Funeral in Blue (30 page)

“Thank you. We had better hurry. Can you leave tomorrow? I know that is almost without notice, and . . .”

“Of course I can.” Niemann finished his coffee and stood up. “It’s a murder trial. Once the verdict is in, nothing I say can help, unless I knew who did kill poor Elissa, and could prove it. Unfortunately, I don’t, nor can I swear that Kristian was somewhere else. Through Cologne is the best way. The train leaves at half past eight. I’ll meet you in the morning at the ticket office at the station at eight o’clock. Now you must excuse me. I need to make some arrangements, and pack my suitcase.”

Hester and Callandra sat opposite each other in the quiet, comfortable sitting room in Callandra’s house. They had been back from the trial for nearly an hour. It was dark outside but not particularly cold, and the fire blazed up in the grate, yet both were shivering. They had spoken of events during the evidence of the day, but neither had said what Hester knew they were both thinking. Kristian looked haggard and without hope as one witness after another built up a picture of Elissa’s gambling, her desperation, her total inability to exercise any control over her compulsion. Pendreigh’s skill was remarkable in that he had been able to drag out the proceedings this far. It was perhaps the greatest testament to Kristian’s innocence that the victim’s father so obviously believed it.

“It’s going badly, isn’t it?” Callandra said at last. “I can see it in the jury’s faces. They are beginning to realize that all Pendreigh’s tactics mean nothing except to spin out time.” She did not ask when Monk would be home, but the question hung heavily in the air between them. If he had found something easily he would have returned by now, or at least have sent word. Hester had received a couple of short letters, but they had been only personal, a desire to speak to her that could be partially satisfied on paper, and to let her know that he was well and still searching. He had asked her to tell Callandra so on his behalf.

The fire roared in the grate and the coals collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. It seemed the only brightness in the room.

“Yes,” Hester said aloud. There was no point in lying, and she could think of nothing to say to offer any comfort. “The trouble is we have no alternative they could believe.” Even a day ago she might have added that there must be one; today it seemed hollow. Then she looked across at Callandra. “But I have an idea where to look for one,” she said, pity wrenching inside her. Perhaps she was only putting off the inevitable, but she could see no farther than tonight. Tomorrow would have to bring whatever it would, and she would deal with it then.

“Have you?” Callandra asked, struggling to grasp hope and feeling it almost impossible. Her eyes asked not to be told, so she could imagine it was real, just for a while.

Hester stood up. She was astonished by how physically tired she was, and yet she had done nothing but sit in the courtroom all day, her body locked in the aching tension of hope and fear. “I shall begin to seek proof of it tomorrow, so I shall not be in court. Will you be all right?”

“Of course.” Callandra rose to her feet also, a lift in her voice as if real, tangible alternatives were suddenly there in plain sight. If Hester had a clear intention, it must be something capable of proof. “Do you want my carriage?” she said hastily. “It would be quicker for you.” She did not add “and cheaper,” but that was a consideration also. She had not thought to get actual money to give Hester for the expenses of hansoms, and to wait for it tomorrow would be another delay.

“Thank you,” Hester accepted. “That is a good idea.” She gave Callandra a quick, hard hug, then took her leave, her mind already planning ahead. There was no time to wonder about tactics, if she were offering false hope, or if it were wise or safe. She knew of no other course towards anything but defeat.

She slept only fitfully, waking every hour or two, her mind still racing over what she should do, mistakes to avoid, how to get around lies she might be told. And always at the back, spreading across everything like a coming nightfall drawing closer every time she looked, having to tell Callandra that she had failed.

She missed Monk with a constant hunger. Sometimes she could forget it, only to be reminded by the ache inside her. He would have known how to do this properly; success would not have eluded him if there were any chance of it whatever.

She rose early, and ate two pieces of toast. She had learned long ago that no matter how busy your mind or clenched up your stomach, if you had work to do then you must eat. To say you were too excited or too worried was a self-indulgence and highly impractical. To be of any use to others you must maintain your own strength.

