Funeral In Blue Part 10

"Perhaps."

"Well, this won't do any good standing here," Callandra forced herself to smile. "How is the woman who had the hairball? I thought only cats got them! For them it's understandable, but I can't think of anything more revolting than eating hair!"

"The wound is healing well. I'm wondering what we can do to give her the belief in herself to heal the inside of her."

"Work," Callandra replied without hesitation. "If she stayed here she could be found enough to do so she was too busy to sit and worry about herself."

"I doubt her mother would allow her to," Hester replied. "Hospitals don't have a very good reputation for young ladies of genteel background." She gave a twisted smile as she said it, but there was too much truth in it to ignore.

"I'll speak to her," Callandra promised.

"I think she would like it, but she'd never have the courage to defy ' "The mother!" Callandra supplied. "I'm good with dragons, believe me! I know exactly where the soft spots are." ' This time Hester's smile was wholehearted. "I'll hold your s.h.i.+eld for you!" she promised.

The following day was the funeral of Sarah Mackeson. Monk wondered if anyone but the priest and the grave diggers would attend. There would be no family to hold an elaborate reception afterwards, no one to pay for a hea.r.s.e and four horses with black plumes, or professional mourners to carry feathers and stand in silence with faces like masks of tragedy.

Someone should be there. He would go. Whatever the need for truth, this was a need also. He would follow Kristian's path on the evening of the murders and check every detail, speak to every pedlar, shopkeeper and barrow boy he could, but he would check his watch regularly, and make the time for Sarah's funeral.

He left the house at seven. It was a heavy, still morning with a distinct coldness in the air, but the fog had cleared, at least for the meantime. It was easy to believe that winter was ahead, even if there were still leaves on the trees. Dusk was growing earlier and dawn later by a few minutes every day.

It was hardly worth looking for a cab for the short distance to Acton Street, and walking gave him the opportunity to think what he was going to do. If he traced Kristian's path precisely, there was a possibility that he could prove he could not have been in Allardyce' sstudio. Then the question of his guilt did not arise. Runcorn's men had already tried to establish this, and failed to do it conclusively. "' Monk pa.s.sed a newspaper seller shouting about the Government in Was.h.i.+ngton starting a crusade against anti-civil war journals, and some being seized at a post office in Philadelphia.

By the time he reached Acton Street and found the constable it was quarter to eight. He rehea.r.s.ed Kristian's movements as he had recounted them, and found the first witness, a pedlar who sold sandwiches and knew Kristian quite well, having often provided him with what served for luncheon or dinner when he was hard-pressed, hurrying from one patient to another.

"Oh, yeah," he said with conviction. "Dr. Beck pa.s.sed 'ere 'bout quarter past nine. "Ungry, 'e were, an' rushed orff 'is feet, like most times. Sold 'im an 'am san'wich an' 'e ate 'alf of it and went on withe other alfin 'is 'and." Monk breathed a sigh of relief. If Kristian had been on his way to his patient in Clarendon Square at quarter past nine, then he could not have been in Acton Street at just after half-past. "Are you sure it was quarter past nine?" he pressed.

"Course I'm sure," the pedlar replied, pulling his wide mouth into a grimace.

"How do you know?" He had to be certain. "Cos Mr. Arreford come by an' bought' is usual. Quarter past nine on the dot, 'e is, reg'lar as Big Ben."

"You can't hear Big Ben from here," Monk pointed out.

The pedlar looked at him crookedly. "Course yer can't!" he said witheringly. "Figure o' speech, like. If Big Ben ain't reg'lar, the world's comin' tera rare fix!"

"And this Mr. Harreford is never late, or early?"

"Never. If yer knew 'im, yer wouldn't ask."

"Where do I find him?"

"Don't yer believe me, then?"

"Yes, I believe you, but the judge may not, if it comes to that." The pedlar s.h.i.+vered. "Don' wanna tell no judge!"

"You won't need to, if I find Mr. Harreford."

"Works in the lawyers' offices, number 14 Amwell Street. That way," he said instantly.

Monk smiled. "Thank you." An hour later Mr. Harreford, a dry, obsessively neat, little man, confirmed what the pedlar had said, and Monk left with a feeling of growing relief. Perhaps his fears were unnecessary after all Kristian had an excellent witness, one that Runcorn would take sufficiently seriously that he would dismiss Kristian as a suspect. Monk walked back towards Tottenham Court Road with a light, swift step. After he had been to Sarah Mackeson's funeral, he would be able to check on the patient, Maud Adenby, and that would account for Kristian's time completely.

"Thank you," Monk acknowledged to the pedlar.

"Pleasure, guvnor," the pedlar said with a grin. "Yer owe me, mind!"

"I do," Monk agreed.

"Still followin' the doc's path that night, are yer?"

"I will, when I come back."

"Good, 'cos yer won't find the chestnut seller on 'is patch till 'arter midday."

"Chestnut seller?" Monk asked doubtfully.

"Yeah! Corner o' Liverpool Street and the Euston Road. "E must 'a seen 'im too, at twenty arter nine, or the like."

"You mean ten past," Monk corrected. Liverpool Street was in the opposite direction.

