A Funeral In Blue

CHAPTER SEVEN

Monk went home, knowing he had to face breaking news which would be even more painful. He had not told Runcorn about Imogen, or that Charles had followed her. Part of Runcorn’s admiration for him was misplaced, and it stung like a blister on the heel, catching with every step. But he had no intention of rectifying it.

However, he must tell Hester. If it could have remained secret and she would never have had to know, he would have protected her from it. In spite of her courage, almost willingness to battle, she was capable of deep and terrible pain. In fact, perhaps the two things went together; she fought for others precisely because she understood the cost of losing, the physical and emotional wounds.

But if either Charles or Imogen were drawn into this further, if they actually had a part in it, or if Imogen were on the same path of destruction as Elissa Beck . . . He pushed the thought away from him. It was in Imogen’s hectic face and brilliant eyes that he had truly seen Elissa. He must tell Hester. There was no alternative. He must also tell her that Kristian had not spoken the truth about his time on the day of the murder, whether by accident or intent.

He went up the steps and unlocked the front door. Inside, the gas lamps hissed faintly and their light spread warmth over the outlines he knew so well he could have drawn them perfectly for anyone, the folds of the curtains, the exact shape and position of the two chairs they had saved so carefully to buy. The round table had been a gift from Callandra. There was a bowl of bright leaves and berries on it now, echoing every shade of red in the Turkish rug. It was a little chilly, and the fire was laid but not lit yet. Hester was economizing, until he came home. She would simply have put a shawl around her shoulders, and perhaps another around her knees.

The kitchen door was open. She was standing in front of the small cooking range, stirring a pot, a wooden spoon in her hand, her sleeves rolled up. In the warmth of the room, and the steam, the loose hair that had escaped from the pins was twisting into a soft curl.

She turned as she heard his step and his shadow fell across the doorway. She smiled at him. Then, before he was quick enough to conceal it, she saw the shadow in his eyes.

“What?” she asked, her other hand lifting the saucepan off the heat so it should not burn while she removed her attention from it.

He had not intended to tell her immediately, but the longer he waited, the more certain she would be that there was something wrong. It was unnerving to be so easily read. It was a position he had never intended to be in. It was part of the cost of intimacy, perhaps even of friendship.

“What is it?” she repeated. “Kristian?”

“Yes . . .”

She stiffened, the color draining from her face. She put the pan down, in case she dropped it.

“I followed his actions on the evening of the murders,” he said quietly. “He wasn’t where he said. He had the times wrong.”

The muscles in her neck tightened, as if she were expecting a blow.

“Not necessarily a lie,” he continued. “He may just be mistaken.”

There was an edge to her voice. “That’s not all, is it?”

“No.” Should he tell her about Charles and Imogen now, deal with it all in one terrible stroke? Perhaps honesty was the only healing thing left.

“What else?” she asked.

He knew she was still thinking of Kristian. He answered that first, and because it led so naturally into having seen Imogen. “I went to Swinton Street, to a gambling house the constable told me about.” He saw her wince very slightly. He had no idea she found gambling so repellent. Did she not understand it at all? There was a puritan streak in her that he loved only because it was part of her. He both admired it and was infuriated by it. In the beginning of their acquaintance he had thought it hypocrisy, and despised it. Later he had taught himself to tolerate it. Now again he found it oddly narrow and without compassion. But he did not want to quarrel. Perhaps it was memory of her father’s speculation, and ruin, which hurt. Although that was hardly gambling, only what any man in business might do, and much of his actual loss was nobly motivated. He had been duped by a man of the utmost dishonor.

She was waiting for him to continue, as if she was afraid to press him.

“Elissa used to go there fairly often,” he went on. “She lost a great deal. Even when she won, she put her money back on the table again and played it.”

Hester was looking puzzled, a slight frown on her face. “I suppose that’s the way gamblers are. If they could stop when they won it wouldn’t be a problem. Poor soul. What an idiotic way to destroy yourself—and those who love you.”

“I thought you were going to say ’and those you love,’ ” he observed.

“I was,” she replied. “And then I thought it’s really the other way. I think Kristian may have loved her more than she loved him. It looks as if she may have lost that ability. If she did love him enough, surely she would never have gone on until she stripped him of almost everything.”

“It’s a compulsion,” he tried to explain. She had not seen the faces of the gamblers, the avid eyes shining with appetite, the rigid bodies, the hands clenched, breath held as they waited for the card or the dice to fall. It was a lust beyond control. “They can’t help it,” he added aloud. He was thinking of Imogen, trying to soften the thought in her for when she had to face it within her own family.

“Perhaps not.” She did not argue as he had expected her to. “But it still kills love.”

“Hester, love is . . .” He did not know how to finish.

“What?” she asked.

“Different things.” He was still seeking to explain. “Different things for one person from another. It’s not always obvious. You can love and . . .”

“If your love remains, you don’t place your own needs before theirs,” she said simply. “You might, with moral duties, but not with appetite. Maybe they can’t help it. I don’t know. But if something takes away your ability to sacrifice your own wants for the sake of someone else, then it has robbed you of honor and love. They aren’t just nice warm feelings, they are a willingness to act for someone else’s good before your own.”

He did not answer. He was surprised by what she had said, and even more that he had no argument with any part of it. He could still see Imogen’s pale face and bright eyes and the hectic excitement in her.

