A Funeral In Blue

CHAPTER SIX

Hester went to the hospital again to see Mary Ellsworth. She found her sitting up in bed, her wound healing nicely and the pain definitely less than even a day ago.

“I’m going to be all right!” she said the moment Hester was in the door. “Aren’t I?” Her eyes were anxious, and she held the bedclothes so tightly her hands were balled into fists. Her hair was straggling out of the braids she had put it in for the night, as if already she had started to pull at it again.

Hester felt her heart sink. What could she say to this woman that would even begin to heal her real illness? The bezoar had been the symptom, not the cause.

“You are recovering very well,” she replied. She reached out her hand and put it over Mary’s. It was as rigid as it looked.

“And I’ll . . . I’ll go home?” Mary said, watching Hester intently. “And will Dr. Beck tell me what to do? I mean . . . he’s a doctor; he’d know better than anyone, wouldn’t he?” That was a challenge, almost a plea.

Kristian could tell her not to eat her hair, but that was not what she meant. She was looking for some other kind of instruction, reassurance.

“Of course he will, but I expect most of it you know for yourself,” Hester answered.

An extraordinary look came into Mary’s eyes: hope, terror, and a kind of desperate anger as if she were newly aware of something which was monstrously unjust. “No, I don’t. And Mama won’t know! She won’t know this!”

“Would it help if we tell her?” Hester suggested.

Now, Mary was quite clearly frightened. She seemed to be faced with a dilemma beyond her courage to solve.

“Is your mother not very good at looking after things?” Hester said gently. She knew Mary’s father had been a country parson, a younger son of a well-to-do family.

“She’s good at everything!” Mary asserted angrily, pulling the bedclothes more tightly up to her chest. “She always knows what to do.” That came out like a charge. Resentment and fear smoldered in her eyes. Then she looked away, down at her hands.

“I see.” Hester thought that perhaps she did, just a glimpse. “Well, it doesn’t need to be decided now,” she said firmly. “But I’m sure Dr. Beck would be happy to tell you what you need to do, and I will also. Will that make you feel better?”

Mary’s hands relaxed a fraction. “Will you write it for me, in case . . .”

“Of course. You will have something to refer to,” Hester agreed. “And you can practice before you go home.”

“Practice?”

“Practice being certain what is the right thing to do.”

“Oh! Yes. Thank you.”

Hester stayed a few minutes longer, then went to look for Kristian.

Later, she passed Fermin Thorpe in the corridor. He looked impatient as always, and was affecting not to see her, because she made him feel uncomfortable. He had once lost his temper with her, and he hated being out of control of anything, most of all his own behavior. His color was high, and he had a glitter in his eyes as if his last encounter had displeased him.

She found Callandra in the apothecary’s room, and the moment she saw Hester she concluded her discussion and came out. “Have you heard anything?” she said as soon as the door was closed. “What has William found?”

Hester had not seen Callandra since the funeral and the terrible evening afterwards. She had lain awake arguing with herself over whether she would tell Callandra about Elissa and the gambling, and then, when she realized she had to, she tortured herself as to how she would do it and still leave Kristian some privacy, particularly from Callandra’s knowledge of his pain.

But there was a chill of fear inside her that they could not afford the luxury of protecting embarrassment, even pride. At the very best, Callandra would have to know one day. It would be easier to tell her in Kristian’s own time—his words, and his decision. But at the worst, it might be a matter of survival, and all knowledge was necessary to protect against betrayal by error.

“What is it?” Callandra said quietly.

“Elissa Beck gambled,” Hester replied, then, seeing the look of incomprehension in Callandra’s face, she went on. “Compulsively. She lost everything she had, so that Kristian had to sell their belongings, even the furniture.” Callandra seemed able to take in the meaning of what was said only slowly, as if it were a complicated story. “It’s an addiction,” Hester went on. “Like drinking, or taking opium. Some people can’t stop, no matter what it does to them, even if they lose their money, their jewelry, pictures, ornaments, the furniture out of their houses . . . everything. Elissa was like that.”

The real horror of it was dawning on Callandra. Perhaps she realized now why she had never been asked to Kristian’s house. She must also realize how vast a part of his life she knew nothing of, the pain, the embarrassment, the fears of discovery and ruin. These were at the heart of his existence, every day, and she had had no knowledge of them, shared nothing because he had never allowed her to know.

“I’m sorry,” Hester said gently. “If we are to help Kristian we can’t afford ignorance.”

“Could it have been someone to whom she owed money?” Callandra began.

