Funeral in Blue

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The butler looked startled, but he did not argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Hester said gently.

The tiniest of smiles touched Charles’s mouth.

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

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

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

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

Charles looked at Monk questioningly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Runcorn swiveled around on his haunches and glared at Monk.

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

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

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

“Friend. And no, I don’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. The kettle’s boiling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure he didn’t know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If they find Beck not guilty”-Runcorn’s voice cut across the silence-“then we’ll have to start again. Somebody killed those women, one maybe accidentally, but not the second. She was on purpose.” He did not add anything about her, but the emotion was in his voice, and when Monk looked up at him, the anger, the expression, the defensiveness were in his face as well.

“Yes, I know,” Monk agreed. “Niemann will testify anyway, for whatever good that will do. He can at least show them that Kristian was a hero in the uprising.”

“And that she was a heroine,” Runcorn added relentlessly. “And perhaps that they were in love. That could help. And that she was reckless of her own safety.”

“Why was she so drawn to danger?” Monk said, staring not at Runcorn but at the black kitchen stove and the poker sitting upright in the half-empty coke scuttle. “Did she really imagine she could always win?”

“Some people are like that,” Runcorn replied, confusion in his voice. He did not even expect to understand. “Even as if they’re looking to be. . I don’t know. . swamped by something bigger than they are. Seen children like it, go on taunting until they get walloped, sometimes black an’ blue. Kind of attention. With grown people, I don’t know. .” He put more sugar into his tea and stirred it. “Some people will do anything to survive. Others seem to want to destroy themselves. Pick ’em out of trouble, and they get straight back into it, almost as if they didn’t feel alive if they weren’t afraid. Always trying to prove something.”

Monk picked up his cup. It was not quite hot enough anymore, but he could not be bothered to get the kettle and add to it. “It’s a bit late now. I’ll go and see Pendreigh in the morning.”

Runcorn nodded.

Neither of them said anything about how Callandra would feel, or Hester, about loyalties, or pain, or compromise, but it had already torn dreams apart inside Monk as he walked towards the door, and he could not even imagine the hurt that lay ahead.

At the front door they looked at each other for only a moment, and then Monk stepped out into the rain.

The judge allowed a slight delay for Pendreigh to speak alone to Max Niemann. He had already given the judge notification that he would call Niemann as a witness, in the hope that Monk would be able to bring him back from Vienna. However, he still needed to have a clearer idea of what Niemann could contribute to the defense.

It was nearly half past ten when, in a hushed and crowded courtroom, Max Niemann walked across the empty space of floor, climbed up the steep steps to the witness stand and swore to his name and that he lived in Vienna.

Pendreigh stood below him, picked out as in a spotlight by the sudden blaze of sunlight through the high windows above the jury. Every eye in the room was upon one or the other of them.

“Mr. Niemann,” Pendreigh began. “First let us thank you for coming all the way to London in order to testify in this trial. We greatly appreciate it.” He acknowledged Niemann’s demur, and continued. “How long have you known the accused, Dr. Kristian Beck?”

“About twenty years,” Niemann replied. “We met as students.”

“And you were friends?”

“Yes. Allies during the uprisings in ’48.”

“You are speaking of the revolutions which swept Europe in that year?”

“Yes.” A strange expression crossed Niemann’s face, as if the mere mention of the time brought all kinds of memories sweeping back, bitter and sweet. Hester wondered if the jury saw it as clearly as she did. Monk was not permitted in the room because Pendreigh had reserved the right to call him as witness.

“You fought side by side?” Pendreigh continued.

“Yes, figuratively, not always literally,” Niemann answered.

“Most of us in the room”-Pendreigh waved an arm to indicate the crowd-“but principally the jury, have never experienced such a thing. We have not found our government sufficiently oppressive to rise against it. We have not seen barricades in the street, nor had our own armies turned upon us.” His voice was outwardly quite calm, but there was an underlying passion in it, not in the tone, but in the timbre. “Would you tell us what it was like?”

Mills rose to his feet, his face puckered with assumed confusion. “My lord, while we sympathize with the Austrian people’s desire for greater freedom, and we regret that they did not succeed in their aim, I do not see the relevance of Mr. Niemann’s recollections to the murder of Mrs. Beck in London this year. We concede that the accused was involved, and that he fought with courage. Nor do we doubt that Mr. Niemann was his friend, and still is, and is prepared to put himself to considerable trouble and expense to attempt to rescue him from his present predicament. Old loyalties die hard, which is in many ways admirable.”