“I’m not saying she could help it,” Hester went on. “I don’t know if she could or not. I think after Vienna something inside her was changed. The reason doesn’t alter what she did to Kristian.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you listening to yourself?” Her voice became sharper. “William! What else is it?”

He hated telling her, but he could no longer avoid it. “I saw someone else there that I knew.”

“Gambling?” There was fear in her voice as she watched him. She knew that this was what he had been putting off saying. “Who? Kristian?”

“No . . .” He saw the easing of tension in her, and loathed what he was going to do. For an instant he even thought of not telling her after all, but that was only his own cowardice speaking. “Imogen.”

“Imogen?” she repeated very quietly. “Imogen . . . gambling?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She did not seem startled or disbelieving. He had expected her to reject the possibility, had been afraid he would have to persuade her, argue, even face her anger. But she was standing quite still, absorbing the information without fighting it at all. Certainly she was not angry with him.

“Hester?”

For a few more moments she ignored him, still thinking about what he had told her, taking it into her mind, working out what it meant.

“Hester?” He reached forward and touched her gently. There was no resistance in her, none of the struggle he had expected. She turned her face and looked at him. Then suddenly he realized that she had known! There was no amazement in her eyes, just a kind of relief. He had gone through this agony of decision unnecessarily. She had known about it and said nothing to him. “How long has it been going on?” he demanded roughly, drawing his hand away.

“I don’t know.” She was looking not at him but into the distance, and someplace within herself. “Only weeks . . .”

“Weeks? And after you discovered about Elissa Beck, you didn’t think to mention Imogen to me? Why not? Is your family loyalty to her so great you couldn’t have trusted me?” He realized as he said it how much it hurt to be excluded. He spoke from his own wound, like a child hitting back. He felt no ties of blood, that instinctive bond that was deeper than thought. Perhaps it was irrational, bone-deep, but if he had ever felt it, it was gone with all his memory. It left him alone, rootless, without an identity that was anything more than a few years of action and thought.

He envied her. Whether she felt close to Charles or not, whether she liked or admired him, he was a chain to the past which was unbroken, an anchor.

“I didn’t know it was gambling,” she said with a frown. “I knew there was something exciting and dangerous. I thought it was a lover. I suppose I’m glad it wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t . . .”

“Tell you?” Her eyes were very wide. “That I was afraid my brother’s wife was having an affair with someone? Of course I didn’t. Would you have expected me to, if you couldn’t help?”

He did not want to, but he understood. He would have thought less of her if she had such a vulnerability for anyone else to see, even him. She was protecting her brother, instinctively, without thinking it needed explanation. She had temporarily forgotten that he had no one else but her. He had left his one sister behind in Northumberland when he came to London, however long ago that had been. He hardly ever wrote to her. A world of experience and ambition divided them, and there was no wealth of common memory to bridge it.

“I shall have to tell Charles,” she said softly.

“Hester . . .” He was still confused by her, wanting to help and certain that he had no idea how to. “Are you . . .” he began, then did not know how to finish. Charles already knew. He had followed Imogen. Runcorn had not discovered that yet, but when he investigated further into Elissa’s playing at the gambling house, it was more than likely that he would. Then he would know that he had praised Monk in his mind for an honesty that was partial, as if he would protect Charles Latterly but not Kristian. He would wonder why. Perhaps he understood family loyalty, or would he only see guilt?

Monk realized with surprise that he knew nothing about Runcorn’s parents, or if he had brothers or sisters. Surely he had known before the accident? Or had he never cared?

“Charles is already aware there is something,” Hester said, interrupting his thoughts. “I think he would rather it were gambling; most people would. It’s . . . it’s less of a betrayal. They may still love you as much as they love anyone.” She looked away a moment. “Is it only bored people who gamble like that, William? I can’t imagine wanting to, but perhaps if I did nothing but manage a house, with no children, no purpose, nothing to gain or lose, no excitement of life, no crises, I might create my own.”

He wanted to laugh. “I’m sure you would.” Then his smile withered. His agonizing over her pain had been pointless. He was not sure if he was relieved or angry, or both. She was right about an affair, too. He would rather she were obsessed with gambling, ruinous as it could be, than with another man. He was shocked by the knowledge that he was not certain if he could endure that. He had meant never, ever to be so dependent on someone else. Love was acceptable, but not the power to be so hurt, to be crippled beyond ever being whole again.

Was that what Charles Latterly faced? Or Kristian? Did Allardyce have a part in it, other than as a bystander who drew pictures and provided an occasional refuge? One thing was true for certain: somebody had killed both women.

“Why did Charles think it was an affair?” he asked. “Did he tell you?”

“He found some letters, agreeing to meet someone who didn’t bother to sign them,” she answered. “The way they were phrased made it obvious they met often. Perhaps it was someone she gambled with. . . .” She sounded uncertain.

A smattering of memory came back to Monk. “Some people like to have company, especially someone they think brings them luck . . . and Imogen is lucky, at least so far. But the gambling house will put an end to that. Hester . . . if Charles can’t stop her, you must. They won’t let her go on winning. The Swinton Street house has already had enough.”

“She goes somewhere else as well,” she said miserably. “Charles followed her the night of the murders, down in Drury Lane.”

“Drury Lane?” he said with a chill of fear. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why? Don’t they have gambling houses there, too?”

“He didn’t go down Drury Lane the night Elissa was killed.”

