Funeral In Blue Part 18

"Max was one of the ones hurt," Ferdi replied, glancing sideways to make sure Monk was keeping up with him in the dark. "Kristian was trying to stop a man bleeding to death from a terrible wound. He had one hand holding a pad on the man's shoulder, and he was shouting to Elissa to stop, or someone to help her, and waving his other arm."

"But Elissa wasn't hurt?"

"Apparently not. There was one woman called Hanna who was with them.

She went right out in front too. She was one of those who dragged the wounded men back. And she used to carry messages too, right through where the army had taken the city back, to where their own revolutionaries were cut off at the far side. And carry messages to their allies in the Government as well."

"Can we speak to her?" Monk asked eagerly. It would be a first-hand account from another person who knew them well. She might have noticed more of relations.h.i.+ps, the undercurrents of envy or pa.s.sion between Kristian and Max.

"I asked," Ferdi agreed, his face suddenly very sober. "But he thinks she was one of those killed in the uprising. He told me roughly where Max Niemann still lives, though. He's very respectable now. The Government hasn't forgotten which side he was on when it mattered, and they just can't afford to punish everybody, or it would all get out of hand again. Too many people think highly of Herr Niemann." Ferdi waved his hands excitedly. "But that's not all. It seems that your friend Herr Beck was a pretty good hero too, a real fighter. Not only brave, but pretty clever a sort of natural leader. He had the courage to face the enemy down. Could read people rather well, and knew when to call a bluff, and just how far to go. He was tougher than Niemann, and prepared to take the risks."

"Are you sure?" It did not sound like the man Monk had seen. Surely Ferdi had it the wrong way around. "Beck is a doctor."

"Well, he could have it wrong, I suppose, but he seemed absolutely sure!" Monk did not argue. His feet ached and he was exhausted. He felt cold through to the bone, and it was still more than a mile back to his rooms in the Josefstadt. Before he could even think of that he must make certain he found a carriage to take Ferdi safely home. This was his city, but Monk still felt responsible for him.

"We'll start again tomorrow," he said decisively, 'speak to some more of the people on the list."

"Right!" Ferdi agreed. "We're not finding anything very helpful.. .

are we?" He looked anxiously at Monk.

Monk had his own feelings. "Not yet. But we will do. Perhaps tomorrow?" Ferdi was prompt in the morning and with renewed zeal had planned where to continue their search. This time they found a charming woman who must have been in her twenties thirteen years ago, and now was comfortably plump and prosperous.

"Of course I knew Kristian," she said with a smile as she admitted them to her sitting room and offered them a choice of three kinds of coffee, and melting, delicious cake, even though it was barely half-past ten in the morning. "And Max. What a lovely man!"

"Kristian?" Monk asked quickly, by now catching from Ferdi a large part of the sense of the conversation. "Is she speaking of Kristian?" But apparently it was Max she considered lovely.

"Not Kristian?" Monk persisted.

Little by little Ferdi drew from her a picture of Max as quieter than Kristian, with a wry sense of humour and an intense loyalty. Yes, of course he was in love with Elissa, anyone could see that! But she fell in love with Kristian, and that was the end of the matter.

Was there jealousy? The woman shrugged her shoulders and smiled across at Monk with a little laugh, sad and rueful. Of course there was, but only a fool fights the inevitable. Kristian was the leader, the man with the courage of his dreams and the nerve to take the decisions, and pay the price. But it was all a long time ago now. She was married with four children. Kristian and Elissa had gone to England. Max lived very well, somewhere in the Neubau district she thought. Was Monk staying long in Vienna? Did he know that Herr Strauss the younger had been appointed Keppelmeister to the National Guard during the uprising? No? Well, he had. Mr. Monk could not visit Vienna and not listen to Herr Strauss. It would be like being a fish and not swimming. It was to deny nature and insult the good G.o.d who created happiness.

Monk promised that he would, thanked her for her hospitality, and urged Ferdi to leave.

They saw two more people on Kristian's list and they confirmed all that Monk and Ferdi had heard so far. According to these two Viennese, the revolutionaries had worked largely in groups, and that of which Kristian Beck had been the leader consisted of seven or eight people.

Max Niemann, Elissa and Hanna Jakob had been with them from the beginning. Another half-dozen or so had come and gone. Four had been killed, two at the barricades, one in prison, and Hanna Jakob tortured and shot in one of the backstreets when she would not betray her fellows.

Monk felt sick, forced to listen to a shocked and white-faced Ferdi recounting it in the comfortable surroundings of the guesthouse where they had returned, hands frozen from a hard wind out of a clear sky smelling like snow.