The judge looked at Pendreigh enquiringly.

“Mr. Niemann has a long friendship with the accused and the deceased, my lord,” Pendreigh explained. “He can tell us much of their feelings for one another. But he was also in London at the time of the murder, and was in Swinton Street immediately before that event-” He was interrupted by a buzz of amazement from the crowd, and the rustle and creak of two hundred people shifting position, sitting more upright, even craning forward.

“Indeed?” the judge said with some surprise. “Then proceed. But do not drag it out with irrelevancies, Mr. Pendreigh. I have already given you a great deal of latitude in that direction.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Pendreigh bowed very slightly and turned to Niemann again. “Can you tell us, as briefly as possible without sacrificing truth, the parts each of them played in the uprising, and their relationship to each other?”

“I can try,” Niemann said thoughtfully. “They were not married then, of course. Elissa was a widow. She was English, but she fought for the Austrian cause with a passion I think greater than many of us who were native had.” His voice was soft as he spoke, and both the tenderness and the admiration he felt were apparent. “She was tireless, always encouraging others, trying to think of new ways to confront the authorities and draw the sympathy of more people to make them understand the justice of our cause and believe we could win. It was as if there were a light inside her, a flame from which she would set a spark to burn in the souls of more lukewarm people.”

For a moment he was silent, as if needing to regain his self-control so he could go on trying to show these calm-faced Englishmen in their tailored suits what passion and courage had been in the streets of Vienna, facing an overwhelming enemy.

Everyone was watching him. Hester moved fractionally in her seat. She wondered what Callandra was thinking, if this memory of heroism and unity hurt her, or perhaps if all she cared about now was proving Kristian innocent, or even just saving his life. She glanced sideways at her and wished she had not. It was intrusive, looking at a nakedness that should not be seen.

Then, to her surprise, she caught sight of Charles on the other side of the aisle, and Imogen beside him. Since she had refused to testify, saying she had not seen Niemann, why were they here? Was it simply a concern to see the truth of the matter, even a loyalty to Hester, although neither of them had spoken to her? Or was there some deeper cause, some purpose of their own?

Imogen looked haggard, her eyes enormous. Could she know something after all, and if the utmost disaster fell, she would speak?

“She was the bravest person I ever knew.” Niemann’s voice filled the room again. It was quiet, as if he were talking to himself, and yet the absolute stillness carried the sound of it to every ear.

Hester turned forward again.

“She was not foolish, and God knew, we lost enough of us that she saw death intimately.” Niemann’s lips tightened, and there was a wince of pain as he spoke. His voice dropped a little. People strained to hear him. “She knew the risks, but she conquered her own fear so completely I never once saw her show it. She was a truly remarkable woman.”

“And Kristian Beck?” Pendreigh prompted.

Niemann lifted his head. “He was remarkable also, but in a different way.” His voice resumed its strength. He was speaking now of a man who was his friend, and still alive, not of a woman he had only too obviously loved. “He was the leader of our group-”

Pendreigh held up his hand. “Why was he the leader, Mr. Niemann? Why he, and not, for example, you?”

Niemann looked slightly surprised.

“Was it by election, because of superior knowledge, or was he perhaps older than the rest of you?” Pendreigh enquired.

Niemann blinked. “I think it was common assent,” he replied. “He had the qualities of decision, courage, the ability to command respect and obedience and loyalty. I don’t remember us deciding. It more or less happened.”

“But he was a doctor, not a soldier,” Pendreigh pointed out. “Would it not have been more natural to put him in some kind of medical duty, rather than in command of what was essentially a fighting unit?”

“No.” Niemann shook his head. “Kristian was the best.”

“In what way?” Pendreigh pursued. “Was he also passionately dedicated to the cause?”

“Yes!”

“But doctors are healers, essentially peaceful,” Pendreigh persisted. “We have heard much evidence of his caring for the injured and the sick, tirelessly, to the exclusion of his own profit or wellbeing, never of him as a man of action, or any kind of warfare.”

