Funeral in Blue Page 6

  She stood in front of him. “You’re still going to help, though . . . aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m going to try,” he said, putting both arms around her and feeling the tension in her body under the fabric of her dress. He knew she was more afraid now than she had been when he left to see Runcorn. So was he.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monk left home early the next morning, and by half past seven he was already walking smartly down Tottenham Court Road. There was a cold wind and the fog had lifted considerably. He heard the newsboys shouting about the American War, and there had been another outbreak of typhoid in the Stepney area, near Limehouse. He remembered the fever hospital there, and how terrified he had been that Hester would catch the disease. He had wasted so much effort trying to convince himself he did not really love her, at least not enough that he would be unable to carry on perfectly well with his life even if she were no longer there. How desperately he had struggled not to give any hostages to fortune . . . and lost!

  He wondered about Kristian Beck. He had seen Beck work night and day to save the lives of strangers. His courage never seemed to fail him, nor his compassion. At first thought it was not difficult to see why Callandra admired him so much, but how well did she know him? Was it anything more than his professional character? What of his thoughts that had nothing to do with medicine? What of his fears or his griefs? What of his appetites?

  He saw an empty hansom and stepped off the curb to hail it, but it hurried on blindly, the driver muffled in scarves, and he rounded a lamppost up onto the pavement again.

  He increased his pace, suddenly angry, energy surging up inside him. He found his hands clenched and he all but bumped into the sandwich seller standing idly on the corner watching for custom. The streets were already busy with brewers’ drays and delivery carts with vegetables for the market. A milkman was selling by the jug or can on the corner of Francis Street, and two women were waiting, shivering in the wind and the damp.

  Another hansom came by, and this one stopped. He climbed in, giving the driver the address of the police station and telling him to wait while he picked up Runcorn, then to take them both on to Haverstock Hill.

  Runcorn was there within moments. He came down the steps with his jacket flapping and his cheeks still ruddy from the scraping of the razor. He climbed in beside Monk and ordered the driver on sharply.

  They rode in silence. Half a dozen times Monk almost asked Runcorn for his opinion on some aspect of the case, a possibility, and each occasion he changed his mind. At least twice he heard Runcorn also draw in his breath as if to speak, and then say nothing. The longer the silence remained, the harder it became to break it.

  As they went uphill out of the city, the fog lifted further and the cleaner air was sharp with the smell of damp earth, wood smoke, fallen leaves and horse manure.

  When they reached the corner of Haverstock Hill and Prince of Wales Street, the hansom stopped and they alighted. Runcorn paid the driver. The house in front of them was substantial but not ostentatious. Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw the respect in his face. This was the sort of home a man of moral quality should have. The curtains were lowered. There were black crepe ribbons on the door. Monk smiled, and forced back his own thoughts.

  Runcorn went ahead and yanked the bellpull, then stepped away.

  After several moments the door was opened by a middle-aged maid in plain stuff dress and a white apron that was wet around the bottom. Her hands were red, and a faint line of soap showed white on her wrists. It was plain from her face that she had been weeping and was controlling herself now only with the greatest effort.

  “Yes sir?” she enquired.

  It was not far off nine o’clock. “May we see Dr. Beck, please?” Runcorn asked. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.” He produced his card and offered it to her. “I’m from the police,” he added as she ignored it, and he realized she probably could not read.

  “ ’E can’t see yer,” she said with a sniff.

  “I’m aware of his bereavement,” Runcorn said quietly. “It’s about that that I must speak.”

  “Yer can’t,” she repeated expressionlessly. “ ’E in’t ’ere.”

  Monk felt his heart beat faster. Runcorn stiffened.

  “ ’E’s gorn ter the ’orspital,” the maid explained. “Up ’Ampstead. Poor soul, ’e don’t know wot ter do wif ’isself, but ’e don’t never forget the sick.” She blinked rapidly but the tears still ran down her rough cheeks. “You gotta find ’oo done this to ’im. If yer worth sixpence of a decent person’s money, yer can do that!”

  Runcorn drew in his breath to be reasonable, then changed his mind. Perhaps he was conscious of Monk a step behind him, watching, listening. He would be patient. “Of course we will, but we need his help . . .”

  “Up the ’orspital.” She waved her arm, indicating the direction. “I can’t do nothin’ for yer ’ere. An’ yer’d best ’urry, afore ’e starts operatin’, ’cos ’e won’t stop fer nothin’ then, not you ner me, ner Gawd ’isself.”

  Runcorn thanked her and went back to the street to look for a hansom, Monk a couple of steps behind him, finding it difficult to follow graciously, but if he wanted to be included he had no choice but to comply. He was certain Runcorn was conscious of it, and enjoying it.

  “Better get a cab, Monk,” Runcorn said after a moment or two.

  Monk knew why he did that. Hansom drivers could spot the self-assurance of a gentleman fifty yards away. A man with breeding would have more money, more appearance of position to keep up and therefore more generosity. Whatever Runcorn wore, whatever rank he attained, he would never have that air, the unconscious arrogance that Monk was born with. That was the core of his loathing all the years they had known each other: the fact that they were both aware of the differences between them, and Monk had never yielded a word of honest praise, or stayed his tongue. He was not proud of that now, but the pattern of years was too deep to erase.

