Funeral in Blue (15 page)

“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.

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.