“Yes, he did. He told me . . .” Now she was staring at him with growing alarm. “Why?”

“Drury Lane was closed,” he said softly. “A dray slid over and dumped a load of raw sugar kegs, most of which cracked open over the road.”

“He just said that direction,” she lied. “I assumed he meant Drury Lane.” Her mind was whirling, trying to absorb his words and conceal her emotions from him.

The sauce in the pan thickened and went cold, and she ignored it. Why had Charles lied? Only because the truth was dangerous. He was trying to protect Imogen or himself. Either he thought she had been in Acton Street that night, or he knew it because he had been there himself. Vividly she saw again in her mind his ashen face and shaking hands, the fear in him and the rising sense of panic. The stable, safe world he had so painstakingly constructed around himself was falling apart. Things he had believed to be certainties were spinning away out of his grasp. She realized with a sick churning in her stomach that she did not think it impossible that he had killed Elissa Beck, and then also Sarah Mackeson—who had unintentionally witnessed the first crime.

She was almost unaware of Monk watching her as the reason took hideous form in her mind. She remembered the letter Charles had shown her. It was still upstairs in the bottom drawer of her jewel box. It was a strong, firm hand, but not necessarily a man’s. What if the person who had introduced Imogen to gambling and set her on her own ruinous course were Elissa Beck? What if Charles had seen them together that night, had followed Elissa when she left, and caught up with her in Allardyce’s studio? He might have assumed it was where she lived. He would have challenged her, begged her to leave Imogen alone. She would have laughed at him. It was already too late to rescue Imogen, but perhaps he would not know that, or would refuse to believe it. They could have struggled, and he could have tightened his grip on her neck without even realizing his strength.

Then Sarah would have awakened from her stupor and staggered through just in time to witness what had happened and would have begun screaming, or even flown at him. He would have gone after her to silence her . . . and the same swift movement, more deliberate this time.

No! It was nonsense! She must go to Kristian’s house and find a letter of Elissa’s, compare the writing. That would end it. It could not be Charles! He had not the physical skill, the decisiveness, even the strength . . .

That was damning! So condescending. She did not know that side of him at all. She had no idea how deep his passions might run under his self-controlled exterior. That calm banker’s face might hide anything.

After all, who looking at her with the saucepan in front of her could imagine the places she had been to, the violence and death she had seen, or the decisions she had made and carried through, the courage or the pain, or anything else?

Monk spoke to her gently, and she nodded without having heard. If Imogen had driven Charles to that, would she now at least stand by him if Runcorn started questioning, probing, and the net tightened around him? What if he were arrested, even tried? Would she leave the gambling and stand strong and loyal beside him? Or would she crumble—weak, frightened, essentially selfish? If she did that, Hester might not find it within her ever to forgive Imogen. And that was a bitter and terrible thought. Not to forgive is a kind of death.

And yet if Imogen could not now be loyal, place Charles before her own fears, it would hurt him beyond his ability to survive, perhaps beyond his desire to. And if that was weak, too, so much the more must Imogen be strong.

That was illogical, perhaps unfair, but it was what she felt as she looked at the congealed mess in the saucepan and started to consider what to do with it.

Callandra stood in the middle of her garden looking at the last of the roses, the petals carrying that peculiar warmth of tone that only late flowers possess, as if they knew their beauty would be short. There were a dozen tasks that needed doing, and the gardener overlooked half of them if she did not tell him specifically. There were dead flower heads to take off, Michaelmas daisies to tie up before the weight of the flowers bent them too far and they broke. The buddleia needed pruning, it was far too big; and there were windfall apples to pick up before they rotted.

She could not be bothered with any of them. She had come out with gloves and a knife, and a trug to carry the dead heads, thinking she wanted to throw herself into the effort of a physical job. Now that she was there she could not concentrate. Her mind was leaping from one thing to another, and always around and around the same black center. About the only thing she was fit for was weeding. She bent down and started to pull, first one, then another, ignoring the trug and leaving the weeds in little piles to be picked up later.

She had acknowledged to herself some time ago that she loved Kristian Beck, even if it would never lead to anything but the profoundest friendship. She would not marry again. Francis Bellingham had asked her. She liked him deeply, and he could have offered her a life of companionship, loyalty and a very considerable freedom to pursue the causes she believed in. He was intelligent, honorable and not in the least unattractive. If she had met him a few years ago she would have accepted his offer.

What she felt for him was affection, kindness, respect, but no more. If she had married him, as many of her friends had expected her to, then she would have had to cut Kristian from her dreams, and that she was not prepared to do. Perhaps she was not even able to do it. She could not commit the dishonor of marrying one man while loving another, not at her age, when there was no need. She had more than sufficient money to care for herself, the social position of a titled widow, work for charity to fill her time, friends she valued. She was perfectly aware of her own foolishness.

Her fingers stopped moving in the cold earth as she remembered what Hester had told her yesterday afternoon. She had known immediately that it was bad news of some kind. She had seen too many doctors with just that expression, the mixture of resolution and pity, the stiff shoulders and pale face, the softness in the eyes.

At the moment it could only concern Kristian. She had not needed to ask what it was about. She was already prepared to hear that he could not prove his innocence. She had always known, from very early in their acquaintance, that there was a loneliness in his life. She sensed it as she felt the deep, hidden pain in her own. She had never asked about his wife and he had not spoken of her. She had not consciously even tried to visualize her, but gradually, unwittingly, she had drawn in her mind a rather ordinary woman with a bitter face, critical of small things, always expecting something she was not given. How could anyone else have failed to offer a man like Kristian all the love she could?

