Funeral In Blue Part 11

"Until I decide you can go in!" the man snapped.

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

"Maybe you're another bad debtor," the man said sanctimoniously.

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

"You got a vicious tongue in you, sir," the man said with something that sounded like reluctant admiration. He eyed Monk up and down, judging his balance, his physical strength and agility. A spark of interest lit in his eyes. "But I don't see why you shouldn't come in and spend a little time here, in pleasant company for the afternoon.

Seeing as how you understand the ways o' life rather the same as we do." The idea that had been lurking at the back of Monk's mind suddenly took form. He was being weighed up as a potential tool for discipline in the future. He would play into that. He smiled at the man, looking straight at him.

"Thank you," he said softly. "Very civil of you." Inside was a large room, probably originally two now knocked into one.

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

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

The game resumed, and again the tension mounted.

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

Monk directed his attention to a woman, perhaps thirty-five, with a sharp, pretty face, blonde hair pulled a little too tightly back from her brow. She scarcely breathed as the dice rolled and stopped. She won, and glee lit her eyes, a brilliance that was more like a fever.

Immediately she played again, moving the dice from one hand to the other four times before blowing on them and rolling them.

Monk became aware of the man from the door watching him. He must play.

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

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

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

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

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

He watched as she played again, and won again.

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

"Does she come often?" Monk said quickly.

The man grimaced. "Too d.a.m.ned 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 it 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. "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 realised why she looked so familiar. Certainly there was a resemblance to Elissa Beck -same slender body, soft dark hair but this woman's face was gentler, prettier, but without the pa.s.sionate, haunting beauty he had seen in the Funeral in Blue. She was less marked by the triumphs and tragedies of life. It 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.

Monk turned away quickly, suddenly realising that if she looked up then she would recognise 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sumed, 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. Still, it's your affair," the man repeated. "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 realised 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 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, 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 in front of his lady pa.s.sengers the language that rose to his lips.

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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 he 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 had 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? What did they know or what might they have seen?

Would Runcorn find out Imogen was connected with Swinton Street?

Possibly, but also possibly not. Hester had no obligation to tell him anything about her family, even if she knew about the gambling.

Kristian would not speak of the place, even if he knew. 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 round 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 un violated 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." d.a.m.n! 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 realised with a sharp savour of satisfaction that Runcorn was embarra.s.sed at having been caught in an act of uncharacteristic compa.s.sion. Afterall, 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.

Monk 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. Monk hated it. It was like having a tooth extracted. All the long history of resentment and misunderstanding between them rose like a wall. Monk 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 pa.s.sed the pedlar who confirmed the time, not 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 breakfast, which was at Pendreigh's house." He saw the quick flash of incomprehension in Runcorn's eyes. Pendreigh was of a social cla.s.s 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.

"Dr. Beck's house is a facade," Monk said painfully. "Only the front room and the bedrooms are furnished, the rest is empty. Elissa Beck gambled, and she 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 compa.s.sion, 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 the gambling house on Swinton Street," he continued. "Behind the butcher's. I suspect that 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 embarra.s.sed him.

Why? Because he had to realise 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, realising with anger and confusion that the respect was not for Kristian, but for him, because he had told Runcorn the truth.

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, the light spreading 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. The room was a little chilly, and the fire was laid but not lit yet. Hester was economising, 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 colour draining from her face. She put the pan down, in case she dropped it.

"I followed his actions on the evening of the murders," Monk 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 compa.s.sion. But he did not want to quarrel. Perhaps it was the memory of her father's speculation and ruin which hurt.

Although that had hardly been gambling, only what any man in business might do, and much of his actual loss was n.o.bly motivated. He had been duped by a man of the utmost dishonour.

Hester 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'd 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 appet.i.te, the rigid bodies, the hands clenched, breath held as they waited for the card or the dice to fall. It was a l.u.s.t 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.