Then she set out in Callandra’s carriage, whose driver had stayed around the corner at a suitable lodging house and was ready and waiting for her by half past seven. She requested to be driven straight to the police station, where she presented herself at the desk and asked for Superintendent Runcorn, telling the sergeant that it was a matter of urgency. The hour of the day and her name were sufficient to impress him, and he took the message straightaway. He returned with the answer that if she were to wait ten minutes, Mr. Runcorn would see her, and would she like a cup of tea. She declined the tea with thanks, and sat down, grateful that he was there and she could gain his attention.

In ten minutes she was duly shown up to a freshly shaven Runcorn sitting behind a tidy desk. The shaving had obviously not been for her, but she thought the clearing of the desk might have been.

“Good morning, Mr. Runcorn,” she said, swallowing down her nervousness. “Thank you for seeing me so rapidly. As you know, the trial of Dr. Beck is going badly for him. I have worked beside him for several years, and I believe there must be more to know than we have yet learned, and that the artist Argo Allardyce may be the source of at least some of it. William is in Vienna seeking knowledge of Max Niemann. I should like to pursue Argo Allardyce.” She had spoken too rapidly to allow him time to interrupt her, but she was aware that he had not attempted to, and it surprised her. His face looked sad, as if the way the evidence had gone distressed him also. He had not wished Kristian to be guilty, he had simply found it unavoidable.

“Allardyce was in Southwark all that evening, Mrs. Monk,” Runcorn said ruefully. “Got a picture that proves it, much as I’d like it not to.”

She must be very careful exactly what she said. A month ago she would have been delighted to dupe him in any way. Now she hated the necessity. She frowned, looking puzzled. “Does it really?”

“Oh it’s him, plain as day,” he replied. “And it’s the Bull and Half Moon for sure. Landlord recalls Allardyce there, knows him quite well.”

She managed to look doubtful. “I still believe he had something to do with it,” she insisted. “One way or another. If Dr. Beck wanted to kill her, he would hardly do it in another man’s house.”

“Murder isn’t often very sensible,” he said sadly.

She remained sitting. “Your sergeant was good enough to offer me a cup of tea, and I am afraid I was so eager to see you that I refused. I wonder . . .”

He was glad of the chance to do something for her. “Of course.” He stood up immediately. “Just sit there, and I’ll have him bring one up.”

“Thank you,” she accepted with a slight smile.

He went out, and instantly she darted around his desk and opened the first drawer. There was nothing in it but pencils and blank paper. The second had neatly written reports. She was desperate, trying to keep her fingers from fumbling. He had spoken of the picture. Which way had he been looking? She had only moments before he came back.

Third drawer . . . nothing. She turned to the shelf beside the desk. She moved two books lying flat. There it was! An artist’s sketch of a group of men sitting around a table. She snatched it and pushed it down inside her jacket just as she heard his hand on the door. She had no time to sit again. Instead, she moved towards him as if she had risen to take the cup from him.

“Thank you!” she said with gratitude more for the escape than the tea. “I hadn’t realized I was so cold, or so thirsty. That is very good of you.”

He colored very slightly. “I’m sorry it’s going badly for Dr. Beck. I wish there were . . .”

“Of course,” she agreed, sitting down again and sipping the tea. “But you can’t alter the evidence, I know that. I was just hoping. I daresay it was foolish.” Since she had asked for the tea, she was obliged to stay long enough to finish it. She was terrified in case he decided to get the picture out just to prove to her that Allardyce was really in it. “I mustn’t take up your time,” she said, swallowing hastily. “You have been very patient. I suppose there is no possibility it had to do with gambling?”

“Doesn’t make any sense, Mrs. Monk,” he said regretfully. “Nothing I’d like more than to string a few of them up, but I’ve got no excuse to. They kill slowly, not by breaking a neck.”

She put the teacup down.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, his face flooding with color.

“Please don’t be,” she said quickly. “It is only the truth.” She stood up. “I appreciate candor, Mr. Runcorn. Too many evils are tolerated because we give them harmless-sounding names. Thank you for your courtesy.” She did not hold out her hand in case the paper under her jacket crackled. “I can find my way downstairs. Good day.”