Then Hester had said she was younger, and not just beautiful, but with that haunting quality that stays in the mind, bringing back the eyes, the lips, the turn of the head at unexpected moments, as if the person never entirely left you.

That had been so hard to accept. What manner of woman was she? Why had she not brought happiness? The answer that forced itself upon her was that Kristian loved her but she did not return his feeling. It was comfort for which he turned to Callandra, for the solace of being loved.

And yet going back over every moment they had shared, even in the impersonal times of sitting in management meetings in the hospital, or arguing with Fermin Thorpe, who was enough to try the patience of a saint, she had been certain there was a warmth between them that had dignity to it, and honesty. Kristian was not a man to descend to using someone else merely to make up for a lack in his own life.

Without realizing it, she had stopped weeding.

Then Hester had told her that Elissa Beck was a compulsive gambler, so addicted to the excitement of the game that she had thrown away all she owned, and almost all Kristian owned as well. She had poured out money, pawned or sold her possessions, until finally even the furniture had gone, debts were piled up, the house was cold and dark, and ruin was on the doorstep.

She could not even imagine the fear and the shame that Kristian must have felt, although she did nothing but try to. Elissa’s death must have been a bitter loss to him, a part of his life torn away. And yet it had to have been a relief as well. The bleeding out of money was ended; like a patient whose hemorrhage has at last been staunched, he could begin to rebuild his strength.

She closed her hand on a weed and yanked it out, throwing it at the trug and seeing it fly far beyond.

She had worked beside Kristian, caring for the sick, fighting for reform and improvement. She had seen his compassion, knew he had driven himself beyond exhaustion. She could not believe he would have killed Elissa, still less have added to the crime by killing another woman whose only offense was to have seen him.

But everyone has limits to his endurance, his patience or his threshold of pain. You cannot always say what grief or loss, what outrage, will carry anyone over the precipice. It may catch you completely by surprise, desperation erupting and overwhelming you before you know how close it was. She had felt that dark edge of panic brushing her. She did not imagine Kristian was immune. That would be naive and rob him of reality.

But she could not help him if she did not know the truth, whatever it was. Half blind to it, believing what she wanted rather than what was, she could do more harm than good.

Had Fuller Pendreigh known of Elissa’s gambling and paid her debts when Kristian could not? Or was it possible she owed more than she could meet and had found some desperate way of her own of raising the money? Could that somehow have led to her murder? She had been beautiful, imaginative and never lacked physical courage. She would not be the first woman to sell herself when it seemed the only resort.

Had Pendreigh’s wealth cushioned her or not?

She rose to her feet, leaving the weeds where they were, and went up the lawn to the French door and inside. She dropped the trug and the secateurs on the step and peeled off her gloves. Inside, she took off her shoes and went straight up the stairs to her bedroom.

She was already washed and in fresh underlinen when she finally called her maid to help her lace up her stays and fasten the small buttons of the bodice. Her hair was another matter. No one had ever been able to make that look elegant for more than fifteen minutes, but the maid, an even-tempered woman of endless patience, did her best.

An hour after making the decision, Callandra sat in her carriage on the way to visit Fuller Pendreigh. She would wait for him as long as necessary, or travel into the City if that was where he was, but she would see him.

He was not at Ebury Street, but he was expected very shortly, and she was shown to a most pleasant conservatory. Had she had less on her mind, she would have enjoyed recognizing the various exotic plants and trying to decide where their native habitat might be.

She was looking at a large yellow flower, without really seeing it, when she heard footsteps across the hall, the low murmuring of voices, and the moment after, Pendreigh was in the doorway, regarding her with slight puzzlement. She saw the signs of strain in his face. There was little color to his skin and a shadow about his cheeks almost as if he had not shaved, although actually he was immaculate. It was exhaustion which tightened his lips and hollowed the flesh.

“Lady Callandra?” It was a question not as to her identity, rather a confusion as to what she was doing waiting there, in the middle of the afternoon, and without having sent any letter or card to say that she was calling. They knew each other only by repute. She had worked tirelessly for reform of the way injured and ill soldiers were treated. Her husband had been an army surgeon, and she learned from him of the problems which could be overcome with foresight and intelligence. She had certainly made sufficient complaints, pleas and arguments, and had written to all manner of people for her name to be known. She was intimidated by no one, nor did flattery have any effect upon her.

Pendreigh, she had heard, had campaigned for the reform of the laws pertaining to property. That was largely why he had come from Liverpool to London, and of course to Parliament. It sounded a thing in which she would be little interested. To her mind, human pain had always far outweighed the disposition of wealth.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pendreigh,” she replied, recollecting herself and unconsciously using the enormous charm she possessed, and was quite unaware of because it lay in her warmth and simplicity of manner. “I apologize for calling upon you without writing first, but sometimes events move too rapidly to allow for such courtesy, and I confess I am deeply concerned.”

Only for an instant did he wonder why, then knowledge of it was plain in his eyes. He came further into the room. His expression softened a little, but it obviously cost him an effort of will. “Of course. It would be absurd to wait upon convention at such a time. Would you prefer to speak here or in the withdrawing room? Have you taken tea?”

