Funeral In Blue Part 9

"I'm sorry," Monk apologised. It had not occurred to him that she might care about Sarah, and suddenly he realised how much he had concentrated on the reality of Elissa Beck, and forgotten the other woman and not considered those who might have known her and be wounded by her death. But on the other hand, if Mrs. Clark knew her well enough to feel deeply, then perhaps she could give him some better information about her.

She fumbled behind her for the chair, and he stepped forward quickly and placed it so she could sit down.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't know you were close to her." She sniffed fiercely and glared at him, ignoring her br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes and daring him to comment. "I liked 'er, poor little cow," she said tartly. "Oo wouldn't? Did 'er best. So wot yer want 'ere, then? I don't know 'oo killed 'er!" Monk fetched the other chair and sat down opposite her. "You might be able to tell me something about her which would help."

"Why? Wot der you care?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oo are yer, any'ow? Yer never said. Yer just came bargin' in 'ere like the rent collector, only I don't owe no rent. This place is me own. So explain yerself. I don't care 'ow swell yer look, I in't tellin' yer nothin' as I don't want ter." He tried to put it in terms she would grasp. "I'm a kind of private policeman. I work for people who want to know the truth of something and pay me to find out."

"An' 'oo cares 'oo killed a poor little cow like Sarah Mackeson then?" she said derisively. "She in't got n.o.body. "Er pa were a navvy wot got killed diggin' the railways an' erma died years ago. She's got a couple o' brothers someplace, but she never knew where."

"The wife of a friend of mine was murdered with her," Monk replied.

There was a kind of dignity in this woman, with her crooked ap.r.o.n and straggling hair, that demanded the truth from him, or at least no lies.

"There were two of 'em done?" she said with horror. "Geez! Oo'd do a thing like that? Poor Sarah!" He smiled at her very slightly, an acknowledgement.

She sniffed and stood up, turning her back to him. Without explaining she filled the kettle and put it on the hob, then fetched a china teapot and two mugs.

"I'll tell yer wot I know," she remarked while she waited for the water to boil. "Wot in't much. She used ter do quite well sometimes, and bad others. If she were in an 'and patch she'd come 'ere an' I'd finder a bed for a spell. She'd always turner 'and ter cookin' an' cleanin' as return. Din't expec' sum mink fer nuffink. Honest, she were, in 'er own fashion. An' generous." She kept her back to him as the steam started to whistle in the spout.

Monk did not press her in what way; he understood it from her turned back. She was not willing to put words to it.

"Anyone in particular?" he asked, quite casually.

"Arthur Cutter," she said, bringing the teapot over to the table and putting it down. "E's a right waster, but 'e wouldn't 'ave 'urt erIt would 'a bin some 'o them daft artist people. I always told 'er they was no good." She sniffed again and reached for a piece of cloth in her ap.r.o.n pocket. She blew her nose savagely and then poured the tea for both of them, not bothering to ask if he wanted milk or sugar, but a.s.suming both. Monk disliked sugar intensely, but he made no comment, simply thanking her.

"How did she get in with the artists?" he asked.

Now Mrs. Clark seemed willing to talk. She rambled on, telling and retelling, but a vivid picture of Sarah Mackeson emerged from a mixture of memory, opinion and anger. Nineteen years ago, aged eighteen, she had arrived in Risinghill Street without a penny, but willing to work.

Within weeks her handsome figure and truly beautiful hair and eyes had attracted attention, some of it welcome, much of it beyond her skill to deal with.

Mrs. Clark had taken her in and taught her a good deal about caring for herself and learning to play one admirer off against another in order to survive. Within a few months Sarah had found a protector prepared to take her as his mistress and give her a very pleasant standard of living.

It lasted four years, until he grew bored and found another eighteen-year-old and began again. Sarah had come back to Risinghill Street, wiser and a good deal more careful. She found work in a public house, the Hare and Billet about half a mile away, and it was there that a young artist had see her and hired her to sit for him.