They sat in front of the fire with the remains of cakes and beer on the table between them and the last of the fading sunlight high in the windows as the early evening closed in. Monk tried to imagine how Kristian had felt when he heard of Hanna's death sharp with the shock of immediacy thirteen years ago. Hanna had been one of them, alive only hours ago, her pain barely over, her life precious and urgent as their own. Had he sat in a quiet room somewhere, about this time of year with the wind cold outside, and thought of Hanna dying in an alley among enemies, silent to save the rest of them? What guilt did he feel simply because he was alive? What had they done to try to rescue her?

Or had they known nothing about it until it was too late?

"It seems Dr. Beck was a real firebrand," Ferdi said, blinking hard and swallowing. "They respected him like mad, because he never told anybody else to do things he wasn't prepared to do himself. And he saw several steps ahead, thinking what his decisions would do, what they might cost." He looked down at the table, his voice soft. "He really hated the commander of one of the divisions of police, Count von Waldmuller. There was sort of ... a feud between them, because this Count von Waldmuller was a great believer in military discipline, and certain people being fit to rule, and others not. He was pretty rigid, and he and Dr. Beck got across each other, and every new thing made it worse."

"What happened to him?" Monk asked.

"He got shot during the fighting in October," Ferdi replied with satisfaction. "In the streets, actually. He led the army against the barricades and Dr. Beck led the resistance." He pulled a rueful face.

"The revolutionaries lost, of course, but at least they got Count von Waldmuller. I'd love to have been there to see that! It was one of the Count's lieutenants that found out where that group were all going to be, and brought the troops up behind them." He s.h.i.+vered and reached for another cake. "But he did it too late. Elissa von Leibnitz had taken a message to one of the other groups, and reinforcements came.

Dr. Beck led them out to fight, and they were so brave and acted as if they knew they'd win that Count von Waldmuller fell back, and got shot.

Lost his leg, apparently." He grinned suddenly. "Has a wooden one now. They said it was Dr. Beck who shot him! I know where Max Niemann lives! Shall we go to see tomorrow?"

"Not yet," Monk said thoughtfully. He was aware of Ferdi's acute disappointment, and also rather surprised that his father had not curtailed his time spent a.s.sisting someone of whom they had no personal knowledge whatever. Were Pendreigh and Callandra's letters really of such force as to allay all anxieties?

"But you know everything about him!" Ferdi urged, leaning forward and demanding Monk's attention. "What else can I find out? Dr. Beck lives in England now. He and Elissa von Leibnitz fell in love and married." His face was bleak for a moment. "The others are dead.

What's wrong, Mr. Monk? Isn't it what you needed?"

"I don't know. It certainly isn't what I expected." It had given him nothing to indicate that Max Niemann had gone to London seeking to rebuild an old love affair, and when rejected had lost control of himself and murdered two women. Every one of the stories Ferdi had told him only emphasised the bonds of loyalty between them all, and it seemed very clear that Elissa had chosen Kristian from the beginning, and married him before they left Vienna. If Niemann had come imagining a change in love or loyalty, then Monk would have to find irrefutable proof of it before it would be of any use to Pendreigh in court.

"What about Beck's friends who weren't revolutionary?" he asked. "He must have known other people. What about his family?" Ferdi sat up. "I'll find them! That should be very easy. I know just where to ask. My mother's brother knows everyone, or if he doesn't, he can find out. He is in the Government." Monk winced, but he had already been away from London for over a week.

He could not afford the luxury of being careful. He accepted.

It took another exhausting, precious two days to engineer the meeting, and since they apparently spoke excellent English, to his chagrin, Ferdi was not required. Monk promised to report to him anything that was of interest, wording it carefully so that it allowed him to exclude at his own judgement, and saw Ferdi's face light up with belief. Then he felt a sharp and totally unexpected stab of guilt. Ferdi was not listening to his precisely chosen words, but to the honest intent he believed in. Monk realised with surprise that he would fulfill the expectation. Ferdi's opinion mattered to him more than the guarding of the case, or the trouble it would take him to explain to anybody...

except Hester. She had earned that right, and it was also comfortable and often very productive to share his thoughts with her, even half formed or mistaken. It clarified his own mind and she frequently added to his perception. He realised with sudden misery how much he missed her now.

Fifteen-year-old Ferdi, whom he barely knew, was a totally different matter. Nevertheless he would do it.

Kristian's elder brother and his wife lived in Margareten, a discreet but obviously well-to-do residential area to the south of the city.