“Good day, Mrs. Monk.” He had risen also, and came around the desk to open the door for her.

She escaped with a pounding heart, and an acute sense of guilt, but she had the drawing.

She spent a useless morning and early afternoon around the area of Allardyce’s studio, and came to the conclusion that in this type of detective work she lacked a skill. By the middle of the afternoon she had decided to follow Allardyce’s friends more directly, and if she took the carriage south of the river Southwark she would find some of them at least already in the Bull and Half Moon. The light was fading, and no one would be able to paint by it at four o’clock or later.

It was nearly dark and the lamps were lit by the time she went through the tavern door. The warm, smoky, ale-smelling interior was already filled with the babble of conversation. The yellow light of a dozen lamps shone on all manner of faces, but entirely masculine. It was too early for street women to be seeking custom, and more respectable women had work to do: dinners to cook, laundry to iron, children to care for. She took a deep breath and went in anyway.

One or two bawdy remarks, which she ignored, were hurled at her. She was too eager to find anyone who might be a friend or associate of Allardyce to have time for offense. Then she saw a man with an arm amputated above the elbow and a scar on one lean cheek. Her spirits leapt at the thought that he might be a soldier. If he were, that would be at least one person whom she could talk to, perhaps find an ally.

There was no time for delicacy. She smiled at him, coolly, not an invitation. “Where did you serve?” she asked, hoping she was right.

Something in the tone of her voice, an expectation of friendship, even equality, startled any misunderstanding he might have had. He glanced momentarily at his empty sleeve, then up at her. “Alma,” he answered, a slight curiosity in his voice. He was waiting to see if the name of that dreadful battle had any meaning for her.

“You were lucky,” she said quietly. “Many fared a lot worse.”

Something lit in his eyes. “How do you know that, Miss? You lose somebody?”

“A lot of friends,” she replied. “I was in Sebastopol and Scutari.”

“Widow?” He raised his eyebrows, pity in his face.

She smiled. “No, nurse.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” he offered. “Anything you want. I’d get you French champagne if I could.”

“Cider will do fine,” she accepted, sitting down opposite him. She knew better than to say she would get it herself, and rob him of his generosity, or the feeling that he was in control and did not need anyone else to fetch or carry for him.

“What you doing here?” he asked after they were settled and she was sipping her drink. “You’ve not been here before.”

She had already decided that candor was the only way. She told him that she was looking for information to help a friend in serious trouble, accused of a crime of which she believed him innocent, if not in fact, then at least under mitigating circumstances. She wanted more knowledge of someone who had been here on the night of the crime, and showed him the picture she had taken from Runcorn’s office.

He screwed up his eyes as he looked at it, one face after another. “What night was that, then?” he said at last.

She told him the date.

“That’s a while back.” He pursed his lips.

“Yes, I know,” she admitted. “I should have come sooner. There have been several reasons. We were looking in a different direction. Will anyone remember? It was the night there was a big spill of raw sugar in Drury Lane, if that’s any help?”

“Wouldn’t know.” He shook his head. “Don’t have any reason to go up that way.” He concentrated on the picture again. “Know that artist fellow.” He pointed to one of the men. “And that one.” He indicated Allardyce. “He lives up that way, but he comes here every now and then.” He stared at the picture of half a dozen men around a table, ale mugs in their hands, the surroundings roughly sketched in, suggesting the tavern, the parallel walls, a couple of hanging tankards and a poster advertising a juggling act at a nearby music hall.

Hester waited with a sinking feeling of disappointment growing inside her.

The soldier still frowned. “There’s something wrong,” he said with a shake of his head. “Don’t know what.”

Hester stared around the room, looking for the place where they had been sitting. Perhaps it was not this tavern? It was too slim a thought to offer hope. Almost before it had taken form in her mind she recognized the tables and the chairs, the angles of the paneling on the wall behind them.

Then it struck her. The poster was different. The one on the wall now was for a singer in a red shirt. She hardly dared put words to it. Her heart was hammering inside her chest.