for you, why not for me?”

Imogen retreated very slightly. “And are you visiting your friends in Swinton Street as well, in case they are investigated?”

“Since they live there, there’s not much point,” Hester retorted, going along with the invention. “And you are my sister-in-law, which is rather more than just a friend.”

Imogen’s expression softened a little. “You don’t need to worry about me. I had nothing whatsoever to do with murdering anyone. I was just shocked, that’s all.”

“For heaven’s sake! I never imagined you did,” Hester said, and the moment she said it, she realized it was not true. The darkest fear inside her was that somehow Imogen had been involved, and worse, that she had drawn Charles in as well, although she could not think how.

“Good.” Imogen’s eyes were still wide and bright. “Is that what you really came for? Not luncheon? Or afternoon tea? Or a little gossip about the theater, or fashion, but to find out if I was involved in some sordid murder?”

“I came to try to help you stay out of the investigation,” Hester said, with anger, the deeper because it was unjustified.

“Thank you for your concern; I can care for my own reputation,” Imogen replied stiffly. “But had I witnessed anything to do with the murders, no one could protect me from the necessity of doing my duty regarding it.”

“No . . .” Hester felt foolish. She was caught in a trap of her own words, and it was perfectly apparent that Imogen knew it. “Then I’m sure you have other calls to make, or visitors to receive,” she went on awkwardly, trying to retreat with some grace and knowing she was failing.

“I suppose you saw it as your duty to come,” Imogen replied, swirling towards the door to show her out. Her words could have meant anything at all, or nothing, merely the formula for saying good-bye.

Hester found herself out in the street feeling inept and still afraid for both Charles and Imogen, and with no idea what to do next to be any help at all. She was not even sure whether she wanted to tell Monk anything about it.

She started to walk in the mild, damp breeze, knowing that the fog could easily close in again by nightfall.

Monk and Runcorn went from Haverstock Hill to Ebury Street to see Fuller Pendreigh, Elissa Beck’s father. It was a courtesy as much as anything. They did not expect him to have information regarding the crime, but it was possible she might have confided in him some fear or anxiety. Regardless of that, he deserved to be assured that they were giving the tragedy the greatest possible attention.

The house in Ebury Street was magnificent, as fitted a senior Queen’s Counsel with high expectations of becoming a Member of Parliament. Of course, at the moment the curtains were half lowered and there was sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses’ hooves. The house was further marked out from its neighbors by the black crepe over the door to signify the death of a member of the family, even though she had not been resident there.

A footman with a black armband received them unsmilingly and conducted them through the magnificent hallway to the somber, green-velveted morning room. The curtains hung richly draped, caught up with thick, silk cords. The walls were wood paneled, the color of old sherry, and one wall was entirely covered with bookshelves. There was a fine painting of a naval battle above the mantelpiece; a small brass plate proclaimed it to be Copenhagen, one of Nelson’s triumphs.

They waited nearly half an hour before Fuller Pendreigh came in and closed the door softly behind him. He was a very striking man, lean and graceful, far taller than average, although standing to his full height seemed to cost him an effort now. But it was his head which commanded most attention. His features were fine and regular, his eyes clear blue under level brows and his fair hair, untouched by gray and of remarkable thickness, sweeping up and back from a broad brow. Only his mouth was individual and less than handsome, but its tight-lipped look now might have been the shock of sudden and terrible bereavement. He was dressed totally in black except for his shirt.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said stiffly. “Have you news?”

“Good morning, sir,” Runcorn said, then introduced them both. He had no intention of allowing Monk to take the lead on this occasion. It was very much police business, and Monk was there only as a courtesy and would be reminded of such should he forget it. “I am afraid there is little so far,” he went on. “But we hoped you might be able to tell us rather more about Allardyce and save time, as it were.”

Pendreigh’s fair eyebrows rose. “Allardyce? You think he might be involved? It seems likely, on the face of it. The model was surely the intended victim, and my poor daughter simply chanced to arrive at the worst possible moment . . .”

“We must look at all possibilities, sir,” Runcorn replied. “Mrs. Beck was a very beautiful woman. I daresay she awakened admiration in a number of gentlemen. Allardyce certainly appears to have had intense feelings for her.”

“She was far more than merely beautiful, Mr. Runcorn,” Pendreigh said, controlling the emotion in his voice with obvious difficulty. “She had courage and laughter and imagination. She was the most wonderfully alive person I ever knew.” His voice dropped a little to an intense gravity. “And she had a sense of justice and morality which drove her to sublime acts—an honesty of vision.”

There was no possible answer, and it seemed trivial and intrusive to express a regret which could be no more than superficial compared with Pendreigh’s grief.

“I believe she met Dr. Beck when she was living in Vienna,” Monk remarked.

Pendreigh looked at him with slight surprise. “Yes. Her first husband was Austrian. He died young, and Elissa remained in Vienna. That was when she really found herself.” He took a very deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not look at them but somewhere into the distance. “I had always believed her to be remarkable, but only then did I realize how totally unselfish she was to sacrifice her time and youth, even risk her life, to fight beside the oppressed people of her adopted country in their struggle for freedom.”

Monk glanced at Runcorn, but neither of them interrupted.

“She joined a group of revolutionaries in April of ’48,” Pendreigh went on. “She wrote to me about them, so full of courage and enthusiasm.” He turned a little away from them, and his voice grew huskier, but he did not stop. “Isn’t it absurd that she should face death every day, carry messages into the heart of the enemy offices and salons . . . walk through the streets and alleys, even over the barricades in October, and live through it all with little more than a few scratches and bruises—and then die in a London artist’s studio?” He came to an abrupt halt, his voice choking.

Runcorn waited a moment as he felt decency required, glancing severely at Monk to forbid him from interrupting.

“Is that where she met Dr. Beck?” he said at last. “In a hospital there?”

“What?” Pendreigh shook his head. “No, not in a hospital. He was a revolutionary as well.”