Monk had the address, and by now had picked up enough German from experience with Ferdi to acquire a cab and arrive there at five o'clock in the darkening afternoon, as had been arranged.

He was admitted by a footman, much as he might have been in England, and then to a beautiful, rather ornate withdrawing room, although he hesitated to think of it by that term. It was far too formal to give the feeling of a place where one withdrew for comfort and privacy after a meal, to talk to guests or one's family, and relax at the end of the day.

Within minutes he was joined by Josef and Magda Beck. Monk was intrigued by how like Kristian his brother was. He had the same build, the average height, slender but strong body, good breadth of chest, neat, well-manicured hands which he moved very slightly when he spoke.

His hair was also very dark, and good, but his eyes had not the extraordinary, luminous beauty of Kristian's. Nor had his features the pa.s.sion or the sensuality of the mouth.

His wife, Magda, was fairer, although her skin still had an olive warmth to it and her eyes were golden brown. She was not so much pretty as pleasing.

"How do you do, Mr. Monk?" Josef said stiffly. "I understand from your letter that you have some serious news about my brother." He did not sound startled or afraid, but perhaps those were private emotions he would not have betrayed in front of a stranger. If Magda felt differently within herself, she was too dutiful not to follow his example.

Monk had already decided that directness, up to a point, was the tactic most likely to be productive, and therefore to help Kristian, if that were possible. His hope for that was dwindling day by day.

"Yes," he said gravely. "I am not sure if you are aware that his wife was killed about three weeks ago..." He saw from the horror in their faces that they were not. "I'm sorry to have to tell you such tragic news." Magda was clearly distressed. "That's terrible." Her voice was charged with emotion. "How is Kristian? I know he loved her very deeply." He searched her face to read what her own emotions were. How well had she known Elissa? Was her sorrow for Kristian, or for her sister-in-law as well? He decided to keep back the rest of the story until he was more certain of their reactions. "He is very shocked, of course," he replied. "It was sudden and profoundly distressing."

"I'm sorry," Josef said rather formally. "I must write to him. It is good of you to have told us." He made no remark of surprise that Kristian had not told them himself. The omission gave Monk a feeling of unease. In his mind's eye he saw Hester's turmoil of distress over Charles's pain, and it gave him a sharp sense of loneliness for Hester.

He thought of his own sister, Beth, in Northumberland, and how seldom he wrote to her. He was the one who had broken the bond, first by leaving the north, then by answering her letters only perfunctorily, giving nothing of himself but bare facts, no feelings, no sharing of laughter or pain, none of the details that make a picture of life. He had done it for so long that Beth wrote only at Christmas and birthdays now, like someone who has had the door closed in their face too often.

The conversation seemed to have died. They a.s.sumed he had called merely to inform them of Elissa's death. In a moment they would politely wish him goodbye. He must say more, just to jolt them into reaction. "It is not so simple as that," he said a trifle abruptly.

"Mrs. Beck was murdered, and the police have arrested Kristian." That certainly provoked all the emotional reaction he could have wished. Magda buckled at the knees and sank on to the sofa behind her, gasping for breath. Josef went absolutely white and swayed on his feet, ignoring his wife.

"G.o.d in heaven!" he said sharply. "This is terrible!"

"Poor Kristian," Magda whispered, pressing her hands up to her face.

"Do you know what happened?"

"No," Monk replied with less than the truth. "I think the beginning of it, and perhaps even the end, may be here in Vienna." Josef jerked up his head. "Here? But Elissa was English, and they both lived there since '49. Why should it be here? That makes no sense at all." Magda looked at Monk. "But Kristian didn't do it, did he!" It was an exclamation, almost a challenge. "I know he is very pa.s.sionate about things, but fighting at the barricades, even killing people -strangers... for the cause of greater freedom is quite different from murdering someone you know. I can't say we ever understood Kristian. He was always..." She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. "I'm not sure how to explain it without giving a false impression. He made quick decisions, he knew his own mind, he was a natural leader and other men looked to him because he never, never showed his fear."

"He was hot-headed," Josef said simply, looking at Monk, not at Magda.

"He didn't always listen to reason, and he had no patience. But what my wife is trying to say is that he was a good man. The things he did which were violent were for ideals, not out of anger or desire for himself. If he killed Elissa, then there was a cause for it, one which would surely act as mitigation. I a.s.sume that is what you are looking for, although I doubt it is actually here in Vienna. It is all too long ago. Whatever occurred here is long since resolved, or forgotten." He was looking at Monk and did not notice the shadow pa.s.s across Magda's face.

"Did you know a man named Max Niemann?" Monk asked them both.

