Funeral in Blue (6 page)

“So why is it you think he is a philistine? Did she say so?”

Allardyce hesitated. Admitting this would paint him in an ugly light, and he was obviously aware of it. “He didn’t appreciate her anymore, didn’t see the depth of her, the mystery,” he tried to explain. “She was a remarkable woman—unique.”

“She was certainly beautiful,” Monk agreed. “But perhaps beauty wasn’t his chief criterion?”

Allardyce climbed to his feet, glanced at Monk for a moment, then walked over to a pile of canvases in the corner behind his easel. He picked out two or three and turned them face out so Monk could see them. They were all of Beck’s wife. The first was quickly done, a simple sketch of a woman sitting in the sun, painted in afterwards to catch the spirit of light and shade, the spontaneous smile of someone caught in a moment of enjoyment. It was excellently done, and Monk immediately saw Allardyce in a different light. He was a man with acute perception and the gift to capture it with his hand and eye. He was an artist, not merely a craftsman.

The second, a far more formal portrait of a woman very obviously posing, was unfinished. She wore a gown of rich plum color which faded into the warm, dark tones of the background, throwing her face and shoulders into prominence as the light gleamed on her skin. She looked delicate, almost fragile, and yet there was extraordinary strength of passion in her features. Now Monk knew what she had been like when she was alive. He almost imagined he could hear her voice.

But the last picture was the one which affected him the most. It was painted with a limited palette, mostly blues and grays with barely a touch of green in the foreground. It was a city street in the evening in the rain. The shop signs were suggested rather than depicted in detail, but there was enough of the writing to show it was German. In the foreground was Beck’s wife, younger than now, and the haunting quality of her beauty and the strength of her passion and sorrow were enhanced by the misty half-light from the street lamps. Horses with black plumes—again, suggested more than painted in full—made it plain that she was watching a funeral; and the shadows of other mourners—almost the ghosts, as if they, too, were dead—ringed the cortege. But all the emphasis was upon her and her feelings, everything else was merely to enhance the power and mystery of her face.

Monk stared at it. It was unforgettable. From what he had seen of her in the morgue, it was an excellent likeness, but far more than that, it had caught the spirit of an extraordinary personality. To have painted such a portrait the artist must have felt for her deeply and understood far more of her nature than mere observation could have taught him. Unless, of course, he was investing in her some passionate experience of his own?

But Monk had seen Beck’s wife; the former was easy to believe. “Why this?” he asked Allardyce, indicating the painting.

“What?” Allardyce forced his attention back. “
Funeral in Blue
?”

“Yes. Why did you paint it? Did her father ask for this, too?” He would not have believed Allardyce if he had said he had. No man could create a picture like this on the request of someone else.

Allardyce blinked. “No, I did it for myself. I won’t sell it.”

“Why Germany?”

“What?” He looked at the painting, his face filled with grief. “It’s Vienna,” he corrected flatly. “The Austrians speak German.”

“Why Vienna?”

“Things she told me, in her past.” He looked up at Monk. “What has that got to do with whoever killed her?”

“I don’t know. Why were you so long painting the portrait her father commissioned?”

“He was in no hurry.”

“Apparently neither were you. No need to get paid?” Monk allowed his voice a slight edge of sarcasm.

Allardyce’s eyes blazed for a moment. “I’m an artist, not a journeyman,” he retorted. “As long as I can buy paints and canvas, money is unimportant.”

“Really,” Monk said without expression. “But I assume you would take Pendreigh’s money when the picture was completed?”

“Of course! I need to eat . . . and pay the rent.”

“And
Funeral in Blue
, would you sell that?”

“No! I told you I wouldn’t.” His face pinched and the aggression in him melted away. “I won’t sell that.” He did not feel any need to justify himself. His grief was his own, and he did not care whether Monk understood it or not.

“How many pictures of her did you paint?” Monk asked, watching the anger and misery in his face.

“Elissa? Five or six. Some of them were just sketches.” He looked back at Monk, narrowing his eyes. “Why? What does it matter now? If you think I killed her, you’re a fool. No artist destroys his inspiration.” He did not bother to explain, either because he thought Monk incapable of understanding or because he simply did not care.