  Again they rode in silence, this time as a matter of necessity. They alighted at the hospital some half an hour later, and Monk led the way, being familiar with the place from the times he had been there to see Hester.

  As soon as he was inside he smelled the familiar odors of carbolic and lye and another odor, sweeter and different, which might have been blood. His imagination raced to the morning he had woken up after his own accident, and to the battlefield in America where he had seen for the first time what it was that Hester had really done in the Crimea, not the English imagination of the horror and the helplessness but the reality of flesh and pain.

  Runcorn was a step behind him. The difference in experience was a gulf between them that could never be crossed. All the telling in the world, even supposing Runcorn were to listen, could not convey things for which there were no words.

  They passed a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy slop buckets, her shoulders dragged down by the weight. Her eyes did not meet theirs. She was a nurse, a hospital skivvy to fetch and clean, stoke fires, launder, roll bandages and generally do as she was told.

  Three medical students stood in earnest conversation, shirts spattered in blood. One had a neat incision in the side of his black frock coat, as if it had somehow got caught up in the speed of a surgical procedure. There was blood around that also, but dried dark, so not today’s events.

  “We’re looking for Dr. Beck,” Monk said, stopping beside them.

  They regarded him with slight disdain. “The waiting room’s over there.” One of them pointed, and then returned his attention to his colleagues.

  “Police!” Monk snapped, stung by the attitude, as much for the patients treated with such cavalier manner as for himself. “And we have no intention of waiting.”

  The student’s expression barely changed. He was a professional man, and he considered police to be on a level both of skill and in society equal to that of a bailiff, dealing with the detritus of the world. “You’ll have to wait,” he sa
id dryly.

  Runcorn looked at the student, then at Monk, his hope that Monk’s razor tongue had not lost its edge plain in his face.

  “If the operating room is still where it was, I shall find it for myself,” Monk replied. He surveyed the young man’s coat. “I see you have something yet to learn regarding accuracy with the knife. Unless, of course, you were intending to remove your own appendix? If so, I believe it is on the other side.”

  The student flushed with anger, and his colleagues hid a smile. Monk strode on with Runcorn at his heels.

  “How did you know that?” Runcorn asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “I’ve been here before,” Monk answered, trying to remember exactly where the operating rooms were.

  “About the . . . appendix!” Runcorn corrected.

  “Man called Gray published a book on anatomy about three years ago,” Monk answered. “Hester has a copy. Here.” He reached the door he thought was the correct one, and went in.

  It was empty but for Kristian Beck standing beside a table. He was in shirtsleeves, and there was blood on his rolled-up cuffs, but his hands were clean. It had been a long time since Monk had seen him, and he had forgotten the impact of the doctor’s appearance. He was in his early forties, of average height, with hair receding a little, but it was his eyes which commanded the attention. They were dark and of such remarkable intelligence as to be truly beautiful. His mouth suggested passion, but there was a sense of inner control, as if the intense emotions there were seldom unguarded.

  He drew in his breath to protest the intrusion; then he recognized Monk and his face relaxed, but nothing could take from it the marks of shock.

  “I’m sorry,” Monk said, and the sincerity with which he felt it was clear in his voice.

  Kristian did not answer, and a glance at his face showed that for a moment loss overwhelmed him and he was incapable of speech.

  It was Runcorn who salvaged the situation. “Dr. Beck, I’m Superintendent Runcorn. Unfortunately, we need to ask you several questions that can’t wait for a better day. Have you time now? I expect it’ll take an hour or so.”

  Kristian composed himself. Perhaps it was a relief to be practical. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know what I can tell you that will help.” He spoke with difficulty. “You did not tell me how she was killed. I saw her, of course . . . in the morgue. She looked . . . unhurt . . .”

  Runcorn swallowed as if there were something blocking his throat. “Her neck was broken. It would have been very quick. I daresay she would have felt very little.”

  “And the other woman?” Kristian said softly.

  “The same.” Runcorn glanced around as if to find a more suitable place to speak.

  “We won’t be interrupted here,” Kristian said wryly. “There’s no one else operating today.”

  “Is that why you came?” Runcorn asked. “Surely, in the circumstances . . .”

  “No,” Kristian said quickly. “They’d have found someone. I . . . I had no wish to sit around and . . . think. Work can be a blessing . . .”

  “Yes.” Runcorn was embarrassed by grief, especially when he could understand but not share it. His discomfort was clear in his face, his eyes studiously avoiding the array of instruments laid out on the table near the wall, and in the way he stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Did you know Mrs. Beck was having her portrait painted by Argo Allardyce, Doctor?”

  “Yes, of course. Her father commissioned it,” Kristian replied.

  “Have you ever been to the studio or met Allardyce?”

  “No.”

  “Not interested in a portrait of your wife?”