Over the s.p.a.ce of a couple of years she had improved her skill and an ally Argo Allardyce had persuaded her to leave Risinghill Street and go to Acton Street to be at his disposal any time he should wish. She kept a room nearby, when she could afford it, but more often than not she had to let it go.

"Was she in love with Allardyce?" Monk asked.

Mrs. Clark poured more tea. "Course she was, poor creature," she said tartly. "Wot do you think? Told 'er she were beautiful, an' 'e meant it. So she was, too. But she were no lady, an' she never imagined she were. Knew 'er limits. That were part of 'er trouble. Never thought she were more'n pretty. Never thought no one'd care for 'er once 'er skin an' 'er figure went." In spite of himself Monk was struck with a stab of sorrow for a woman who thought her only worth was her beauty. Had she really no sense of her value for her laughter or her courage, her ideas, just her gift to love? Was that what life had taught her? That no man could simply like her, rather than want to look at her, touch her, use her?

A vision of fear opened up in front of him of constant anxiety each time she looked in the mirror, saw a line or a blemish on her skin, an extra pound or two on the rich lines of her body, a slackness real or imagined, that signalled the decline at the end of which lay hunger, loneliness and eventually despair.

Mrs. Clark went on talking, describing a life where beauty was caught on canvas and made immortal, for the pleasure of artists and viewers, and strangely disconnected from the woman, as if her face, her hair, her body were not really her. She could walk away unnoticed, leaving the image of herself, the part they valued, still in their possession.

The loneliness of it appalled him. He pressed her for more stories, more details, names, places, times.

He felt subdued and deeply thoughtful when he arrived to meet Runcorn nearly an hour late. Runcorn was sitting in the corner of a tavern nursing a mug of ale, getting steadily angrier as the minutes pa.s.sed.

"Mislaid your watch, have you?" he said between clenched teeth.

Monk sat down. He had drunk so much tea he had no desire for ale or cider, and the good-natured babble of the crowd around him made it impossible to speak quietly. "Do you want to know about her or not?" he replied, ignoring the remark. He refused to explain himself. He already knew Runcorn's views on the virtues of women, which consisted mostly of their being hard-working, obedient and chaste, the last being the necessity which framed all else. He had been too long away from the streets, and the reality of most women's lives, perhaps too afraid of his own frailties to look at other people's.

Runcorn glared at him. "So what did you find, then?" he demanded.

Monk relayed the facts of Sarah's parentage and career up to the point of Allardyce seeing her and then shortly afterwards employing her exclusively. He also gave him the name of her one-time lover, Arthur Cutter.

Runcorn listened in silence, his face heavy with conflicting emotions.

"Better see him, I suppose," he said at the end. "Could be him, if he thought she'd betrayed him somehow, but doesn't seem likely. Women like that move from one man to another and n.o.body cares all that much.

No doubt he expected it, and has had half a dozen different women since then."

"Somebody cared enough to kill her!" Monk responded angrily. What Runcorn had said was probably true, it was not the fact that cut Monk raw, it was the contempt with which he said it, or perhaps even the fact that he said it at all. There were some truths that compa.s.sion covered over, like hiding the faces of the dead, a small decency when nothing greater was possible. He looked at Runcorn with intense dislike. All his old memories returned with their ugliness: the narrowness of mind, the judgement, the willingness to hurt. "She's just as dead as Elissa Beck!" he added.

Runcorn stood up. "Go and see Bella Holden," he ordered. "You'll probably find her at her lodgings, 23 Pentonville Road. She's another artist's model, and I dare say it's a bawdy house. Unless you want to give up? But looks like you're as keen to find who killed Sarah Mackeson as you are about Beck's wife." He walked between the other drinkers without looking back or bothering to tell Monk where to meet him again. Monk watched his high, tight shoulders as he pushed his way out and lost sight of him just before the door.

Number 23 Pentonville Road was indeed a brothel of sorts, and Monk found Bella Holden only after considerable argument, and the payment of two shillings and sixpence, which he could ill afford. Callandra would willingly have replaced it, but both pride and the awareness of her vulnerability would prevent him from asking. This was friendship, not business.