Mills stirred in his seat.

“If we are to believe you, Mr. Niemann,” Pendreigh went on more urgently, “then we have to understand. Describe Kristian Beck for us, as he was then.”

Niemann drew in a deep breath. Hester saw his shoulders square. “He was brave, decisive, unsentimental,” Niemann answered. “He had an extraordinarily clear vision of what was necessary, and he had the intelligence and the will, and the moral and physical courage, to carry it out. He had no personal vanity.”

“You make him sound very fair,” Pendreigh observed.

Hester thought Niemann made Kristian sound cold, even if it was not what he intended. Or perhaps it was? If he wished to exact a revenge on Kristian for his winning of Elissa, this was his perfect opportunity. Had Monk brought him here for that, unintentionally sealing Kristian’s fate?

Or was it possible, even probable, that Niemann believed Kristian guilty?

“He was fair,” Niemann said. He hesitated, as if to add something more, then changed his mind and remained silent.

“Did he fall in love with Elissa von Leibnitz?” Pendreigh asked. His voice was thick with his own emotion.

“Yes,” Niemann replied. “Very much.”

“And she with him?”

“Yes.” This time the word was simple, painful.

“And they married?”

“After the uprising, yes.”

“Did you ever doubt his love for her?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“And you all three remained friends?” Pendreigh asked.

Neimann’s hesitation was palpable.

“You didn’t?” Pendreigh asked.

“We lost touch for some time,” Niemann answered. “One of our number was killed, very violently. It distressed us all profoundly. Kristian seemed to feel it most.”

“Was he at fault?”

“No. It was just the fortune of war.”

“I see. But he was the leader. Did he feel perhaps he should somehow have prevented it?”

Mills half rose to his feet, then changed his mind. Niemann was painting a darker picture of Kristian than the dedicated doctor that had been shown so far. It was hardly in his interest to stop Niemann, or to question his veracity.

“I don’t know,” Niemann answered. It was probably the truth, but it sounded evasive.

Pendreigh retracted. “Thank you. Now may we come to the present, and your recent visit to London? Did you see Mrs. Beck?”

“Yes.”

“Several times?”

“Yes.”

“At her home, or elsewhere?”

“At the studio of Argo Allardyce, where she was having a portrait painted.” Niemann looked uncomfortable.

“I see. And were you in that vicinity on the night of her death?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Where, precisely?”

“I was walking along Swinton Street.”

“At what time?”

“Shortly after nine o’clock.”

“Did you see anyone you knew?”

“Yes. I saw the artist, Argo Allardyce.” Niemann drew in a deep breath. “I also saw a woman who has since conceded that she was there, but unfortunately she does not remember seeing me.”

“Argo Allardyce?” Pendreigh affected surprise. “What was he doing?”

“Striding along the pavement with an artist’s case under his arm. He looked very angry. The woman was following him and spoke to him while I was there.”

“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Mills.”

Mills bowed and rose. He did not ask more, but with a few skillful questions he drew from Niemann a picture of Kristian as a leader in the uprising which was even more self-controlled than before, a man who never lost sight of the goal, who could make sacrifices of all kinds, even of people, in the good of the greater cause.

Hester sat cringing with every new addition, and felt Callandra stiffen beside her. She could only imagine what she must be feeling.

“And you were in London and saw Elissa Beck several times, is that correct?” Mills enquired.

“Yes.” Was it defiance or embarrassment in Niemann’s face?

Mills smiled. “Indeed,” he observed. “Always at some place other than her home? Was Dr. Beck ever present, Mr. Niemann?”

The implication was obvious. Niemann blushed. “I came because Elissa was in some financial trouble,” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in a position to help her. Kristian was not. In deference to his feelings, I did not wish him to know what I had done.”

Mills smiled. “I see,” he said with only a whisper of disbelief in his voice. “I commend your loyalty to an old ally, and a woman with whom you were in love. I am afraid there is nothing you can do now to help either of them.” Mills thanked Niemann, and withdrew. He had caused the damage, and he needed do no more.

The luncheon adjournment was brief. Hester saw Charles and Imogen only as they disappeared through the farther doorway. She, Monk and Callandra ate in a noisy public house, where they took refuge in the difficulty of hearing amid the clamor to avoid speaking of the trial.