“Of course,” Hester agreed too quickly.

Callandra’s face tightened into blank misery. “Kristian would have paid. You said everything was gone, at least you implied it. Ruined gamblers commit suicide. I’ve known soldiers to do that. Do creditors really murder them? And what about the other poor woman?” She shivered convulsively. “Surely she didn’t gamble, too?”

“She was possibly the one they intended to kill.” Hester was trying to convince herself as much as Callandra. “They are trying to find out as much as they can about her.”

“Perhaps it was a lover’s quarrel that went much too far?” Callandra’s voice hovered on the edge of conviction. “What about the artist?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, this won’t do any good standing here.” Callandra forced herself to smile. “How is the woman who had the hairball? I thought only cats got them. For them it’s understandable, but I can’t think of anything more revolting than eating hair.”

“The wound is healing well. I’m wondering what we can do to give her the belief in herself to heal the inside of her.”

“Work,” Callandra replied without hesitation. “If she stayed here we could find her enough to do so she would be too busy to sit and worry about herself.”

“I doubt her mother would allow her to,” Hester replied. “Hospitals don’t have a very good reputation for young ladies of genteel background.” She gave a twisted smile as she said it, but there was too much truth in it to ignore.

“I’ll speak to her,” Callandra promised.

“I think she would like it, but she’d never have the courage to defy . . .”

“The mother,” Callandra supplied. “I’m good with dragons, believe me. I know exactly where the soft spots are.”

This time Hester’s smile was wholehearted. “I’ll hold your shield for you,” she promised.

The following day was the funeral of Sarah Mackeson. Monk wondered if anyone but the priest and the gravediggers would attend. There would be no family to hold an elaborate reception afterwards, no one to pay for a hearse and four horses with black plumes or for professional mourners to carry feathers and stand in silence with faces like masks of tragedy.

Someone should be there. He would go. Whatever the need for truth, this was a need also. He would follow Kristian’s path on the evening of the murders and check every detail, speak to every peddler, shopkeeper and barrow boy he could, but he would check his watch regularly and make the time for Sarah’s funeral.

He left the house at seven. It was a heavy, still morning with a distinct coldness in the air, but the fog had cleared, at least for the meantime. It was easy to believe that winter was ahead, even if there were still leaves on the trees. Dusk was growing earlier and dawn later by a few minutes every day.

It was hardly worth looking for a cab for the short distance to Acton Street, and walking gave him the opportunity to think about what he was going to do. If he traced Kristian’s path precisely, there was a possibility that he could prove he could not have been in Allardyce’s studio. Then the question of his guilt would not arise. Runcorn’s men had already tried to establish this, and failed to do it conclusively.

He passed a newspaper seller shouting that the government in Washington was starting a crusade against antiCivil War journals, some of which had been seized at a post office in Philadelphia.

By the time he reached Acton Street and found the constable it was a quarter to eight. He rehearsed Kristian’s movements as he had recounted them, and found the first witness, a peddler who sold sandwiches and knew Kristian quite well, having often provided him with what served for luncheon or dinner when he was hard-pressed, hurrying from one patient to another.

“Oh, yeah,” he said with conviction. “Dr. Beck passed ’ere ’bout quarter past nine the other night. ’Ungry, ’e were, an’ rushed orff ’is feet, like most times. Sold ’im an ’am san’wich an’ ’e ate ’alf of it and went on wi’ the other ’alf in ’is ’and.”

Monk breathed a sigh of relief. If Kristian had been on his way to his patient in Clarendon Square at quarter past nine, then he could not have been in Acton Street at just after half past. “Are you sure it was quarter past nine?” he pressed.

“ ’Course I’m sure,” the peddler replied, pulling his wide mouth into a grimace.

“How do you know?” He had to be certain.

“ ’Cos Mr. ’Arreford come by an’ bought ’is usual. Quarter past nine on the dot, ’e is, reg’lar as Big Ben.”

“You can’t hear Big Ben from here,” Monk pointed out.

The peddler looked at him crookedly. “ ’Course yer can’t,” he said. “Figure o’ speech, like. If Big Ben ain’t reg’lar, the world’s comin’ ter a rare fix!”

“And this Mr. Harreford is never late—or early?”

“Never. If yer knew ’im, yer wouldn’t ask.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Don’t yer believe me, then?”

“Yes, I believe you, but the judge may not, if it comes to that.”

The peddler shivered. “Don’ wanna tell no judge!”

“You won’t need to, if I find Mr. Harreford.”

