Funeral in Blue Page 5

  “Presumably,” Runcorn agreed. “Maybe you’ll make something more of it if you speak to the man.”

  Monk hid a very slight smile. Runcorn still had that inner belief that there was always something hidden that Monk would find and he would not. It had happened so many times in the past it was the pattern of their lives.

  Mrs. Beck’s clothes were good quality, he could feel it in the fabric under his fingers, fine cambric in the undergarments, even though they had been laundered so many times they were worn almost threadbare in places. The dress was wool, but the slight strain on the seams of the bodice betrayed that it had been worn several years, and altered at least once. The boots were excellent leather and beautifully cut, but a cobbler had resoled and reheeled them again and again. Even the uppers were scuffed now and had taken a lot of polishing to make them look good. Was that poverty or thrift? Or had Kristian been meaner than Monk had imagined?

  He picked up the thin, gold wedding ring, and one delicate earring which might have been gold or pinchbeck. It was a pretty thing, but not expensive. He looked up at Runcorn, trying to judge what he made of it, and seeing confusion in his eyes.

  “Well?” Runcorn asked.

  Monk folded the clothes and closed the box without answering.

  “I suppose you want to see the studio?” Runcorn pursed his lips.

  “What do you make of Allardyce?” Monk asked, following him out, thanking the surgeon and going into the street. This time Runcorn stopped a hansom and gave the Acton Street address.

  “Hard to say,” Runcorn replied at last, as they jolted along and joined the traffic. “Bit of a mess, actually.”

  Monk let it go until they arrived in Acton Street, as the light was beginning to fade. It was a reasonable-sized house. The ground floor was let to a jeweler who was presently away on business, the second floor to a milliner, who repeated to Monk exactly what he had told Runcorn. There had been a loud cry, a woman’s voice, at about half past nine.

  “Was it a scream?” Monk asked. “A cry? Fear? Or pain?”

  The man’s face puckered. “To be honest, it sounded like laughter,” he replied. “That’s why I thought nothing of it.”

  “Can’t shake him from that,” Runcorn said in disgust. “Got men out in the street. Might turn up something.”

  There was a constable on duty on the landing outside the door. Runcorn greeted him perfunctorily and then went in, Monk on his heels.

  “This is it,” Runcorn told him, stopping in the middle of the room and gazing around. There were three large woven rugs of different colors on the floor, their edges touching. Windows faced out over the rooftops, but even this late, most of the illumination came from skylights to both north and south. It was immediately obvious why an artist appreciated the studio’s almost shadowless clarity. An easel was set up in one corner, a couch on the far side, and a selection of chairs and other props were huddled in the third corner. A second doorway led to the rest of the rooms beyond.

  “Mrs. Beck was found lying there.” Runcorn pointed to the floor just in front of where Monk was standing. “And Sarah Mackeson was there, at the join of those two carpets. They were scuffed up a bit where she must have fallen.” He indicated another place a couple of yards away, closer to the main door.

  “Looks as if someone had just killed Sarah Mackeson as Mrs. Beck came in from the street and saw him, and he killed her before she could escape,” Monk observed. “Or else someone killed Mrs. Beck, not realizing the model was here, and she disturbed him and got killed for her pains.”

  “Something like that,” Runcorn agreed. “But nothing so far to say which. Or a three-cornered quarrel between Allardyce and the two women which got out of hand, and then he had to kill the second woman because of the first.”

  “And you found nothing?” Monk assumed.

  “Searched the place, of course,” Runcorn said unhappily. “But nothing of any meaning. No one was obliging enough to leave bloodstains, except a few drops on the carpet where Mrs. Beck was, from her torn ear. Hunted everywhere for the earring, but never found it. No footprints or bits of cloth, or anything so convenient.” He pursed his lips. “No weapon needed. Whoever it was came in through the door, like anyone else. Allardyce said it wasn’t often locked.”

  “And we presume Mrs. Beck was here and alive at half past nine, because the milliner heard women’s voices, possibly laughing. Did anyone see her outside in the street?”

  “Not so far, but we’re still looking.”

  “Did she come by cab? For that matter, where does she live?”

  “Thought you knew Dr. Beck.” Runcorn was sharp.

  “I do. I’ve never been to his home.”

  “Haverstock Hill.”

  “Three miles at least, so she must have come by cab, or in a carriage, and Beck doesn’t have a carriage.”

  “We’re looking. It might help for time, if nothing else.”

  The far door opened and a disheveled man in his late thirties stood leaning against the frame. He was tall and lanky with very dark hair which flopped forward over his brow. His eyes were startlingly blue, and at the moment he was badly in need of a shave, giving his face a look both humorous and faintly sinister. He ignored Monk and regarded Runcorn with dislike. “What do you want now?” he demanded. “I’ve already told you everything I know. For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone? I feel terrible.”

  “Perhaps you should wash and shave and sober up, sir?” Runcorn suggested with ill-concealed distaste.

  “I’m not drunk!” Allardyce replied, his blue eyes hard. “I’ve just had two friends murdered in my home.” He took a deep breath and shivered convulsively. He turned to Monk, regarding his jacket with its perfectly tailored shoulders and his polished boots. “Who the devil are you?” He had obviously dismissed the possibility of his being police.

  “He’s assisting me,” Runcorn said before Monk could reply. “Now that you’ve had time to gather yourself a bit, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

  Allardyce slumped into the only chair and sat with his head in his hands. “What?” he asked without looking up at either of them.

  “How long did you know Mrs. Beck?” Monk said before Runcorn did.

  Allardyce took no notice of the fact that it was Monk who spoke. He seemed still deeply shocked and in a kind of despair. “A few months,” he answered. “I’m not sure. What does it matter? What is time anyway, except what we put into it? It’s like space. Who can measure nothingness?”

  Was the man being deliberately contentious, or were his words a reflection of how deeply he had cared for Kristian’s wife? From the wretchedness of his body, the sagging shoulders, the feet sticking out, the bowed head, Monk could easily believe it was the latter. “So you knew her well?” he said aloud.

  “Infinitely,” Allardyce answered, looking up at Monk now as if he perceived some glimmer of understanding where he had not expected it.

  “Was her husband aware of that?” Runcorn interrupted.

  “Her husband was a philistine!” Allardyce said bitterly. “As you are!”

  Runcorn colored faintly. He knew he was being insulted but he was not quite sure how. If it were his morality, then from such a man it was a compliment, even if not intended as such.

  “Did you know him well?” Monk enquired conversationally.

  “What?” Allardyce was startled.

  Monk repeated the question.

  Allardyce’s face tensed, and he retreated a little into himself. “No. Actually, I never met him.”

  “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 cl
imbed 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 k
now 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.