"No, I don't!" The pedlar stared at him, drawing his brows down.

"If he was going from Argyle Street, beyond Pentonville Road, towards Clarendon Square, he would pa.s.s Liverpool Street before here!" Monk pointed out with weary patience.

"Course 'e would," the pedlar agreed. "But as 'e were goin' t' other way, 'e' dpa.s.s me first, wouldn't 'e?"

"The other way?" Monk repeated slowly, the relief freezing inside him to a small, hard stone.

"Yeah. "E weren't goin' ter Clarendon Square, 'e'd bin, an' were comin' back."

"You're sure?" Monk knew it was stupid asking even as he said the words; it was fighting against a truth part of him already accepted.

"Yeah, I'm sure." The pedlar looked unhappy. "Is that bad?"

"Not necessarily," Monk lied. "It's good you get it right. No room for mistakes. He was going that way?" He pointed towards Gray's Inn Road.

"Yeah!"

"Did he say where to?"

"No. Just took the sandwich and went. Didn't stop an' talk like 'e sometimes does. Reckon 'e 'ad someone real poorly."

"Yes, I dare say he did. Thank you." Monk walked away. Of course he would have to check with the chestnut seller, but he was already certain of what he would find.

The funeral of Sarah Mackeson was held in a small church in Pentonville. It was very quiet, and conducted so hastily as to be no more than a formality. It was an observance of the decencies for the sake of being able to say duty was done. There was a plain wooden coffin, but it was of pine, and Monk wondered if Argo Allardyce had paid for it, even though he was not present.

He glanced around the almost empty pews, and saw a middle-aged woman in a plain black coat and drab hat, and he recognised Mrs. Clark, looking tearful. There was no one else present except Runcorn, standing at the back, angry and embarra.s.sed when his eyes met Monk's. He looked away quickly, as if they had not seen each other.

What was he doing here? Did he really imagine that whoever had killed her would be at the funeral? Whatever for? Some kind of remorse? Only if it were Allardyce, and his presence would prove nothing. He had employed her as his model for the last three or four years, painted her countless times. Until Elissa Beck, she was woven into his art as no one else.

So why was he not here? Was he too overwrought with emotion, or did he not care? Was Runcorn standing so quietly at the back, head bowed, face sombre because he cared? Monk looked at him again, and as Runcorn became aware of him, he turned away and concentrated on the minister and the brief words of the service.

The clergyman sounded as if he were simply rehearsing something learned by rote, fulfilling his duty in order to be released to something else.

His eulogy was anonymous. He had not known her, and what he said could have applied to any young woman who had died unexpectedly.

Monk resented this lack of care with a bitterness he could not explain.

Then the thought occurred to him that if he had died in the coach crash which had robbed him of memory, he might have been buried as coldly as this, with no one to mourn, the decencies carried out as a public duty by someone who did not take the time or trouble to learn anything more than his name, who had never known him, and certainly never cared.

He decided in that moment that he would go to the graveside as well. It was time wasted in which he could have been looking for further evidence of Kristian's movements. He might find something to prove that the surgeon had been far enough away from Acton Street for it to have been impossible for him to be guilty. But even as the thought pa.s.sed through his mind, Monk followed the small procession out of the church, along the street towards the already crowded graveyard.

In the narrow s.p.a.ce between the gravestones it was impossible not to find himself next to Runcorn. Whatever had taken him to the church, it could only be some personal emotion which brought him here. He stood staring at the open hollow in the ground, avoiding Monk's eyes. He still looked angry to be caught here, yet too stubborn to be put off.

Monk resisted the idea that he could possibly feel the same mixture of pity and resentment for Sarah that he did. He and Runcorn were nothing alike! They were here side by side, avoiding each other's eyes, aware of the chill of the wet ground under their feet and the dark hole gaping in front of them, the ritual words which should have held pa.s.sion and comfort, if spoken with feeling, and the solitary figure of Mrs. Clark sniffing and dabbing a sodden handkerchief to her eyes.

When it was over Monk looked once at Runcorn, who nodded curtly as if they were acquaintances met by chance and then hurried away.

As Monk left a few minutes after him, towards the Gray's Inn Road, he turned his mind back to the question of Kristian's movements on the evening of the murders. He went to the patients he had visited and asked them again for times as exactly as they could' recall The answers were unsatisfactory. Memories were hazy with pain, and the confusion of days which blurred one into another in a round of medicines, meals, naps, the occasional visit. Time meant very little.

There was really no meaning in whether the doctor came at eight or at nine, or on Monday or Tuesday this week, or was it last?

Monk was left uncertain as to whether or not Kristian could prove himself elsewhere at the time of the murder. He began to fear more and more that he could not.

What Hester had told him of Elissa's gambling crowded his mind with ugly thoughts. Too easily he could imagine the fear of ruin spiralling out of control, until one day the self-discipline snapped and violence broke through. The deed would be done before Kristian had had time to realise what he intended. Then he would be faced with Sarah Mackeson, drunk, frightened, perhaps hysterical and beginning to scream. He would silence her in self-preservation, possibly his old fighting skills returning from the revolution in Vienna, where the cause had been great, and war and death in the air mixed with the hope, and then the despair.