Bella Holden was handsome, with a cloud of dark hair and remarkable pale blue eyes. She must have been a little over thirty, and he could see underneath the loose nightgown she wore that her body was losing its firmness and the shape an artist would admire. She was too lush, too overtly womanly. It would not be long before this house, and its like, were her main support, unless she learned a trade. No domestic employer would have her, even if she were capable of the skills required. Without a 'character' she would not be allowed over the step, let alone into the household.

Looking at her now as she stared back at him, holding the money in her hand, he saw anger and the need to please struggling against each other in her face, and a certain heaviness about her eyelids, a lethargy as if he had woken her from a dream far more pleasant than any reality. It was three o'clock. He might be her first customer. The indifference in her face was a lifetime's tragedy.

He thought of Hester, and how she would loathe a stranger's hand on her clothes, let alone on her naked skin. This woman had to endure intimacy from whoever chose to walk through the door with two shillings and sixpence to spend. Where did the ignorance and the desperation come from that she would not prefer to work, even in a sweatshop, rather than this?

And the answer was there before the thought was whole. Sweatshops required a skill in sewing she might not possess, and paid less for a fourteen-hour day than she could make here in an hour. Both would probably break her health by the time she was forty.

"I don't want to lie with you, I want to ask you about Sarah Mackeson," he said, sitting down on the one wooden chair. He was trying to place the faint smell in the room. It was not any of the usual body odours he would have expected, and not pleasing enough to have been a deliberate perfume, even if such a thing had been likely.

"You a rozzer?" she asked. "Don't look like one." There was little expression in her voice. "Well, yer can't get 'er fer nothin' now, poor b.i.t.c.h. She's dead. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d did erin a few days ago, up Acton Street. Don't yer swine never tell each other nothin'? Even the patterers is talkin' about it. Yer should listen!" Monk ignored the resentment. He even felt with it. She probably saw herself in Sarah Mackeson. It could as easily have been her, and she would expect as little protection before, or care afterwards.

"I know," he replied. "That's why I want to learn what I can about her. I want to catch who did it." It took a moment or two for her to grasp what he had said and consider whether she believed it. Then she began to talk.

He asked questions and she rambled on, a mixture of memories and observations, thoughts, all charged with so much emotion he was not certain when she was referring to Sarah and when to herself, but perhaps at times they were interchangeable. A painfully clear picture emerged of a woman who was careless, open-hearted, loyal to her friends, f.e.c.kless with money and yet deeply frightened of a future in which she saw no safety. She was untidy, generous, quick to laugh and to cry. If any man had loved her enough to feel jealousy, let alone to kill, she certainly had not known it. In her own eyes, her sole value was as an object of beauty, for as long as it lasted. Both time and fashion were already eroding it, and she felt the cold breath of rejection.

Bella Holden was walking the same path, and she could offer no clue as to who might have killed Sarah. Reluctantly she named a few other people who had known her moderately well, but Monk doubted they could help. Bella would not compromise her own future for the sake of finding justice for Sarah. Sarah was dead, and past help. Bella had too little on her side to risk any of it.

Monk thanked her and left. This time he returned to the police station, and found Runcorn in his office, looking tired and unhappy, his brows drawn down.

"Opium," he said, almost as if he were challenging Monk.

Suddenly Monk placed the smell in Bella Holden's room. He was annoyed with himself for not having known at the time. That was another gap in his memory. He hated Runcorn seeing it, especially now.

"Sarah Mackeson was taking opium?" he asked with something close to a snarl.

Runcorn misread his expression for contempt. His face flushed with anger almost beyond his control. His voice shook when he spoke. "So might you, if you had nothing to offer but your looks, and they were fading!" He gulped air. His knuckles shone white where his hands were pressed on the desk in front of him. "With nothing ahead of you but doss houses and selling your body to strangers for less and less every year, you might not stand there in your hand-made boots, looking down your d.a.m.n nose at someone who escaped into a dream every now and then, because reality was too hard to bear! It's your job to find out who killed her, not decide whether she was right or wrong." He stopped abruptly and sniffed hard, looking away from Monk now, as if his anger embarra.s.sed him. "Did you go and see Bella whatshername as I told you?