Monk looked across at Runcorn and saw the struggle for comprehension in his face. He was foundering in an unfamiliar world, afraid even to try to find his way. Everything about it was different from what he was accustomed to. It offended his rigid upbringing and the rules he had been taught to believe. The immorality of it confused him, and yet he was beginning to realize that it also had standards of a sort, passions, vulnerabilities and dreams.

The moment he was aware of Monk’s scrutiny he froze, wiping his expression blank. “Learned anything?” he said curtly.

“Possibly,” Monk answered. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was nearly seven o’clock.

“In a hurry?” Runcorn asked.

“I was thinking about Dr. Beck.” Monk replaced the watch.

“Tomorrow,” Runcorn said. He turned to Allardyce. “It’d be a good idea, sir, if you could be a bit more precise in telling us where you were last night. You said you went out of here about half past four, to Southwark, and didn’t get home until ten o’clock this morning. Make a list of everywhere you were and who saw you there.”

Allardyce said nothing.

“Mr. Allardyce,” Monk commanded his attention. “If you went out at half past four, you can’t have been expecting Mrs. Beck for a sitting.”

Allardyce frowned. “No . . .”

“Do you know why she came?”

He blinked. “No . . .”

“Did she often come without appointment?”

Allardyce pushed his hands through his black hair and looked at some distance only he could see. “Sometimes. She knew I liked to paint her. If you mean did anyone else know she was coming, I’ve no idea.”

“Did you plan to go out or was it on the spur of the moment?”

“I don’t plan, except for sittings.” Allardyce stood up. “I’ve no idea who killed her, or Sarah. If I did, I’d tell you. I don’t know anything at all. I’ve lost two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever painted, and two friends. Get out and leave me alone to grieve, you damn barbarians!”

There was little enough to be accomplished by remaining, and Monk followed Runcorn out into the streetin. Monk was startled how dark it was, more than just an autumn evening closed in. There was a gathering fog wreathing the gas lamps in yellow and blotting out everything beyond ten or fifteen yards’ distance. The fog smelled acrid, and within a few moments he found himself coughing.

“Well?” Runcorn asked, looking sideways at him, studying his face.

Monk knew what Runcorn was thinking. He wanted a solution, quickly if possible—in fact, he needed it—but he could not hide the edge of satisfaction that Monk could not produce it any more than he could himself.

“Thought so,” Runcorn said dryly. “You’d like to say it was Allardyce, but you can’t, can you?” He put his hands into his pockets, then, aware he was pushing his trousers out of shape, pulled them out again quickly.

A hansom cab was almost on them, looming up out of the darkness, hooves muffled in the dead air.

Monk raised his arm, and the cab pulled over to the curb.

Runcorn snorted and climbed in after him.

Hester’s eyes met Monk’s with enquiry as soon as he was through the door into the sitting room. She looked tired and anxious. Her hair was straggling out of its pins and she had put it back too tightly on one side. She had taken no handwork out, as if she could not settle to anything.

He closed the door. “Runcorn’s on it,” he said simply. “He’s frightened and he’s letting me help. Did you ever meet Kristian’s wife?”

“No. Why?” Her voice was edged with fear. She was searching his face to know why he asked. She stood up.

“Did Callandra?” he went on.

“I don’t know. Why?”

He walked further into the room, closer to her. It was difficult to explain to anyone the quality in Elissa Beck’s face that disturbed one and remained in the mind long after seeing her. Hester was waiting, and he could not find the words.

“She’s beautiful,” he began, touching her, absently pulling the tight strand of her hair looser, then moving his hand to the warmth of her shoulders. “I don’t mean just features or color of hair or skin, I mean some inner quality which made her unique.” He saw her surprise. “I know! You thought she was boring, perhaps cold, even that she had lost her looks and no longer took care of herself. . . .”

She started to deny it, then changed her mind.

He smiled very slightly. “So did I,” he admitted. “And I don’t think the artist killed her. He was at least half in love with her.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said sharply. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her! In fact, if she rebuffed him it could be precisely the reason.”

“He painted several pictures of her,” he went on. “I don’t think he would destroy his inspiration, whether she rebuffed him or not. And I had the feeling . . .” He stopped.

“What?” she said urgently.

“That . . . that he held her in some kind of awe,” he finished. “It wasn’t simply lust. I really don’t think Allardyce killed her.”