  “I have very little time, Superintendent. Medicine, like police work, is very demanding. I would have been interested to see it when it was completed.”

  “Never met Allardyce?” Runcorn insisted.

  “Not so far as I know.”

  “He painted several pictures of her, did you know that?”

  Kristian’s face was unreadable. “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. She was beautiful.”

  “Would it surprise you if he was in love with her?”

  “No.” A faint smile flickered around Kristian’s mouth.

  “And that doesn’t anger you?”

  “Unless he harassed her, Superintendent, why should it?”

  “Are you sure he didn’t?”

  The conversation was leading nowhere, and Runcorn was as aware of it as Monk. There was a note of desperation in his voice and his body was tense and awkward, as if the room oppressed him, the pain and the fear in it remaining after the events were over. He still kept his eyes fixed on Kristian, to avoid the other things he might unintentionally see, the blades and clamps and forceps.

  “Did you know she was going to Acton Street that evening?” Monk asked.

  Kristian hesitated. The question seemed to cause him some embarrassment. Monk saw Runcorn perceive it also.

  “No,” Kristian said, glancing from one to the other of them. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.

  “Where did you think she was going?” Monk hated pressing the issue, but the fact that it caused discomfort was an additional reason why he had to.

  “We did not discuss it,” Kristian said, avoiding Monk’s eye. “I was visiting a patient.”

  “The patient’s name?”

  Kristian’s eyes flicked up; only momentarily was he startled. “Of course. It was Maude Oldenby, of Clarendon Square, just north of the Euston Road. I suppose you have to consider that I might have done this.” His body was tense, the muscles standing out in his neck and jaw. His face was ashen pale, but he did not protest. “Do I need to say that I did not?”

  For the first time, Monk was embarrassed also. He spoke uncharacteristically. “There are regions in all of us unknown not only to others, but even to ourselves. Tell us something about her.”

  There was absolute silence. The distant noises from beyond the door intruded, footsteps, the clink of a pail handle falling, indistinguishable voices.

  “How do you describe anyone?” Kristian said helplessly. “She was . . .” He stopped again.

  Thoughts raced through Monk’s mind about love and obsession, boredom, betrayal, confusion. “Where did you meet her?” he asked, hoping to give Kristian a place to begin.

  Kristian looked up. “Vienna,” he said, his voice taking on a sudden vibrancy. “She was a widow. She had married very young, an Austrian diplomat in London. When he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafés, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”

  “To fight for?” Monk said curiously. It was an odd word to use.

  Kristian met his eyes. “I met her in 1848,” he said softly. “We were all caught up in the revolution.”

  “Is that where you lived then?”

  “Yes. I was born in Bohemia, but my father was Viennese, and we had returned there. I was working in one of the hospitals and I knew students of all sorts, not just medical. All over Europe—Paris, Berlin, Rome, Milan, Venice, even in Hungary—there was a great hope of new freedoms, a spirit of courage in the air. But of course, to us Vienna seemed to be the heart of it.”

  “And Mrs. . . .”

  “Elissa von Leibnitz,” Kristian supplied. “Yes, she was passionate for the cause of liberty. I knew no one with more courage, more daring to risk everything for victory.” He stopped. Monk could see in his face that he was reliving those days, sharp and fresh as if they were only just past. There was softness in his eyes, and pain. “She had a brighter spirit than anyone else. She could make us la
ugh . . . and hope . . .” He stopped again, and this time he turned away from them, hiding his face.

  Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw an instant of pity so naked it stunned him. It did not belong to the man he thought he knew. It felt intrusive for him to have seen it. Then it was gone and nothing but embarrassment remained, and an anger for being forced to feel something he did not wish to, a confusion because things were not as he had supposed, and not easy. He rushed into speech to cover the silence and his own awkwardness. “Were you both involved in the revolutions in Europe then, Dr. Beck?”

  “Yes.” Kristian straightened up, lifting his head a little, then turned around slowly to face Runcorn. “We fought against those who led the tyranny. We tried to overthrow it and win some freedom for ordinary people, a right to read and write as they believed. As you know, we failed.”

  Runcorn cleared his throat. The politics of foreigners were not his concern. His business was crime there in London, and he wanted to remain on ground he understood. “So you came home . . . at least you came here, and Mrs. Beck . . . Mrs. . . . what did you say?”

  “Frau von Leibnitz, but she was my wife by then,” Kristian replied.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. You came to London?” Runcorn said hastily.

  “In 1849, yes.” A shadow passed over Kristian’s face.

  “And practiced medicine here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mrs. Beck, what did she do? Did she make friends here again?” Runcorn asked, although Monk knew from the tone of his voice that he had no purpose in mind, he was foundering. What he wanted to know was were they happy, had Elissa taken lovers, but he did not know how to say it so the answer was of value.

  “Yes, of course,” Kristian answered. “She was always interested in the arts, music and painting.”

  “Was she interested in your work?” Monk interrupted.

  Kristian was startled. “Medicine? No . . . no she wasn’t. It . . .” He changed his mind and remained silent.