“Not yet,” she replied. She did not care whether she had tea or not, but he might be tired and thirsty, and feel more comfortable if he offered hospitality. It gave one something to do with one’s hands, time to think of a reply to an unforeseen or difficult question, and an excuse to look away without rudeness. “That would be most agreeable, thank you.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, and he led her back across the hall to the withdrawing room, instructing the maid to bring tea for them both.

On the day of the funeral she had barely noticed the room. Now, empty of people and with the black crepe of the occasion removed except around the pictures, she saw the magnificence of it. It faced south, and there were long windows to the front, which meant that the unusually large amount of blue in curtains and furniture did not make it cold, rather it gave it a depth and a sense of calm that warmer tones would not.

He caught her admiration and smiled, but he made no comment.

She did not wish to open the subject of Elissa until the maid had brought the tea and gone. Until then she would prefer to speak of something of mutual interest but no emotional heat. She remained standing and looked at the very fine portraits on the wall. One in particular caught her eye. It was of a woman with a handsome face and magnificent hair the shade of warm, dry sand, paler even than corn. The style of her gown was of some twenty years ago, and she looked to be in her middle or late thirties. The resemblance was so marked that she assumed it was Pendreigh’s sister, or at the most distant, a cousin.

“My sister, Amelia,” he said quietly from a few feet behind her. There was a sorrow in his voice she could not miss. She did not know whether he had meant to conceal it or allowed it to be heard because the wound was still raw and it comforted him to share something of it.

“She has a remarkable face,” she said sincerely. “Rather more than beautiful.”

“She was,” he replied. “She had extraordinary courage, and . . .” He stopped for a moment, as if to compose himself. “Generosity of spirit,” he finished.

The use of the past tense and the emotion in his voice required she pursue the subject, but with the greatest delicacy. “She looks no more than thirty-five,” she said, leaving it open for him to say whatever he pleased, or to pass on to something else, perhaps the next picture.

“Thirty-eight, actually,” he answered her. “It was the year before she died.”

“I’m so sorry.” It would be tactless to ask what had happened. It could be any of a score of illnesses, without even considering accident.

“Poverty!” His voice was so harsh it actually distorted the word so that for a moment she was not sure if she had heard him correctly. She turned to face him, and the pain and the anger she saw in him startled her. It was as fresh as if it had only just happened, and yet from the picture, it must have been a quarter of a century ago.

“You think I can’t mean it, don’t you?” he asked with a sharp gesture at the room around him, which was obviously that of a wealthy man. “My family had money. My father died quite young, and he was generous to Amelia as well as to me. She was an heiress when she married.” He left the conclusion for her to draw, a challenge in his eyes, hard and bright.

Of course, when she married everything she owned would automatically have become her husband’s. It was the law; everyone knew that. Only unmarried women owned anything.

“I see,” she said very quietly.

“Do you?” he demanded. “He took her to Europe, first to Paris, then to Italy. We did not know that he spent everything and left her with barely a roof over her head, or that she was living on the few meals offered her by compassionate friends, most of whom had little more than she did. And she was too proud to tell us that the husband she adored was a wastrel and had deserted her in every practical sense. She died in Naples, alone and destitute.”

She felt the loss as if he had been able to transfer it to her physically. Her imagination painted a terrible picture of the woman in the portrait being thin to gauntness, racked with fever, lips bloodless, skin flushed and sweating, alone in an ill-furnished room in a foreign land.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in little more than a whisper. “I’m not surprised you cannot forget it . . . or forgive. I don’t imagine I could, either.”

“That’s why I fight for women to retain some rights in their property,” he said harshly. “The law is blind. It gives them no protection. We speak publicly as if we honor and cherish our women, give them safety from the ills and strife of the world, the dark and the sordid battles of trade and politics, the uses and abuses of power—and yet we leave them open to being mere vehicles for gaining money that was intended for their protection from hunger and want, and the law offers nothing!”

“A law for married women to keep rights in their own property?” she said, filled with a sudden blaze of understanding.

“Yes! Both inherited and earned. That swine sent Amelia out to work to provide for his extravagances, but the law gave him the right to her wages even so.” The outrage in him was palpable, like a thing in the air.

She shared it—not the passion, because she had not been touched by it personally as he had, but in her mind the injustice was as great, and the need to amend it. “I see,” she said, and she meant it.

He drew in breath to argue, then looked at her more closely. “Yes, perhaps you do. I apologize. I was about to deny that possibility. I know you have also fought for reform, and often against extraordinary blindness. We are both seeking to protect those who are vulnerable and need the strong to defend them.” There was fury in his voice, and also a ring of pride.

Callandra was glad to hear it. The willingness to fight and courage were exactly what she needed, and her pity for his loss was now touched with admiration as well. “Do you have hope of achieving such a thing?” she asked with some eagerness.

He smiled very slightly. “I’ve worked towards it for the greater part of my career, and with the recent change in government I believe that it is within sight. There is a by-election coming up. If I can do this, I will have benefited both men and women, though they may not at first accept that. But surely justice is a boon for all.”

“Of course it is,” she agreed wholeheartedly.

There was a momentary interruption as the maid brought in the tray with the tea and set it out on the low table for them. She poured and then left.

Callandra was surprised how welcome the hot, fragrant drink was after all, and the tiny sandwiches of cucumber, and egg and cress. It gave her time to compose her thoughts.