“And the other woman?” she said softly. “People have killed even those they loved to protect themselves—especially if the love was not equally returned.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “You are right. Very probably someone killed her, and Elissa Beck was just unfortunate enough to witness it.”

“Or it could be the other way . . . couldn’t it?” She held his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It could be almost anything. But Allardyce says he wasn’t there. He says she sometimes came without telling him, and they talked, or he painted her for his own pleasure, not to sell. There was a picture of her, set in Vienna. It was called
Funeral in Blue
and it was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever seen.” He did not continue. He could see in her face that she had already understood the darkness, the possibilities on the edge of his mind.

She stood in front of him. “You’re still going to help, though . . . aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m going to try,” he said, putting both arms around her and feeling the tension in her body under the fabric of her dress. He knew she was more afraid now than she had been when he left to see Runcorn. So was he.

CHAPTER THREE

Monk left home early the next morning, and by half past seven he was already walking smartly down Tottenham Court Road. There was a cold wind and the fog had lifted considerably. He heard the newsboys shouting about the American War, and there had been another outbreak of typhoid in the Stepney area, near Limehouse. He remembered the fever hospital there, and how terrified he had been that Hester would catch the disease. He had wasted so much effort trying to convince himself he did not really love her, at least not enough that he would be unable to carry on perfectly well with his life even if she were no longer there. How desperately he had struggled not to give any hostages to fortune . . . and lost!

He wondered about Kristian Beck. He had seen Beck work night and day to save the lives of strangers. His courage never seemed to fail him, nor his compassion. At first thought it was not difficult to see why Callandra admired him so much, but how well did she know him? Was it anything more than his professional character? What of his thoughts that had nothing to do with medicine? What of his fears or his griefs? What of his appetites?

He saw an empty hansom and stepped off the curb to hail it, but it hurried on blindly, the driver muffled in scarves, and he rounded a lamppost up onto the pavement again.

He increased his pace, suddenly angry, energy surging up inside him. He found his hands clenched and he all but bumped into the sandwich seller standing idly on the corner watching for custom. The streets were already busy with brewers’ drays and delivery carts with vegetables for the market. A milkman was selling by the jug or can on the corner of Francis Street, and two women were waiting, shivering in the wind and the damp.

Another hansom came by, and this one stopped. He climbed in, giving the driver the address of the police station and telling him to wait while he picked up Runcorn, then to take them both on to Haverstock Hill.

Runcorn was there within moments. He came down the steps with his jacket flapping and his cheeks still ruddy from the scraping of the razor. He climbed in beside Monk and ordered the driver on sharply.

They rode in silence. Half a dozen times Monk almost asked Runcorn for his opinion on some aspect of the case, a possibility, and each occasion he changed his mind. At least twice he heard Runcorn also draw in his breath as if to speak, and then say nothing. The longer the silence remained, the harder it became to break it.

As they went uphill out of the city, the fog lifted further and the cleaner air was sharp with the smell of damp earth, wood smoke, fallen leaves and horse manure.

When they reached the corner of Haverstock Hill and Prince of Wales Street, the hansom stopped and they alighted. Runcorn paid the driver. The house in front of them was substantial but not ostentatious. Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw the respect in his face. This was the sort of home a man of moral quality should have. The curtains were lowered. There were black crepe ribbons on the door. Monk smiled, and forced back his own thoughts.

Runcorn went ahead and yanked the bellpull, then stepped away.

After several moments the door was opened by a middle-aged maid in plain stuff dress and a white apron that was wet around the bottom. Her hands were red, and a faint line of soap showed white on her wrists. It was plain from her face that she had been weeping and was controlling herself now only with the greatest effort.

“Yes sir?” she enquired.

It was not far off nine o’clock. “May we see Dr. Beck, please?” Runcorn asked. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.” He produced his card and offered it to her. “I’m from the police,” he added as she ignored it, and he realized she probably could not read.

“ ’E can’t see yer,” she said with a sniff.

“I’m aware of his bereavement,” Runcorn said quietly. “It’s about that that I must speak.”

“Yer can’t,” she repeated expressionlessly. “ ’E in’t ’ere.”

Monk felt his heart beat faster. Runcorn stiffened.