It was on the way back, on the steps going up to the court, that Runcorn caught up with them, his coat flying, his hair damp from the clinging fog.

“What is it?” Monk demanded, turning to him.

Runcorn looked at him, then at Hester. Callandra had gone ahead and he did not recognize her at this distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the weight of it was heavy in his voice. “We found the cabbie who picked up Allardyce outside the gambling house. He remembers it pretty clearly. There was a nasty scene. A woman snatched some drawings from Allardyce and tore them up there on the side of the footpath. He says Allardyce seemed glad to get away from her before she drew everyone’s attention to the fact that he had been drawing people without them knowing. He was into the cab like a fugitive, he said, and he took him all the way to Canning Town.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “There’s no possibility he went ’round to his studio and killed those women. I’m sorry.” It was an apology, as if he felt somehow at fault that he could not have given the answer they all wanted.

Monk put his hand on Runcorn’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said thickly. “Better to know that now than later.” Too wretched to find any more words, he put his arm around Hester and went on up the steps and inside.

Pendreigh did not call Monk to the stand. He realized that there was nothing he could usefully ask him, but to his amazement Mills called him in order to confirm or rebuff Niemann’s evidence. The request seemed reasonable, even helpful to the defense. Pendreigh had no cause to object, and no grounds. If he had tried to prevent it, it would have served against him. Why would he wish to? Monk was in his employ. Pendreigh had no possible choice but to concede. He did so graciously and seemingly at ease. After all, Monk would confirm what Niemann had said.

Monk climbed up the tight, curling steps of the witness box and stood facing Mills, a neat, diminutive, unthreatening figure. Monk swore to his name, residence, occupation, and why he had gone to Vienna at Pendreigh’s request. He did not correct Mills that it had actually been Callandra’s and that Pendreigh had concurred. It was close enough.

“Presumably, you made all the enquiries you could regarding both Mr. and Mrs. Beck during their time in that city?” Mills said politely. “I say that because you have the reputation of a man who seeks not only the truth that serves his interests, but all of it that he can find.”

It was a compliment. It was also a reminder, like the twist of a knife, of exactly what Runcorn had said.

“Time was short, but I learned all I was able to,” Monk agreed.

“Short?” Mills raised his eyebrows. “I estimate you were gone seventeen days. Am I incorrect?”

Monk was startled that Mills should have cared to be so exact. “No. I think that’s about right.”

“I imagine that what you learned is broadly the same as what Mr. Niemann has told us,” Mills continued. “Nevertheless, it would help us to hear it directly from you, and know the sources from whom you obtained it. Where did you begin, Mr. Monk?”

“With listening to stories of the uprising from those who fought in it,” Monk answered. “And you are quite correct, they confirm what Mr. Niemann told you. Kristian Beck fought with courage, intelligence and dedication to the cause of greater freedom for his people.” He chose his words carefully. “He cared deeply for those he led, but he was not sentimental, nor did he favor those who were his friends above those who were less close to him.”

“He was impartial?” Mills asked.

Monk would not be moved. “I meant what I said, sir. He did not favor one above another because of his own feelings.”

Mills smiled. “Of course. I apologize. No doubt you heard many tales of great courage and self-sacrifice, of heroism and tragedy?”

“Yes.” Why did he ask that? What had he heard? What did he suspect?

“And did you follow them up, pursue them to be certain what degrees of truth they held?” Mills shrugged very slightly. “We all know that terrible conflicts where there are profound losses can give rise to legends that we. . embellish. . afterwards.”

“Of course I followed them up!” Monk said tartly. “One-sided, they are of little use.”

“Naturally.” Mills nodded. “I would not have expected less of you. With whom did you follow them, specifically?” The question was gently put, almost casually, and yet the silence in the room invested it with unavoidable importance.

“With Dr. Beck’s family still living in Vienna, and with a priest who had helped the fighters with comfort and the offices of the church,” Monk replied.

“Offices of the church? Perhaps you would explain?”

“The sacraments: confession, absolution.”

“A Roman Catholic priest?”

“Yes.”

“A number of the revolutionaries were Roman Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

Monk suddenly felt guarded, uncomfortable. “No.”

“The others were Protestant?”

“I didn’t ask.” That was an evasion of the truth. Would Mills see it in his face?