Did such events change a man's core, the way he responded to threat, the value he placed on life?

Monk was walking more slowly now, turning south down Gray's Inn Road.

He pa.s.sed a gingerbread man, very smartly dressed, smiling broadly.

"Here's your nice gingerbread, your spiced gingerbread!" he called out. "Melt in your mouth like a red-hot brickbat and rumble in your inside like Punch in a wheelbarrow!" He grinned at Monk. "You never heard o' Tiddy Diddy Doll?" Monk smiled back at him. "Yes, I did. Bit before your time, though, wasn't he?"

"Hundred year!" the man agreed. "Best gingerbread man in England, 'e were. An' why shouldn't I copy him? Do you good warm the c.o.c.kles oyer 'cart. "Ere threepence worth. Keep the cold out oyer Monk handed him threepence and took the generous slice. "Thank you.

You here most evenings?"

"Course I am. Come by any time. You'll not find better in London," the man a.s.sured him.

"Do you know Dr. Beck, Austrian gentleman, who tends patients all around this area? He's a couple of inches shorter than I am, dark hair, remarkable dark eyes. Probably always in a hurry."

"Yeah, I know the gent you mean. Foreign. Out all hours. Friend o' yours?"

"Yes. Can you remember the last time you saw him?"

"Lorst 'im, 'ave yer?" the man grinned again.

Monk maintained his self-control with an effort. "It was his wife who was murdered in Acton Street. When did you see him?" The gingerbread man whistled between his teeth and all the humour died out of his face. "I saw 'im that night, but it were about ten-ish.

Bought a piece o' gingerbread an' took a cab up north. Goin' 'ome, I reckoned, but maybe not. I went 'ome me self just arter that. "E were me last customer."

"How was he?"

"Fitter drop, if yer ask me. That tired 'e could 'ardly stand up.

Terrible thing to lose yer wife like that." He shook his head and sighed.

Monk thanked him and moved on. He was not sure if the man's news was good or bad. It tallied roughly with what Kristian had said, but it also placed him within a few hundred yards of Acton Street.

Perhaps rather than trying to follow Kristian he should learn more about Elissa? Obviously she had been in Allardyce's studio at the time of the murder, but what about before that? Both he and Runcorn had a.s.sumed she had gone from her home straight to Allardyce's studio.

Maybe gambling was the reason she had gone to Swinton Street?

Regardless of that, he should know more of her gambling. He had accepted Kristian's word, given to Hester. If he believed him capable of killing his wife, why did he a.s.sume that his account was true in every other particular, simply because it was humiliating, and gave him a motive in her death? There might be things he was ignorant of, or mistaken in. He could be lying to conceal something else.

It was not difficult to find the gambling house. The most simple questions, asked with an a.s.sured eagerness and a certain glint in the eye, determined that it was the fifth house along from the Gray's Inn Road, in the north side of the street, well concealed behind a butcher's shop.

Monk walked briskly and went up the shallow step and through the interior, stacked only with a few miserable-looking sausages, and knocked on the door beyond. It was opened by a large-shouldered man with a badly broken nose and a soft, slightly lisping voice.

"Yes?" he said guardedly.

"I'm told a man with a little money to spend can find rather better amus.e.m.e.nt here than in music halls or the local tavern," Monk replied.

"Something with a chance to win ... or lose ... a bit of involvement."

"Well now, and who told you that, then?" The man still looked dubious, but there was a flicker of interest in his face.

"A lady I know who enjoys some excitement in her life now and then.

Gentlemen don't mention names." The man smiled, showing a chipped front tooth, and asked to see the colour of his money.

"Gold same colour as everyone else's!" Monk snapped. "What's the matter? Only cater for silver here, do you? Or copper, maybe?"

"No call to be rude," the man said patiently. "Just a few ladies and gentlemen spending a pleasant afternoon. Causing n.o.body no fuss. But I think as I'd like ter know your friend's name, gentleman or no gentleman."

"Unfortunately my friend met with a ... misfortune," Monk replied.

"A financial one, like?" the man asked with a sigh.

"She met with a few of those, but that's life," Monk replied laconically. "This one was worse. She was murdered." The man's face tightened around the lips and jaw. "Very sad. But isn't nothing to do with us 'ere." The fact that he denied it gave Monk a sudden sense of chill, but he knew that a murder which would draw such intense police attention was the last thing a house like this would wish. They would have to close down and set up somewhere else. That would take time and cost money.

They would lose business, and while they were closed their custom would go to their rivals, possibly not to return.

It would be such an easy answer if he could think they were guilty of Elissa's murder, but it made no sense.

The man was waiting for him to reply.

He shrugged deliberately. It cost him an effort of will; the faces of two dead women stayed in front of his eyes. "Not my business," he said carelessly. "If you can't pay your debts, you shouldn't play. Pity about her, but life doesn't stop ... at least not for us." The man laughed heartily, but his eyes remained cold. "You got the idea right," he said with a nod.

"So how long do I stand here debating the philosophy of debt?" Monk asked, matching him stare for stare.