“ ’E’s gorn ter the ’orspital,” the maid explained. “Up ’Ampstead. Poor soul, ’e don’t know wot ter do wif ’isself, but ’e don’t never forget the sick.” She blinked rapidly but the tears still ran down her rough cheeks. “You gotta find ’oo done this to ’im. If yer worth sixpence of a decent person’s money, yer can do that!”

Runcorn drew in his breath to be reasonable, then changed his mind. Perhaps he was conscious of Monk a step behind him, watching, listening. He would be patient. “Of course we will, but we need his help . . .”

“Up the ’orspital.” She waved her arm, indicating the direction. “I can’t do nothin’ for yer ’ere. An’ yer’d best ’urry, afore ’e starts operatin’, ’cos ’e won’t stop fer nothin’ then, not you ner me, ner Gawd ’isself.”

Runcorn thanked her and went back to the street to look for a hansom, Monk a couple of steps behind him, finding it difficult to follow graciously, but if he wanted to be included he had no choice but to comply. He was certain Runcorn was conscious of it, and enjoying it.

“Better get a cab, Monk,” Runcorn said after a moment or two.

Monk knew why he did that. Hansom drivers could spot the self-assurance of a gentleman fifty yards away. A man with breeding would have more money, more appearance of position to keep up and therefore more generosity. Whatever Runcorn wore, whatever rank he attained, he would never have that air, the unconscious arrogance that Monk was born with. That was the core of his loathing all the years they had known each other: the fact that they were both aware of the differences between them, and Monk had never yielded a word of honest praise, or stayed his tongue. He was not proud of that now, but the pattern of years was too deep to erase.

Again they rode in silence, this time as a matter of necessity. They alighted at the hospital some half an hour later, and Monk led the way, being familiar with the place from the times he had been there to see Hester.

As soon as he was inside he smelled the familiar odors of carbolic and lye and another odor, sweeter and different, which might have been blood. His imagination raced to the morning he had woken up after his own accident, and to the battlefield in America where he had seen for the first time what it was that Hester had really done in the Crimea, not the English imagination of the horror and the helplessness but the reality of flesh and pain.

Runcorn was a step behind him. The difference in experience was a gulf between them that could never be crossed. All the telling in the world, even supposing Runcorn were to listen, could not convey things for which there were no words.

They passed a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy slop buckets, her shoulders dragged down by the weight. Her eyes did not meet theirs. She was a nurse, a hospital skivvy to fetch and clean, stoke fires, launder, roll bandages and generally do as she was told.

Three medical students stood in earnest conversation, shirts spattered in blood. One had a neat incision in the side of his black frock coat, as if it had somehow got caught up in the speed of a surgical procedure. There was blood around that also, but dried dark, so not today’s events.

“We’re looking for Dr. Beck,” Monk said, stopping beside them.

They regarded him with slight disdain. “The waiting room’s over there.” One of them pointed, and then returned his attention to his colleagues.

“Police!” Monk snapped, stung by the attitude, as much for the patients treated with such cavalier manner as for himself. “And we have no intention of waiting.”

The student’s expression barely changed. He was a professional man, and he considered police to be on a level both of skill and in society equal to that of a bailiff, dealing with the detritus of the world. “You’ll have to wait,” he said dryly.

Runcorn looked at the student, then at Monk, his hope that Monk’s razor tongue had not lost its edge plain in his face.

“If the operating room is still where it was, I shall find it for myself,” Monk replied. He surveyed the young man’s coat. “I see you have something yet to learn regarding accuracy with the knife. Unless, of course, you were intending to remove your own appendix? If so, I believe it is on the other side.”

The student flushed with anger, and his colleagues hid a smile. Monk strode on with Runcorn at his heels.

“How did you know that?” Runcorn asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I’ve been here before,” Monk answered, trying to remember exactly where the operating rooms were.

“About the . . . appendix!” Runcorn corrected.

“Man called Gray published a book on anatomy about three years ago,” Monk answered. “Hester has a copy. Here.” He reached the door he thought was the correct one, and went in.

It was empty but for Kristian Beck standing beside a table. He was in shirtsleeves, and there was blood on his rolled-up cuffs, but his hands were clean. It had been a long time since Monk had seen him, and he had forgotten the impact of the doctor’s appearance. He was in his early forties, of average height, with hair receding a little, but it was his eyes which commanded the attention. They were dark and of such remarkable intelligence as to be truly beautiful. His mouth suggested passion, but there was a sense of inner control, as if the intense emotions there were seldom unguarded.