Have you done anything useful at all?" Monk stood totally still, an incredible reality dawning on him. Runcorn was abashed because he felt defensive of Sarah and a pity for her he had not expected, and it totally confused him. He was not idly defending her, but his own nakedness in front of Monk, whom he imagined could not share his understanding or his pain.

The fact that he did share it made Monk angry too. He admired Runcorn for it. It must have required an inner courage to admit an openness to hurt and to change he had not thought him capable of. Now it meant Monk too had to alter his judgements, and of Runcorn, of all people.

He was aware Runcorn was watching him now. "Opium?" he said, forcing his voice to convey interest. "Any idea where she got it from?" Runcorn grunted. "Could be Allardyce," he said noncommittally. "That could be what all this is about opium sale gone wrong. Perhaps Mrs.

Beck came in on it and they were afraid she would cause a scandal."

"Worth killing her for?" Monk said dubiously. Selling opium was not a crime.

"Might have been a lot of money," Runcorn reasoned. "Or other people involved. Don't know who else Allardyce painted, perhaps Society ladies. Maybe they were taking the stuff, and wouldn't want their husbands to know?" It was possible in fact, the more he thought of it the better it looked. It would mean the motive for the murders was nothing to do with Kristian, or Elissa Beck. "A quarrel perhaps, or a little blackmail?" he added to the idea. "Allardyce was the supplier?" Runcorn looked at him with something almost like approval. "Well, he probably gave it to Sarah Mackeson, keep her docile, if nothing else poor creature. He wouldn't care what it did to her over time. He's only interested in the way she looks now, not what happens to her once he's tired of her and picked someone else." His mouth closed in a bitter line, as if he were angry not only with Allardyce but with everyone else who failed to see what he did, or was indifferent to it.

Monk said nothing. There were too many changes whirling through his mind. His fury against Runcorn dissolved, and then was confused with a new one, because he did not want to have to alter his opinion of him, especially so quickly and so violently. It was his own fault for leaping to a cruel conclusion before he knew the truth, but he still blamed Runcorn for not being what he had supposed. Even as he was doing it he knew it was unfair, and that made it worse.

Runcorn flicked through the papers on his desk and found what he was looking for. He held it out to Monk. "That's the drawing Allardyce spoke about. Feller who drew it said it was the night of the murders, and pub landlord said he was there right enough, and drawing people." Monk took the sketch from him. He needed only a glance to see an unmistakable portrait of Allardyce. It had not Allardyce's skill at catching the pa.s.sion of a moment. There was no tension in it, no drama. It was simply a group of friends around a table at a tavern, but the atmosphere was pervasive. Even in such a hasty sketch one could imagine the laughter, the hum of conversation, the clink of gla.s.ses, and music in the background, a theatre poster on the wall behind them.

"They were there all evening," Runcorn said flatly. "We can forget Allardyce." Monk said nothing. The ugly, choking misery inside him closed his throat.

Chapter Six.

Hester went to the hospital again to see Mary Ellsworth. She found her sitting up in bed, her wound healing nicely and the pain definitely less than even a day ago.

"I'm going to be all right!" she said the moment Hester was in the door. "Aren't I?" Her eyes were anxious and she held the bedclothes so tightly her hands were balled into fists. Her hair was straggling out of the braids she had put it in for the night, as if already she had started to pull at it again.

Hester felt her heart sink. What could she say to this woman that would even begin to heal her real illness? The bezoar was the symptom, not the cause.

"You are recovering very well," she replied. She reached out her hand and put it over Mary's. It was as rigid as it looked.

"And I'll... I'll go home?" Mary said, watching Hester intently.

"And will Dr. Beck tell me what to do? I mean... he's a doctor, he'd know better than anyone, wouldn't he?" That was a challenge, almost a plea.

Kristian could tell her not to eat her hair, but that was not what she meant. She was looking for some other kind of instruction, rea.s.surance.