“Works in the lawyer’s offices, number fourteen Amwell Street. That way,” he said instantly.

Monk smiled. “Thank you.”

An hour later Mr. Harreford, a dry, obsessively neat, little man, confirmed what the peddler had said, and Monk left with a feeling of growing relief. Perhaps his fears were unnecessary after all. Kristian had an excellent witness, one whom Runcorn would take sufficiently seriously that he would dismiss Kristian as a suspect. He walked back towards Tottenham Court Road with a light, swift step. After he had been to Sarah Mackeson’s funeral, he would be able to check again on the patient, Maude Oldenby, and that would account for Kristian’s time completely.

“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged to the peddler.

“Pleasure, Guv’nor,” the peddler said with a grin. “Yer owe me, mind!”

“I do,” Monk agreed.

“Still followin’ the doc’s path that night, are yer?”

“I will, when I come back.”

“Good, ’cos yer won’t find the chestnut seller on ’is patch till ’arter midday.”

“Chestnut seller?” Monk asked doubtfully.

“Yeah! Corner o’ Liverpool Street and the Euston Road. ’E must ’a seen ’im too, at twenty arter nine, or the like.”

“You mean ten past,” Monk corrected. Liverpool Street was in the opposite direction.

“No, I don’t!” The peddler stared at him, drawing his brows down.

“If he was going from Risinghill Street, beyond Pentonville Road, towards Clarendon Square, he would pass Liverpool Street before here,” Monk pointed out with weary patience.

“ ’Course ’e would,” the peddler agreed. “But as ’e were goin’ t’other way, ’e’d pass me first, wouldn’t ’e?”

“The other way?” Monk repeated slowly, the relief freezing inside him to a small, hard stone.

“Yeah. ’E weren’t goin’ ter Clarendon Square, ’e’d bin, an’ were comin’ back.”

“You’re sure?” He knew it was stupid to ask even as he said the words. He was fighting against a truth part of him already accepted.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” The peddler looked unhappy. “Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily,” Monk lied. “It’s good to get it right. No room for mistakes. He was going that way?” He pointed towards Gray’s Inn Road.

“Yeah!”

“Did he say where to?”

“No. Just took the sandwich and went. Didn’t stop an’ talk like ’e sometimes does. Reckon ’e ’ad someone real poorly.”

“Yes, I daresay he did. Thank you.” He walked away. Of course he would have to check with the chestnut seller, but he was already certain of what he would find.

The funeral of Sarah Mackeson was held in a small church in Pentonville. It was very quiet, and conducted so hastily as to be no more than a formality. It was an observance of the decencies for the sake of being able to say duty was done. There was a plain wooden coffin, but it was of pine, and Monk wondered if Argo Allardyce had paid for it, even though he was not present.

He glanced around the almost empty pews, and saw only one middle-aged woman in a plain black coat and drab hat, and he recognized Mrs. Clark, looking tearful. There was no one else present except Runcorn, standing at the back, angry and embarrassed when his eyes met Monk’s. He looked away quickly, as if they had not seen each other.

What was he doing there? Did he really imagine that whoever had killed her would be at the funeral? Whatever for? Some kind of remorse? Only if it were Allardyce, and his presence would prove nothing. He had employed her as his model for the last three or four years, painted her countless times. Until Elissa Beck, she was woven into his art as no one else.

In fact, why was he not there? Was he too overwrought with emotion, or did he not care? Was that why Runcorn was standing so quietly at the back, head bowed, face somber? Monk looked at him again, and as Runcorn became aware of him, he turned away and concentrated on the minister and the brief words of the service. He sounded as if he were simply rehearsing something learned by rote, fulfilling his duty in order to be released to something else. His eulogy was anonymous. He had not known her, and what he said could have applied to any young woman who had died unexpectedly.

Monk resented it with a bitterness he could not explain. Then the thought occurred to him that if he had died in the coach crash which had robbed him of his memory, he might have been buried as coldly as this, with no one to mourn, the decencies carried out as a public duty by someone who did not take the time or trouble to learn anything more than his name, someone who had never known him and certainly never cared.

He decided in that moment that he would go to the graveside as well. It was time in which he could have been looking for further evidence of Kristian’s movements. He might find something to prove that Kristian had been far enough away from Acton Street for it to be impossible for him to be guilty. But even as the thought passed through Monk’s mind, he followed the small procession out of the church and along the street towards the already crowded graveyard.