"I've heard of him, of course," Josef replied. "He was very active in the uprisings, but I believe he has made a good life for himself since then. There were reprisals, naturally, but not long drawn out. Niemann survived quite well. It was wise of Kristian to have left Austria, and certainly for his wife to have. She became..." he hesitated, 'quite famous among a certain group. But all the same, I don't find it easy to imagine that someone held on to a hunger for revenge for her part in the uprisings all those years, and went all the way to England to kill her." He frowned. "I wish I could be of a.s.sistance to you, but I a.s.sure you, that really is too unlikely to waste your time with." He made a slight gesture with his hands. "But of course we will do anything we can. Do you have names, anyone you wish to meet, or to make enquiries about? I know several people in government and in the police who would a.s.sist, if I asked them. It might be wiser not to mention that Kristian himself is suspected."

"It would be helpful to hear other stories of his part in the uprising," Monk said, trying to keep the confusion and disappointment out of his voice. "Even other opinions of Kristian himself."

"You want witnesses for his character?" Magda asked quickly. She glanced up at Josef, then back at Monk. "I'm sure Father Geissner would be willing to do that, even to travel to London, if that would help."

"Father Geissner?" For a moment Monk was lost.

"Our priest," she explained. "He is very highly regarded, even though he supported the uprisings, and actually ministered to the wounded at the barricades. He would be the best advocate I can think of, and ' "Absolutely!" Josef agreed instantly and with enthusiasm. "Well done, my dear. I don't know why I didn't think of him. I shall introduce you tomorrow if you wish?"

"Thank you." Monk grasped the unlikely chance immediately. Perhaps the priest would give him a clearer picture of Niemann. He might have observed subtler emotions than the rather colourful stories that had grown up in the thirteen intervening years, mostly of the acts of courage and loyalty or betrayal, death and the closing in of the old oppressions again. The human jealousies or wounds were lost in the political needs.

"We must see him anyway, to have a Ma.s.s said for Elissa's soul," Magda added, making the sign of the cross.

Josef hastily did the same, and bowed his head for a moment.

Monk was taken by surprise. He had not realised that Kristian was Catholic. It was another dimension he had not considered. For that matter he did not know what his own religious background was! What had his parents believed? He had no memory whatever of having gone to church as a child. But then he had only the barest s.n.a.t.c.hes of anything at all from that part of his life. It was all gone as if dreamed long ago. Surely if faith was worth anything it should inform a person's entire life? It should be the rock upon which everything was built, guide all moral decision, and in time of distress give the comfort to sustain, to heal, to give meaning to conflict and make tragedy bearable?

He looked again at Magda Beck's round, serious face and saw a flicker of some inner certainty in it, or at least the knowledge where to reach for it.

When he got home he must make sure that Kristian had a priest to visit him as often as he wished, and it was allowed.

"Thank you very much," he said with more confidence. "I should like very much to speak with Father Geissner."

"Of course," Josef looked happier. He had been able to do something to help.

Monk was about to ask where and when they should meet, and then take his leave, when the footman came to announce the arrival of Herr and Frau von Arpels, and Josef told him to show them in.

Von Arpels was slender with wispy fair hair and a lean, rather sharp face. His wife was plain, but when she spoke her voice was surprisingly attractive, very low and a little husky.

INTRODUCTIONS WERE MADE, AND JOSEF IMMEDIATELY TOLD THEM of Elissa's death, although not the cause of it. Suitable distress was expressed, and both of them offered to pray for her soul, and to attend Ma.s.s for her. of Elissa's death, although not the cause of it. Suitable distress was expressed, and both of them offered to pray for her soul, and to attend Ma.s.s for her.

Von Arpels turned to Monk. "Are you staying in Vienna long, Herr Monk? There are many sights for you to see. Have you been to the Opera yet? Or the concert hall? There is an excellent season of Beethoven and Mozart. Or a cruise on the river, perhaps? Although it is a little late for that. Too cold by far. The wind comes from the east and can be rather biting at this time of year." Frau von Arpels smiled at him. "Perhaps you prefer something a little lighter? Cafe society? We can tell you all the best and most fas.h.i.+onable places to go ... or even some of those which are less fas.h.i.+onable, but rather more fun? Do you dance, Herr Monk?" Her voice lifted with enthusiasm. "You must waltz! You cannot be in Vienna and not waltz! Herr Strauss has made us the waltz capital of the world! Until you have heard him conduct... and danced till you drop, you have been only half alive!"

"Helga, please!" von Arpels said quickly. "Herr Monk may find that too frivolous!" Monk thought it sounded wonderful. His imagination raced far ahead of anything of which his feet were capable. But he remembered from Venice that, surprisingly, he could dance... rather well!