She must address the purpose of her visit. He could not for a moment have thought she came simply to talk of good causes, however urgent.

She put down her cup. “As you know, I have engaged Mr. Monk to learn all the truth he can as to the events in Acton Street.” It was a rather overdelicate way of phrasing it, and the moment it had passed her lips, she wished she had been more frank. “I am afraid that much of what he has discovered is not what either you or I would have wished.”

His attention upon her was absolute, his eyes unwavering. “What has he discovered, Lady Callandra? Please be candid with me. Elissa was my daughter; I cannot afford to know less than the truth.”

“Of course not. I apologize if I seemed to be prevaricating,” she said sincerely. “We believed Dr. Beck could account for his time, that he was elsewhere with a patient, sufficiently far away to have made his involvement impossible. Unfortunately, he was mistaken in the times. I do not believe for an instant that he has any guilt at all, but he cannot prove it. Since he was her husband, naturally the police have to consider him suspect.”

“That is a regrettable comment upon human nature,” he said with a very slight tremor in his voice. “And more so upon the state of marriage. But I suppose it is true.” He ignored his tea, leaning a little forward across the table. He was a very tall man, and his knees were level with its surface. It was a feat of elegance that he could move without looking ungainly. “Please do not try to spare my feelings, Lady Callandra. You say you do not believe for an instant that my son-in-law could be guilty—why not?” He tried to smile, and failed. It was a twisted grimace of pain. “I do not, either, but then I have known him for many years. Why do you not?”

She drew in her breath to answer truthfully, then realized the danger not only to herself but, by implication, to Kristian also.

“Because I have watched his work in the hospital,” she said instead. “But it is only my opinion, and will carry no weight with the police, or anyone else. I had hoped Mr. Monk would find some other person with a strong motive, and perhaps some evidence to implicate him, but so far he has not done so. However, another possibility has come to my attention.” She hated telling him of the gambling. Already she was all but certain he did not know, at least not the extent of it.

Pendreigh put his cup down and pushed it a little further into the middle of the table. His hand was trembling very slightly. “It seems to me quite obvious that the artists’ model was the intended victim, and Elissa was simply unfortunate enough to have witnessed the crime. Surely that is what the police are really pursuing? Any consideration of Kristian must be merely a formality.”

“I imagine so. Nevertheless, I would prefer to have forestalled them before this,” she answered.

“Exactly what has Monk found?” he asked.

This was the moment she could not avoid. “That Mrs. Beck gambled,” she answered, watching his face. “And lost very heavily.” She saw his eyes widen and something within him flinch, so deep it was visible more as a shadow than a movement. But she was convinced in that instant that he had not known. No man could have lied with the skill to blanch the color from his skin, to convey such pain within, and yet not move at all. “I . . . I wish I had not had to tell you,” she stumbled on. “But the police are aware of it, and I am afraid it provides a very powerful motive. Many men have killed for less reason than to avoid ruin. It occurred to me that perhaps in desperation to pay debts she may have incurred an enmity . . .” She drew in her breath. “Somehow . . .” Did he understand enough not to need the ugly picture detailed?

He said nothing. He seemed too stunned to be able to respond. He stared into the distance, through her, as if seeing ghosts, broken dreams, things he loved taken from him.

“But I saw her regularly over the last half year since I moved to London!” he protested, still trying to push the reality from him. “She was just as well dressed as always. She never seemed in any . . . difficulty!”

Callandra wished she could have avoided reason and gone with hope, but there was none that stood the light. “She will have chosen the times when she was winning to call upon you,” she pointed out. “With skill and imagination one can appear well dressed. One has friends. There are pawnshops . . .”

Something died in his face. “I see.” The words were a whisper.

“I think she could not help it,” Callandra went on gently. She heard herself almost with disbelief. She was defending the woman who had driven Kristian to despair and the shadow of debtors’ prison. He was on the verge of being blamed for her murder. “Mr. Pendreigh . . .”

He recalled his attention and turned his eyes to her, but he did not speak.

“Mr. Pendreigh, we must do what we can to help. You have said you do not believe Dr. Beck is guilty. Then someone else must be.”

“Yes . . .” he said, then more abruptly, “Yes . . . of course.” He focused his attention with difficulty. “What about the artist, Allardyce? I should be loath to think it was he, but it has to be a possibility. Elissa was extremely beautiful . . .” For a moment his voice faltered, and he made an immense effort to bring it back into control. “Men were fascinated by her. It wasn’t just her face, it was a . . . a vitality, a love of life, an energy which I never saw in anyone else. Allardyce loved to paint her. Perhaps he wanted more than that, and she refused him. He might have . . .” He did not finish the thought, but the rest of it was obvious. It did not surprise her that he could not bear to put it into words.

But Monk had told her that Allardyce could account for his time. He had spent the evening at the Bull and Half Moon in Southwark, miles from Acton Street, on the other side of the Thames.

“It was not he,” she told Pendreigh. “The police can prove that.”

A sharp frown creased his forehead, making two deep lines like cuts between his brows. “Then we are back to the only answer which makes sense . . . Sarah Mackeson was the intended victim. If the police do not pursue that to the very end, then we must employ Monk to do so. There is something in her life, in her past, which has driven a past lover, a rival, a creditor, to quarrel with her in a way which ended in murder. The reason is there! We must find it!”