In the narrow space between the gravestones it was impossible not to find himself next to Runcorn. Whatever had taken him to the church, it could only be some personal emotion which had brought him there. He stood staring at the open hollow in the ground, avoiding Monk’s eyes. He still looked angry to be caught there, yet too stubborn to be put off.

Monk resisted the idea that Runcorn could possibly feel the same mixture of pity and resentment for Sarah that he did. He and Runcorn were nothing alike. Yet they were there side by side, avoiding each other’s eyes, aware of the chill of the wet ground under their feet and the dark hole gaping in front of them, the ritual words which should have held passion and comfort, if spoken with feeling, and the solitary figure of Mrs. Clark sniffing and dabbing a sodden handkerchief to her eyes.

When it was over, Monk looked once at Runcorn, who nodded curtly as if they were acquaintances met by chance, then hurried away.

Monk left a few minutes after him, headed towards the Gray’s Inn Road. He turned his mind back to the question of Kristian’s movements on the evening of the murders. He went to the patients Kristian had visited and asked them again for times as exactly as they could recall. The answers were unsatisfactory. Memories were hazy with pain and with the confusion of days which blurred one into another in a round of medicines, meals, naps, the occasional visit. Time meant very little. There was really no meaning in whether the doctor came at eight or at nine, or on Monday or Tuesday this week, or was it last?

He left uncertain as to whether or not Kristian could prove himself elsewhere at the time of the murder. He began to fear more and more that he could not.

What Hester had told him of Elissa’s gambling crowded his mind with ugly thoughts. Too easily, he could imagine the fear of ruin spiraling out of control, until one day the self-discipline snapped and violence broke through. The deed would be done before he had had time to realize what he meant. Then he would be faced with Sarah Mackeson, drunk, frightened, perhaps hysterical and beginning to scream. He would silence her in self-preservation, possibly his old fighting skills returning from the revolution in Vienna, where the cause had been great, and war and death in the air mixed with the hope, and then the despair.

Did such events change a man’s core, the way he responded to a threat, the value he placed on life?

He was walking more slowly now, turning south down Gray’s Inn Road. He passed a gingerbread man, very smartly dressed, smiling broadly. “Here’s your nice gingerbread, your spiced gingerbread!” he called out. “Melt in your mouth like a red-hot brickbat and rumble in your inside like Punch in a wheelbarrow!” He grinned at Monk. “You never heard o’ ’Tiddy Diddy Doll’?”

Monk smiled back at him. “Yes I did. Bit before your time, though, wasn’t he?”

“Hundred year,” the man agreed. “Best gingerbread man in England, ’e were. An’ why shouldn’t I copy him? Do you good—warm the cockles o’ yer ’eart. ’Ere—threepence worth. Keep the cold out o’ yer.”

Monk handed him threepence and took the generous slice. “Thank you. You here most evenings?”

“ ’Course I am. Come by any time. You’ll not find better in London,” the man assured him.

“Do you know Dr. Beck, Bohemian gentleman, who tends patients all around this area? He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, dark hair, remarkable dark eyes. Probably always in a hurry.”

“Yeah, I know the gent you mean. Foreign. Out all hours. Friend o’ yours?”

“Yes. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”

“Lorst ’im, ’ave yer?” He grinned again.

Monk maintained his self-control with an effort. “It was his wife who was murdered in Acton Street. When did you see him?”

The gingerbread man whistled between his teeth, and all the humor died out of his face. “I saw ’im that night, but it were about ten-ish. Bought a piece o’ gingerbread an’ took a cab up north. Goin’ ’ome, I reckoned, but maybe not. I went ’ome meself just arter that. ’E were me last customer.”

“How was he?”

“Fit ter drop, if yer ask me. That tired ’e could ’ardly stand up. Terrible thing to lose yer wife like that.” He shook his head and sighed.

Monk thanked him and moved on. He was not sure if the man’s news was good or bad. It tallied roughly with what Kristian had said, but it also placed him within a few hundred yards of Acton Street.

Perhaps rather than trying to follow Kristian he should learn more about Elissa? Obviously, she had been in Allardyce’s studio at the time of the murder, but what about before that? Both he and Runcorn had assumed she had gone from her home straight to Allardyce’s studio. Maybe she had gone to Swinton Street to gamble? Regardless of that, he should know more of her gambling. He had accepted Kristian’s word, given to Hester. If he believed Kristian capable of killing his wife, why did he assume that his account was true in every other particular, simply because it was humiliating and gave him a motive in her death? There might be things he was ignorant of, or mistaken in. He could be lying to conceal something else.