He drew in his breath to protest the intrusion; then he recognized Monk and his face relaxed, but nothing could take from it the marks of shock.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said, and the sincerity with which he felt it was clear in his voice.

Kristian did not answer, and a glance at his face showed that for a moment loss overwhelmed him and he was incapable of speech.

It was Runcorn who salvaged the situation. “Dr. Beck, I’m Superintendent Runcorn. Unfortunately, we need to ask you several questions that can’t wait for a better day. Have you time now? I expect it’ll take an hour or so.”

Kristian composed himself. Perhaps it was a relief to be practical. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know what I can tell you that will help.” He spoke with difficulty. “You did not tell me how she was killed. I saw her, of course . . . in the morgue. She looked . . . unhurt . . .”

Runcorn swallowed as if there were something blocking his throat. “Her neck was broken. It would have been very quick. I daresay she would have felt very little.”

“And the other woman?” Kristian said softly.

“The same.” Runcorn glanced around as if to find a more suitable place to speak.

“We won’t be interrupted here,” Kristian said wryly. “There’s no one else operating today.”

“Is that why you came?” Runcorn asked. “Surely, in the circumstances . . .”

“No,” Kristian said quickly. “They’d have found someone. I . . . I had no wish to sit around and . . . think. Work can be a blessing . . .”

“Yes.” Runcorn was embarrassed by grief, especially when he could understand but not share it. His discomfort was clear in his face, his eyes studiously avoiding the array of instruments laid out on the table near the wall, and in the way he stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Did you know Mrs. Beck was having her portrait painted by Argo Allardyce, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course. Her father commissioned it,” Kristian replied.

“Have you ever been to the studio or met Allardyce?”

“No.”

“Not interested in a portrait of your wife?”

“I have very little time, Superintendent. Medicine, like police work, is very demanding. I would have been interested to see it when it was completed.”

“Never met Allardyce?” Runcorn insisted.

“Not so far as I know.”

“He painted several pictures of her, did you know that?”

Kristian’s face was unreadable. “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. She was beautiful.”

“Would it surprise you if he was in love with her?”

“No.” A faint smile flickered around Kristian’s mouth.

“And that doesn’t anger you?”

“Unless he harassed her, Superintendent, why should it?”

“Are you sure he didn’t?”

The conversation was leading nowhere, and Runcorn was as aware of it as Monk. There was a note of desperation in his voice and his body was tense and awkward, as if the room oppressed him, the pain and the fear in it remaining after the events were over. He still kept his eyes fixed on Kristian, to avoid the other things he might unintentionally see, the blades and clamps and forceps.

“Did you know she was going to Acton Street that evening?” Monk asked.

Kristian hesitated. The question seemed to cause him some embarrassment. Monk saw Runcorn perceive it also.

“No,” Kristian said, glancing from one to the other of them. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.

“Where did you think she was going?” Monk hated pressing the issue, but the fact that it caused discomfort was an additional reason why he had to.

“We did not discuss it,” Kristian said, avoiding Monk’s eye. “I was visiting a patient.”

“The patient’s name?”

Kristian’s eyes flicked up; only momentarily was he startled. “Of course. It was Maude Oldenby, of Clarendon Square, just north of the Euston Road. I suppose you have to consider that I might have done this.” His body was tense, the muscles standing out in his neck and jaw. His face was ashen pale, but he did not protest. “Do I need to say that I did not?”

For the first time, Monk was embarrassed also. He spoke uncharacteristically. “There are regions in all of us unknown not only to others, but even to ourselves. Tell us something about her.”

There was absolute silence. The distant noises from beyond the door intruded, footsteps, the clink of a pail handle falling, indistinguishable voices.

“How do you describe anyone?” Kristian said helplessly. “She was . . .” He stopped again.

Thoughts raced through Monk’s mind about love and obsession, boredom, betrayal, confusion. “Where did you meet her?” he asked, hoping to give Kristian a place to begin.

Kristian looked up. “Vienna,” he said, his voice taking on a sudden vibrancy. “She was a widow. She had married very young, an Austrian diplomat in London. When he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafés, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”