“I will speak to William, of course,” she agreed with a fervor which was meant to convince herself as much as Pendreigh. “He said that apparently she was a very handsome woman, and her life was a little . . . haphazard.” That was a euphemism she hoped he would understand. She did not wish to speak ill of her, and yet she hoped profoundly that the answer was as simple as that.

Pendreigh sighed. There was an unhappiness in him so profound it filled the room with grief more effectively than hanging every picture with crepe had done, or turning all the mirrors face to the wall and stopping the clocks.

“Rejection can make people behave irrationally,” she went on quietly. “Even far against anything they really wish for or believe. But remorse afterwards does not undo the act, nor bring back that which has been destroyed.”

He dropped his head into his hands, hiding his emotion. “No, of course not,” he said, his voice muffled. “We must save what we can from the tragedy.”

She was uncertain whether to rise to her feet now and excuse herself, or if it would be kinder to wait a few moments rather than force him to stand, as courtesy demanded, before he had had time to compose himself. She was actually hungry, and would like to have eaten more of the cucumber sandwiches, but it seemed an oddly heartless thing to do, and she left them. Instead she sat straight-backed, upright on the edge of the chair, waiting until he should be ready to bid her good-bye with the kind of dignity he could afterwards remember without embarrassment.

Monk and Runcorn were together in Runcorn’s office the following day. They were both tired and irritable after spending a morning and early afternoon plowing through steady rain from one gambling establishment to another in the path of Elissa Beck, and people like her, both men and women. The addiction to the excitement of chance and the small element of skill involved made no discrimination for age or wealth, man or woman. There was something in certain characters that, once they had tasted the thrill of winning, could not let it go, even when part of them was perfectly aware of the destruction it was causing. They saw their winnings as larger than they were, their losses as smaller, and always there was the hope that the next turn of the card would redeem it all.

“I don’t understand it,” Runcorn said desperately, staring at his sodden boots. He had been obliged to step in the gutter to pass a group of women talking to each other and oblivious of passersby. “It’s like a kind of madness. Why do people do it?”

Monk could understand it, at least in part, enough to feel a brush of fear at how easily he might have become one of them if his path in life had been a little different.

“A need to feel alive,” he said, and then, seeing the disgust and incomprehension in Runcorn’s face, wished he had held his tongue.

“Vermin!” Runcorn said savagely, yanking his boot off and massaging his cold, wet foot.

Monk looked up sharply, then realized Runcorn was referring to the debt collectors, not the gamblers.

“Wish we could catch a few of them and make a charge stick,” Runcorn went on. “I’d like to see ’em in the Coldbath Fields, on the treadmill, or passing the shot.” He was referring to the worst prison in London and the habitual punishments of walking inside a turning machine, where in order to remain upright a man had constantly to keep putting one foot in front of the other on a step which gave beneath his weight, spinning the wheel and pitching him forward again. Passing the shot was a useless exercise of bending to pick up a cannonball, straightening the back, and passing the ball to the next man, who put it down again. One could be forced to do it for hours until every muscle ached and movement was pain. It was all utterly purposeless, except to break the spirit.

“Yes,” Monk agreed with feeling. “So would I. But we haven’t found a jot of evidence to suggest any debt collector went after her. In fact, we can’t even find anyone who’ll admit she owed him. She got the money from somewhere . . . or someone.”

Runcorn looked up from the drawer where he was searching for dry socks. “You believe them?” he asked.

Monk did not need to think about it; he already had. “Yes. Not their words, their lack of fear or anger. The emotion isn’t there. If anything, they’re disappointed to lose a good customer. They thought she was worth more.”

Runcorn pursed his lips and pulled out one thick woollen sock, then another. “That’s what I thought, too. What about Sarah Mackeson?”

Monk tried to read Runcorn’s face, the doubt, the hope, the anger in it, until Runcorn turned away, pulling on his socks one by one. “We’ve found nothing to suggest anyone cared enough to kill her,” he said miserably. He would rather have said there was passion, envy, fear, anything better than indifference. The most feeling she awoke seemed to have been in Allardyce, because she was beautiful to paint. The only other person who cared was Mrs. Clark.

“I wish we knew which of them was killed first,” Runcorn said, slamming the drawer shut. “But the surgeon can’t tell us a damn thing.”

Monk sat on the edge of the desk with his hands in his pockets. He turned over in his mind what possible evidence there could be which would tell them which woman had died first. It would be no use at all going back to the doctor. All he could say was that they had died in the same manner, and common sense said they had been killed by the same person. Only physical facts would make a difference.

Runcorn was watching him. “We never found the earring,” he said, as if following Monk’s thoughts. It was disconcerting to have him so perceptive.

“Well, if it got caught in his clothing, whoever it was, he’d have thrown it away,” Monk replied. “It wasn’t on the floor.”

Runcorn said nothing, and silence filled the room again.

“The ear bled,” Monk said after a while. “It must have. You can’t tear flesh like that without leaving marks on something.”

Runcorn climbed to his feet, looking beyond Monk to the rain streaming down the window. “Do you want to go to Acton Street again?” he asked. “We didn’t see anything on the carpet before, but we can try again. If we could prove Sarah Mackeson died first it would change everything.”

Monk stood up also. “It’s worth trying. And we could ask Allardyce how often he saw Max Niemann, and when.”