It was not difficult to find the gambling house. The most simple questions, asked with an assured eagerness and a certain glint in the eye, determined that it was the fifth house along from the Gray’s Inn Road, in the north side of the street, well concealed behind a butcher’s shop.

He walked briskly and went up the shallow step and through the interior, stacked only with a few miserable-looking sausages, and knocked on the door beyond. It was opened by a large-shouldered man with a badly broken nose and a soft, slightly lisping voice. “Yes?” he said guardedly.

“I’m told a man with a little money to spend can find rather better amusement here than in music halls or the local tavern,” Monk replied. “Something with a chance to win . . . or lose . . . a bit of involvement.”

“Well now? And who told you that, then?” The man still looked dubious, but there was a flicker of interest in his face.

“A lady I know who enjoys some excitement in her life now and then. Gentlemen don’t mention names.”

The man smiled, showing a chipped front tooth, and asked to see the color of his money.

“Gold—same color as everyone else’s! What’s the matter? Only cater for silver here, do you? Or copper, maybe?”

“No call to be rude,” the man said patiently. “Just a few ladies and gentlemen spending a pleasant afternoon. Causing nobody no fuss. But I think as I’d like ter know your friend’s name, gentleman or no gentleman.”

“Unfortunately, my friend met with a . . . misfortune,” Monk replied.

“A financial one, like?” the man asked with a sigh.

“She met with a few of those, but that’s life,” Monk replied laconically. “This one was worse. She was murdered.”

The man’s face tightened around the lips and jaw. “Very sad. But isn’t nothing to do with us ’ere.”

The fact that he denied it gave Monk a sudden sense of chill, but he knew that a murder which would draw such intense police attention was the last thing a house like this would wish. They would have to close down and set up somewhere else. That would take time and cost money. They would lose business, and while they were closed their custom would go to their rivals, possibly not to return.

It would be such an easy answer if he could think they were guilty of Elissa’s murder, but it made no sense.

The man was waiting for him to reply.

He shrugged deliberately. It cost him an effort of will, and the faces of the two dead women stayed in front of his eyes. “Not my business,” he said carelessly. “If you can’t pay your debts, you shouldn’t play. Pity about her, but life doesn’t stop . . . at least not for us.”

The man laughed heartily, but his eyes remained cold. “You got the idea right,” he said with a nod.

“So how long do I stand here debating the philosophy of debt?” Monk asked, matching him stare for stare.

“Until I decide you can go in!”

“And what would make you decide against it?” Monk enquired. He wondered if Kristian had ever been there. Perhaps Runcorn should ask, with the weight of police authority behind him. Except that there was nothing to make this man tell the truth. It would be instinctive to lie, to keep himself out of a murder.

“Maybe you’re another bad debtor,” the man said sanctimoniously.

“And on the other hand, maybe I’m a big winner,” Monk pointed out. “You afraid of that? Watch others, but no stomach to take a chance yourself?”

“You got a vicious tongue in you, sir,” the man said with something that sounded like reluctant admiration. He eyed Monk up and down, judging his balance, his physical strength and agility. A spark of interest lit in his eyes. “But I don’t see why you shouldn’t come in and spend a little time here in pleasant company for the afternoon. Seeing as how you understand the ways o’ life rather the same as we do.”

The idea that had been lurking at the back of Monk’s mind suddenly took form. He was being weighed up as a potential tool for discipline in the future. He would play into that. He smiled at the man, looking straight at him. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Very civil of you.”

Inside was a large room, probably originally two and now knocked into one. There were half a dozen tables set up, some surrounded by chairs, some with room only for standing. There were already at least twenty people there. No one noticed his arrival. Every eye was undeviating from the roll of the dice or the turn of a card. No one spoke. In fact, there was no sound but the soft flick of cards on the baize cloth, or the very faint thump of the dice falling. There was barely even the rustle of silk or taffeta skirts or the creaking of the bones of a bodice as someone leaned a little farther forward.

Then there was a win, and cheers. Losers turned away, faces filled with chagrin. It was impossible to guess how much they had lost, whether they could afford it, or were ruined.

The game resumed, and again the tension mounted.

Monk looked around at the faces, eyes on the play, some with jaws clenched. He saw one man with a slight tic in his temple and noticed his hands white-knuckled as the cards turned. Another fidgeted silently, stopping his fingers from drumming on the table edge but holding them just short of the surface. His shoulders seemed to be locked in position, a little higher than natural and totally unmoving.