"I should love to," he said honestly. "But I know no one, and unfortunately I have to return to London as soon as my business here is completed."

"Oh, I can introduce you to someone," Helga von Arpels offered easily.

"I am sure I can even get you an introduction to Herr Strauss himself, if you like?"

"Helga! For heaven's sake!" von Arpels was brisk to the point of rudeness. "Herr Monk will not wish to meet Strauss socially. The man's an excellent musician, but he's a Jew! I've warned you before about making unfortunate friends.h.i.+ps. One must be civil, but one must also be careful not to be misunderstood as to one's loyalties and one's ident.i.ty. Look what happened to Irma Brandt! She had only herself to blame." The air in the room seemed suddenly brighter and colder. A dozen questions poured into Monk's mind, but these were not the people to ask. Helga von Arpels looked angry. She had been embarra.s.sed in front of her friends, and a stranger, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had strayed into forbidden territory, and apparently it was so by mutual agreement. Monk was sorry for her, and angry on her behalf, but also totally helpless.

"Thank you for your generosity, Frau von Arpels," he said to her. "I shall endeavour to hear Herr Strauss conduct, even if I am alone and cannot dance. Then my imagination can store the memory." She made an effort to smile, and there was a flicker of light in her eyes, and recognition of his feeling.

Monk thanked Josef and Magda again, getting from them the address of the priest, Father Geissner, and Magda accompanied him to the door. Out in the hall she dismissed the maid and went to the step with him herself.

"Mr. Monk, is there anything else we can do to help Kristian?" Was that really what she wanted to say that she had followed him to speak privately? There would only be a few moments before Josef would miss her.

"Yes," he decided without hesitation. "Tell me what you know of the feelings between Kristian and Elissa, and Max Niemann. He has visited London at least three times this year, and seen Elissa secretly, and not Kristian at all." She looked only slightly surprised. "He was always in love with her," she answered very quietly. "But as far as I know, she never looked at anyone but Kristian."

"She was really in love with Kristian?" Monk wanted it to be true, even if it did not help.

"Oh yes," she said vehemently. A tiny, sad smile linked her lips. "She was jealous of that Jewish girl, Hanna Jakob, because she was brave as well, and full of character. And she was in love with Kristian too. I saw it in her face... and her voice. Max was too easy for Elissa. She had no work to win his love." She gave a tiny shrug. "Very often we don't want what we are given without an effort. If you don't pay, perhaps it isn't worth a lot. At least that is what we think." There was a noise of doors opening and closing.

"Thank you for coming to tell us personally, Mr. Monk," she said quickly. "It was most courteous of you. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Frau Beck," he answered, stepping outside into the wind and walking away, new thoughts filling his mind.

Ferdi was not the person for Monk to ask about the sudden ugliness he had seen in the Beck house, and it was almost entirely irrelevant to Kristian and Elissa, and to Max Niemann. However, Ferdi was burning with curiosity as to everything that Monk had learned, and where it might fit in to form a clearer picture of the people who were already heroes to him. He asked question after question about Josef and Magda as he and Monk sat over hot chocolate and watched the lights come on as the streets grew darker and the cafes filled with chattering people.

Without intending to, Monk let slip von Arpels' comment about Strauss.

He saw no discernible reaction in Ferdi's young face.

"Do many people feel like that about Jews?" Monk asked.

"Yes, of course. Don't they in England?" Ferdi looked puzzled. Monk had to think about it a moment. He had not moved in any area of society where he would have experienced such a thing He realised with a jolt of surprise how few people he knew in a way of friends.h.i.+p rather than professionally. There was really only Rathbone, Callandra and, of course, Kristian. Those relations.h.i.+ps were intense, built in extraordinary circ.u.mstances, the kind of trust most people are never called upon to exercise. But the lighter sides of friends.h.i.+p, the shared trivia, were missing.

"I haven't come across it," he said evasively. He did not want Ferdi to know that his life lacked such ordinary solidity. He did not really want him even to know that he had been a policeman. He might regard it as having an exciting friend, but it was a role unquestionably socially inferior. One called the police when they were required, one did not invite them to dinner. One certainly did not allow one's daughter to marry them.

Ferdi was puzzled. "Don't you have Jews in England?"

"Yes, of course we do." Monk struggled for an acceptable answer. "One of our leading politicians is a Jew Benjamin Disraeli. I'm just not sure that I know any myself."

"We don't either," Ferdi agreed. "But I've seen them, of course."

"How do you know?" Monk said quickly.