"Of course he will, but I expect most of it you know for yourself," Hesteranswered.

An extraordinary look came into Mary's eyes, hope, terror, and a kind of desperate anger as if she were newly aware of something which was monstrously unjust. "No, I don't! And Mama won't know! She won't know this!"

"Would it help if we tell her?" Hester suggested.

Now Mary was quite clearly frightened. She seemed to be faced with a dilemma beyond her courage to solve.

"Is your mother not very good at looking after things?" Hester said gently. She knew Mary's father had been a country parson, a younger son of a well-to-do family.

"She's good at everything!" Mary a.s.serted angrily, pulling the bedclothes more tightly up to her chest. "She always knows what to do!" That came out like a charge. Resentment and fear smouldered in her eyes. Then she looked away, down at her hands.

"I see." Hester thought that perhaps she did, just a glimpse. "Well, it doesn't need to be decided now," she said firmly. "But I'm sure Dr.

Beck would be happy to tell you what you need to do, and I will also.

Will that make you feel better?" Mary's hands relaxed a fraction. "Will you write it for me, in case ..

"Of course. You will have something to refer to," Hesteragreed. "And you can practise before you go home."

"Practise?"

"Practise being certain what is the right thing to do."

"Oh! Yes. Thank you." Hester stayed a few minutes longer, then went to look for Kristian.

Later she pa.s.sed Fermin Thorpe in the corridor, looking impatient as always and, as usual, affecting not to see her, because she made him feel uncomfortable. He lost his temper with her, and he hated being out of control of anything, most of all his own behaviour. His colour was high and he had a glitter in his eyes as if his last encounter had displeased him.

She found Callandra in the apothecary's room, and the moment she saw Hester she concluded her discussion and came out.

"Have you heard anything?" she said as soon as the door was closed.

"What has William found?" Hester had not seen her since the funeral. She had lain awake arguing with herself whether she would tell Callandra about Elissa and the gambling, and then when she realised she had to, she tortured herself as to how she would do it, and still leave Kristian some privacy, particularly from Callandra's knowledge of his pain.

But there was a chill of fear inside her that the luxury of protecting embarra.s.sment, even pride, was not affordable. At the very best, Callandra would have to know one day. It would be easier for her to be told in Kristian's own time, in his words, and as his decision. But at the worst, it might be a matter of survival, and all knowledge was necessary to protect against betrayal by error.

"What is it?" Callandra said quietly.

"Elissa Beck gambled," Hester replied. Then, seeing the look of incomprehension in Callandra's face, she went on, "Compulsively. She lost everything she had, so that Kristian had to sell their belongings, even the furniture." Callandra seemed able to take in the meaning of what was said only slowly, as if it were a complicated story.

"It's an addiction," Hester went on. "Like drinking, or taking opium.

Some people can't stop, no matter what it does to them, even if they lose their money, their jewellery, pictures, ornaments, the furniture out of their houses... everything. Elissa was like that." The real horror of it was dawning on Callandra. Perhaps she realised now why she had never been asked to Kristian's house. She must also realise how vast a part of his life she knew nothing of the pain, the embarra.s.sment, the fears of discovery and ruin. These were at the heart of his existence, every day, and she had had no knowledge of them, shared nothing because he had never allowed her to know.

"I'm sorry," Hester said gently. "If we are to help Kristian we can't afford ignorance."

"Could it be someone to whom she owed money Callandra began.

"Of course," Hesteragreed too quickly.

Callandra's face tightened into blank misery. "Kristian would have paid. You said everything was gone, at least you implied it. Ruined gamblers commit suicide. I've known soldiers do that. Do creditors really murder them? And what about the other poor woman?" She shivered convulsively. "Surely she didn't gamble too?"

"She was possibly the one they intended to kill," Hester was trying to convince herself as much as Callandra. "The police are trying to find out as much as they can about her."

"Perhaps it was a lovers' quarrel that went much too far?" Callandra's voice hovered on the edge of conviction. "What about the artist?"