Monk directed his attention to a woman, perhaps thirty-five, with a sharp, pretty face, blond hair pulled a little too tightly back from her brow. She scarcely breathed as the dice rolled and stopped. She won, and glee lit her eyes, a brilliance that was more like a fever. Immediately she played again, moving the dice from one hand to the other four times before blowing on them and rolling them.

Monk became aware of the man from the door watching him. He must play. Please heaven he could win enough to stay an hour or two. He moved over to the dice. He could not remember if he had ever played cards. He could not afford to make a fool of himself by displaying ignorance. This was not a place where any leeway was given. One glance at faces told anyone that each person in the room was obsessed with the game, win or lose. The money represented victory; they hardly saw it for itself or what it could buy, beyond another chance to play.

He watched the turn of the cards for another twenty minutes, and then he was invited to play, and without thinking he accepted. He had won the first hand before he realized with a cold ripple through his body how easily he had done it. An old, familiar needle of excitement pricked inside him. There was a thrill to winning; the danger of loss sharpened it. It was like galloping a little too fast along the white surf where the sea joins the land, feeling the wind and the spray in your face, and knowing that if you fell you could break bones, perhaps even be killed.

He played another hand, and another, and won. He was now ten guineas better off, police pay for over a month. He stood up and made an excuse to leave. He had more than established himself. He was there to find out about Elissa Beck, not to increase his own wealth. Kristian might have murdered her, and be hanged for it. Someone had killed her! And poor Sarah Mackeson as well. This was life and death. Money was a distraction, winning or losing at the turn of a piece of colored cardboard was idiotic!

But it was remarkably difficult to get any sensible conversation from any of the players. The game was everything. They barely glanced at each other. One could have stood next to a brother or sister and been unaware of it while the next play was awaited.

That was how he was so slow in noticing the woman at the table to his left. Her soft dark hair and slender body, bent forward in eagerness, jolted him back to his reason for being here. She was consumed in the game, her eyes fixed on the dice, her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. For an instant it could have been Elissa Beck. There was something familiar about her that clutched at his emotions and turned his heart. He could not help staring at her, sharing the moment’s exhilaration when she won. Her face was flushed with excitement. She seemed to vibrate life as if her energy could fill the room. She was beautiful with an inner fire.

He watched as she played again, and won again.

“Go play against her!” a voice said at his elbow. He turned to see the man who had let him in. “Go on!” he was urged with a broken-toothed smile. “Do the house good. You can’t both win.”

“Does she come often?” Monk said quickly.

The man grimaced. “Too damn often. I’d make it worth your while to beat her. I’ve watched you. You’re good. You could do it. Send her somewhere else for a month or two.”

Monk decided to play the part. “How much worth my while? I can pick an easier opponent, if she’s really so lucky.”

The man regarded him with contempt. “Is that what you came for? An easy opponent?”

Monk smiled back at him, showing his teeth wolfishly. “It doesn’t hurt, now and again.” But his expression conceded that what mattered was the game. This conversation might be his only opportunity to find out anything useful. “She reminds me of Elissa,” he said to the man.

The man gave a sharp bark of amusement. “Except this one wins. Elissa lost. Oh, she won occasionally; you have to see to it that they do, or they don’t come back. But this one wins too often. I could do without her. She was good for a while. People liked watching her, pretty thing, and she encouraged others. Time to get rid of her, though. Some bloke hanging around after her. Could be her husband. Don’t want any more trouble. Not good for business.”

“Husband?” Then suddenly, like a rush of ice, Monk realized why she looked so familiar. Certainly there was a resemblance to Elissa Beck, the same slender body, the same soft dark hair, but this woman’s face was gentler, prettier, just without the passionate, haunting beauty he had seen in Funeral in Blue. She was less marked by the triumphs and tragedies of life. She was his sister-in-law, Imogen Latterly.

He found his mouth too dry to answer. Did Hester know? Was this what she was afraid of?

There was another game, and this time Imogen lost, and instantly played again.

He turned away quickly, suddenly realizing that if she looked up she would recognize him, too. He found his voice at last. “Her husband plays?” he said in amazement. He could not imagine Charles Latterly playing anything that involved the slightest risk. Surely his father’s death and the circumstances around it had driven every gamble of even the mildest sort from his mind?

“No, he was following her,” the man said tartly. His respect for Monk’s perspicacity had taken a sharp turn downward.

Monk cursed his emotions for getting in the way of his professionalism. He must make up the lost ground. “Not in here?” he assumed, forcing himself to smile again. “Jealous sort, is he? Or worried for his pocket?”