“And yet you know they were not Catholic?” Mills persisted.

Pendreigh rose to his feet, frowning. “My lord, can this possibly be relevant? My learned friend seems to be fishing without knowing what it is he seeks to catch!” He spread his hands wide. “What has the religion of the revolutionaries to do with anything? They fight side by side, loyal to each other, united by a common cause. We have already heard that Kristian Beck played no favorites!”

The judge looked at Mills. “Since you did not apparently know of this priest before Mr. Monk spoke of him, Mr. Mills, what are you seeking to show?”

“Merely confirmation, my lord.” Mills bowed and turned, raising his face to Monk, in the stand. “Is that also what you learned, Mr. Monk, that all were treated alike, Catholic, Protestant, atheist and Jew? Kristian Beck treated all with exact equality?”

Could Mills possibly know about Hanna Jakob? Or was he so sensitive to nuance, skilled to judge, that he had perceived something, even though he could not know what it was? What had he learned from Max Niemann in that short conversation before court this morning? Runcorn’s face kept coming back to Monk, his quiet, almost accusatory insistence on the truth.

Dare he lie? Did he want to? If he looked at Hester now, or Callandra, Mills would see it. The jury would see it.

“You hesitate, Mr. Monk,” Mills observed. “Are you uncertain?”

“Of course I’m uncertain. I wasn’t there. I’m only working on what others tell me.”

“Exactly. And what did this priest tell you? Has he a name one may call him by?”

“Father Geissner.”

“What did Father Geissner tell you, Mr. Monk? It cannot be secret under the bonds of the confessional, or he would not have repeated it to you. I assume you were honest with him as to who you were and what your purpose was in enquiring?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Then tell the court what he told you, if you please.”

Pendreigh rose to protest, and sat down again without having said anything. The fact that he was unhappy, but had no legal cause to object, did more harm than good. Monk saw it in the jurors’ faces.

“Mr. Monk, you must answer the question,” the judge ordered, although there was courtesy in his voice, even some sympathy.

Monk was the last witness. There was no one else to call, no other suspect to suggest. They were all but beaten. And yet he still could not bring himself to believe that Kristian would have killed Sarah Mackeson, even to save himself. It was the act of a coward, an innately selfish man, and every evidence there was, whether from friend or stranger, said Kristian had never been that.

“Mr. Monk!” the judge prompted again. “I do not wish to place you in contempt of the court, nor to allow the jury to assume that whatever it is you learned is to the discredit of the accused, so much so that you, his friend, and employed by his defense, would rather suffer the penalties of defying the court than to tell us.”

Monk made the decision with the same wild sense of despair that he might have felt while overbalancing off the ledge of a cliff. It was almost a physical dizziness, a knowledge of disaster rushing up towards him. And yet they had nothing to lose-except loyalties, dreams, illusions of what had been good.

The judge was about to speak again.

Monk dared not look at Kristian, or at Pendreigh. He would face Hester later.

The court was in stiff, scarcely breathing silence, every face staring up at him.

“He told me about Hanna Jakob, who was a member of Dr. Beck’s group in the uprising.” Monk’s voice fell into the waiting room like a stone into dead water. It was as if no one understood the meaning of his words. Even Pendreigh’s pale face was completely blank.

Mills frowned. “And what meaning has that for us, Mr. Monk? What caused you to hesitate so long before committing yourself to an answer?”

“It is a tragedy I would rather not have disclosed,” Monk replied, staring straight ahead of him at the carving on the wall below the dock.

The waiting prickled in the air like tiny needles in the mind.

It was too late to turn back. Maybe it was reasonable doubt. It was all there was left, no matter how many dreams it shattered. “She was in love with Kristian Beck,” Monk said softly. “As was Elissa von Leibnitz. They were both brave, generous and young. Elissa was English, and one of the most beautiful of women. Hanna was Austrian. . and Jewish.”

No one moved. There was no sound, and yet the emotion in the room seemed almost to burst at the walls.

“They were both fighters for the revolution,” Monk went on. “Because of her Jewish background, Hanna knew that many families, before the emancipation of the Jews, when they were still forbidden many occupations, excluded from society, denied opportunities and living in constant fear, had changed their Jewish names to German ones. They had taken the Catholic faith, not from conviction but in order to give their children a better life. The Baruch family was one such.” He breathed in deeply. “They changed their name to Beck. Three generations later, the great-grandchildren had no idea they had ever been anything but good Austrian Catholics.”