“Think he could be involved?” Runcorn said hopefully. “Lovers’ quarrel? Nothing to do with the doctor?” His voice sank at the end. If Elissa and Max Niemann had been lovers, that was more motive for Kristian than ever. And Kristian had lied about where he was, even if unintentionally.

But then Niemann had lied to Kristian also, by omission, allowing Kristian to believe that the funeral was the first time he had been to London in years.

“Can you send men to find out where Niemann stayed?” Monk asked, collecting his coat from the stand. “If he stayed at the same place each time, we can see how often he was here.”

“You think he paid her debts?” Runcorn said quickly. His face was pinched with unhappiness. “At a price, maybe?”

“Wouldn’t be the first woman who felt she had to sell herself to pay her debts,” Monk replied, walking to the door and opening it. The thought sickened him, but it was pointless denying its possibility. As they passed the desk, Runcorn gave the sergeant instructions to send men searching the hotels for where Niemann had stayed.

They set out in the direction of Acton Street, intending to pick up a hansom on the way, but they were no more than two hundred yards from Allardyce’s studio when they finally saw one that was free. It was not worth the effort or the fare. Runcorn shrugged in disgust and waved it away.

Allardyce was busy, and irritated to see them, but he knew better than to refuse them admittance.

“What is it now?” he said with ill grace.

Runcorn walked into the studio and looked around, his coat dripping water on the floor. Allardyce was working at a picture on the easel; his shirt was smeared with paint where he had wiped his hands.

“You told us you saw Niemann with Mrs. Beck a number of times,” Monk began. “Before the night she was killed.”

“Yes. They were friends. I never saw them quarrel.” Allardyce looked at him challengingly, his blue eyes clear and hard.

“How often altogether, then or earlier?”

“Earlier?”

“You heard me. Did he come over from Vienna just once, or several times?”

“Two or three that I know of.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember.” Allardyce shrugged. “Once in the spring, once in the summer.”

“You’ve moved things!” Runcorn accused, pulling at the sofa. “It used to be over there!”

Allardyce glared at him. “I have to live here,” he said bitterly. “Do you think I want it exactly as it was? I need the light. And wherever I live I can’t get rid of the memories and I can’t bring them back, but I don’t have to keep it just as it was. I’ll have the sofa and the carpets any damn way I like.”

“Put them back,” Runcorn ordered.

“Go to hell!” Allardyce responded.

“Just a minute!” Monk stepped forward and almost collided with Runcorn. “We can work out where the bodies lay. Look at the line of the windows; they haven’t moved.” He faced Allardyce. “Put the carpets where they were—now!”

Allardyce remained motionless. “What for? What have you found?”

“Nothing yet. It’s only an idea. Do you know which woman died first?”

“No, of course . . .” Allardyce stopped, suddenly realizing what he meant. “You think someone might have killed Sarah, and Elissa was an accidental witness? Who?” His face was full of disbelief. “She never did anyone any harm. A few silly quarrels, like everybody.”

“Maybe she learned something she wasn’t meant to know?” Monk suggested.

“Put the carpets back!” Runcorn repeated.

Silently, Allardyce obeyed, moving them with Monk’s help. They were neither large nor heavy, and he was almost finished when Monk noticed that just under the fringed edge of one of them there was a knothole in the pine boards. “I didn’t see that before!”

“That’s why I put the edges there,” Allardyce pointed out.

Monk put his foot on the fringe and scuffed it up, showing the hole again. He glanced at Runcorn and saw the flash of understanding in his eyes. “Get me a chisel or one of those heavy knives,” he ordered Allardyce.

“What for? What is it?”

“Do as you’re told!” Monk said.

Allardyce obeyed, passing him a small claw-headed hammer, and a moment later there was a splintering of wood and the screech of nails prying loose as the board with the knothole came up. Lying in the dust below, glinting in the light, was a delicate gold earring, the loop stained with blood.

“That was Elissa’s,” Allardyce said after a moment’s utter silence. “I painted it; I know.” His voice cracked. “But this is where Sarah was lying! It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does,” Monk said quietly. “It means Elissa was killed first. The earring was torn off when he put his arm around her neck . . . and broke it. It probably caught in his sleeve and in her struggle was ripped from her. He didn’t notice it fall. Then when Sarah came out of one of the other rooms and saw Elissa dead, he killed her, too, and she fell onto the floor, over where the earring had disappeared.”

Allardyce rubbed his hand across his face, leaving a smear of green paint on his cheek. “Poor Sarah,” he said softly. “All she ever did was look beautiful. And be in the wrong place.”

Runcorn pushed his hands deep into his pockets and stared at Monk. He didn’t say anything, but there was no need. The time had come when they could avoid it no longer. It was not Sarah who was the intended victim; it had been no more to do with her than mischance. It was not gamblers or debt collectors. Max Niemann’s visits to London, his meetings with Elissa that Kristian knew nothing of, were more motive, not less. Even the paid debts made it worse. Either it was the very last of Kristian’s money, or uglier even than that, it was money Elissa had sold herself for.

“I’m going to the hospital,” Runcorn said wearily. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll come,” Monk replied. He bent and picked up the delicate earring and dropped it into Runcorn’s hand. “You can put your carpets any damn way you like, Mr. Allardyce, but if you alter that floorboard I’ll jail you as an accomplice. Do you understand?”

Allardyce did not answer but stood, head bowed, in the middle of the floor as Monk and Runcorn went out and down the steps back into the rain.