The man shrugged. “Could be either. More like jealous, I’d say.”

“Seen him often?” Monk asked as casually as he could. In spite of himself he was aware that his voice had an edge.

“Two or three times.” The man looked at him with more intent. “Why? What’s it to you?”

Monk returned his look with contempt.

The man lifted his shoulders even higher. “Your affair! Go after her if you want. But she’s trouble. Don’t know that she’s clever, but she’s lucky most of the time. And he looked pretty close to the edge, the husband.”

Monk stared ahead of him, masking the dread inside him. “Did he? When was that?” He watched the dice without seeing them. He did not want the answer, but he had to know.

“Couple of times,” the man replied. “Still, it’s your affair. But if you cause any trouble here, I’ll have you thrown out. You can believe that.”

“Get a lot of angry husbands, do you?” Monk asked, turning back to face him but still hiding his face from Imogen. “Like Elissa’s husband, for example?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions? Why do you care? Woman’s dead. I don’t know who did it. Allardyce, probably. Lovers’ quarrel, I expect. He was obsessed with her. Comes in ’ere to draw all sorts, but ’specially her. Couldn’t take his eyes off her when she was playing.”

Monk said nothing. It was more than he wanted to know, and yet there seemed a kind of inevitability about it, once he had realized who Imogen was.

He fingered the money in his pocket. Now it was soiled, and he wanted to escape the greedy, excited faces, the closeness of bodies pressed forward across the tables, eyes watching the cards, the dice, hardly seeing people. It was winners and losers, nothing else. He turned on his heel and pushed past the man, leaving him startled, not understanding. He reached the door and went out through the butcher’s shop into the early-evening street, gulping in the air, heavy and laden with the smells of refuse and manure, but also the decent sounds of people going about their work, making things, carrying them, buying and selling.

He walked as quickly as he could along to the Gray’s Inn Road and, as soon as the traffic allowed him, across it. He saw the gingerbread man in the distance, but ignored him this time.

He was going towards the police station. Even if he slowed his pace he would be there in half an hour. Runcorn might not be alone now, but eventually he would be. Putting off the time would alter nothing. He still had to decide whether to tell him what Hester had discovered about Kristian, or what he had now confirmed for himself. There was no doubt Kristian had both the time and the means to have murdered Elissa, and he had an extremely pressing motive.

Why did Monk hesitate? Did he believe Kristian guilty? The fact that he even asked the question told him the answer. If he could have dismissed it, then he would have. He would not even be thinking about it. He would go straight to Runcorn and tell him that these were the facts, but they meant nothing. They would have to look further.

Where? To Charles Latterly?

Perhaps someone to whom Elissa owed money, a conveniently unnamed person who might or might not exist.

Would Runcorn believe that? Not unless he were a fool. But even if it were likely, they would still have to pursue Kristian as well.

He crossed a side street, making a carriage driver rein in sharply, red in the face with the effort not to use the language that rose to his lips in front of his lady passengers.

Monk was barely aware of the inconvenience he was causing. He walked on, decreasing his pace even more, staying to the left so people could pass him.

Why was he having such difficulty being honest? Because he liked Kristian; he admired him as a doctor and as a man. He could understand how he could have been driven into a corner by a beautiful wife whose brilliant courage and passion he remembered, but who had now taken him to the brink of ruin, robbing him of everything he had built, not only for himself but for the cause of healing.

And because Monk had a vivid imagination of how deeply it would wound Callandra, whom he cared for perhaps more than anyone else, apart from Hester, and to whom he owed a debt he could never repay because he had nothing she would want—except the power to help Kristian Beck.

And it would hurt Hester for them all. What would she want him to do? What had she believed he would do when she told him about the empty house?

But the bitter and inexcusable thing was the murder of Sarah Mackeson. No understanding mitigated that.

And what about Charles and Imogen?

Would Runcorn find out anyway? Possibly, but also possibly not. Hester had no obligation to tell him. Kristian would not. So far Runcorn had no cause to go to the gambling house on Swinton Street.

All of which was irrelevant. The question was, did Monk tell the truth or did he lie? To achieve what? A concealment of the truth that Kristian had killed the two women? And if he hid it, then what?

The murder went unsolved? Someone else was blamed, perhaps the Austrian, Max Niemann, who had been meeting Elissa secretly? Or some debt collector?