At last he looked up at Kristian, and saw him start forward, disbelief blank in his face, his eyes wide, aghast, as if the world he knew was disintegrating in his grasp.

“No one knows the conversation between the two women,” Monk went on. “But Elissa was made aware that the man she loved, and had presumed to be of her own people, was actually of her rival’s, although he himself did not know it.” He was aware of faces in the room below him craning around and upward, staring.

“It was necessary to carry dangerous messages to warn other groups of revolutionaries,” Monk said, continuing the story, “in different parts of the city. Hanna was chosen to do it, for her knowledge of the streets of the Jewish quarter and her courage, and perhaps because she was not so closely one of the group, being a Jew. Father Geissner told me that Dr. Beck afterwards felt guilty, even that the ease with which they chose her for the task troubled him. Apparently, he spoke of it outside the confessional as well as within it.”

Mills’s eyes were fixed on him. Not once did he glance away at Pendreigh, or at the judge. “Continue,” he prompted. “What happened to Hanna Jakob?”

“The other group was warned by someone else,” Monk said quietly, aware of how strained his voice was. “And Hanna was betrayed to the authorities. They caught her and tortured her to death. She died alone in an alley, without giving away her compatriots. . ”

There were gasps in the room. The upturned face of one woman was wet with tears. A voice muttered a prayer.

“By whom was she betrayed?” Mills asked hoarsely.

“Elissa von Leibnitz,” Monk answered. At last he looked at Kristian and saw nightmare in his face. He had not known. No one could look at him and believe that he had.

“No!” Max Niemann struggled to his feet. “No! Not Elissa!” he cried. “It’s not possible!”

Two ushers of the court moved towards him, but he sank back down again before they reached the row of seats where he was. He, too, looked like a man who has seen an abyss open before his feet.

Pendreigh stood with difficulty; only the table in front of him supported his weight. He looked like a pale taper of light with his bloodless face and white wig with thick, golden hair beneath it. His voice came between his teeth hoarsely.

“You lie, sir. I, too, would like to believe that Dr. Beck is innocent, and have done so to this moment. But I will not have you blaspheme the memory of my daughter in order to save him. What you suggest is monstrous, and cannot be true.”

“It is true.” Monk answered him without anger. He could understand the rage, the denial, the unbelievable pain too immense to grasp. “No one thought she meant Hanna to die,” he said softly. “She was certain she would yield up the names long before that point, and would be released, humiliated but uninjured.” He found it difficult to breathe, and to keep control of his face. When he resumed, his voice was harsh with pain. “Perhaps that was the greatest injury of all, the insult. She was betrayed, and yet she died without giving her torturers the names of any of them.”

There was silence, as if every man and woman in the huge room were absorbing the agony into themselves. Even Mills did not move or speak.

Finally, the judge leaned forward. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that this is relevant to Mrs. Beck’s death?”

Monk turned to him. “Yes, my lord. It is obvious to us here that Dr. Beck is as shattered by this terrible story as Herr Niemann, or indeed Mr. Pendreigh, but there are those in Vienna who were aware of it and could piece together the tragedy, as I did. Surely their existence raises more than reasonable doubt that one such person, rather than Dr. Beck, may have been guilty of a fearful revenge?” He found his hands shaking as he held on to the railing of the box, palms wet. “If you convict Dr. Beck you will never lie easily in your beds that you have hanged a man innocent of his wife’s death, and that of poor Sarah Mackeson.”

“Mr. Monk,” the judge said firmly, “you are here to give evidence as to what you have seen and heard, not to make defense counsel’s summation speech, however well you are able to do that.” He turned to the prosecution. “Mr. Mills, if you have no more questions for your witness, you might offer him now to Mr. Pendreigh. . ” He looked at Pendreigh. “If you are well enough to continue? In view of the extraordinary nature of Mr. Monk’s testimony, and the way it cannot help but affect you personally, the court will be happy to grant you until tomorrow to compose yourself, if you wish?”

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

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

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

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

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

The judge instructed the jury and they retired.

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