He was almost at the police station. He hesitated, then went on, one more time right around the block. That was what decided him. If he lied now, even by omission, he would spend the rest of his life walking around the long way to evade the truth. It was false to his nature, to the few certain standards he held unviolated. He was not a coward, whatever faced him. Lies built more lies. He would fight to save Kristian, or have the nerve to watch him face trial, even be found guilty. He would not make the decision who was guilty or innocent before he knew the facts. He would find the evidence, all of it, whatever it proved, and then live with the results, regardless of the cost to any of them.

He went up the steps of the police station and in at the door.

“Is Mr. Runcorn in?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Monk. Up the stairs, sir.”

Damn! Pity he could not have been out, just this once. He gritted his teeth, thanked the sergeant, and went up. He knocked on the door and, as soon as there was an answer, opened it and went in.

Runcorn was sitting behind his tidy table. He looked almost pleased to see Monk. “Where’ve you been all day?” he demanded. “I thought you were eager to get this case solved!” He made no reference to having seen him at the funeral of Sarah Mackeson. He was watching to see if Monk was going to mention it. He was pretending they had not seen each other, and yet their eyes had met. Monk realized with a sharp savor of satisfaction that Runcorn was embarrassed at having been caught in an act of uncharacteristic compassion. After all, Sarah Mackeson was a loose woman, the kind he despised. He could hardly say he had gone in order to see who else was there, and expect Monk to believe him. He had stayed far longer than was necessary for that. He had been a mourner. He was looking at Monk now to see if he would deny it.

Monk would like him to have. He wanted to speak of it, to force Runcorn to admit his change of heart. But he could see in his eyes that he was not going to.

It was the perfect time to tell the truth. He hated it. It was like having a tooth extracted. All the long history of resentment and misunderstanding between them rose like a wall. He knew his face reflected his anger. Runcorn was staring at him and already hunching his shoulders as if getting ready to ward off a blow. His jaw was clenched. His fingers tightened on the pen he was holding.

“I know it’s already been done, but I went to check Dr. Beck’s movements on the day of the murder,” Monk said quickly.

Runcorn was surprised. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. He looked up at Monk standing in front of him. He was forced to lift his head.

Monk remained steady. He swallowed. “He was on the way back from seeing his patient when he passed the peddler, not on the way out,” he said before Runcorn could prompt him.

Recognition of what that meant flashed in Runcorn’s eyes, and surprise that Monk should have told him. “Why did you do that?” he said quietly. “Did it take you all afternoon? Or were you debating whether to tell me?”

Monk ground his teeth. Every word of this was as hard as he had expected. Silence was no longer a choice. He must either tell Runcorn the truth or deliberately lie. Perhaps he was deceiving himself if he thought the choice had ever been otherwise. Plunge in!

“Hester went to see Dr. Beck after the funeral meal, which was at Pendreigh’s house.” He saw the quick flash of incomprehension in Runcorn’s eyes. Pendreigh was of a social class Runcorn aspired to and would never understand. The fact infuriated him, and that Monk knew it angered him even more. He waited, and they stared intently at each other.

“Beck’s house is a facade,” Monk said painfully. “Only the front room and one bedroom are furnished; the rest is empty. Through her gambling Elissa Beck lost him almost everything he had.” He saw incredulity in Runcorn’s eyes, then pity, instantly masked, but not soon enough. It had been there, real and sharp. Monk was not sure if he felt better or worse for seeing it. How does a man like Runcorn pity someone like Kristian, who gave his life to compassion, who worked all the hours he was awake to relieve the suffering of strangers?

And yet the feeling made them for a moment equal, and how dare he deny that to Runcorn, even if he could have? A tumult of emotions awoke inside him. “I went to a gambling house on Swinton Street,” he continued. “Behind the butcher’s. That was where Elissa Beck went when she was early or late to Allardyce’s studio. When she lost badly she took refuge with him. That’s probably what a lot of her ’sittings’ were.”

Runcorn said nothing. He seemed to be undecided, searching for the right words and not finding them. The respect he felt embarrassed him. Why? Because he had to realize that Kristian had every reason and opportunity to have killed his wife? Monk felt exactly the same, but it was pain, not respect. Kristian’s virtues were not newly discovered.

Runcorn climbed to his feet, almost as if he were stiff. “Thank you,” he said, looking away from Monk. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again quickly. “Thank you.” And he walked past Monk and out of the door, leaving Monk standing alone in the office, realizing with anger and confusion that the respect was not for Kristian but for him, because he had told Runcorn the truth, and Runcorn hated the feeling as much as Monk hated his being capable of it.