Funeral in Blue

chapter Two
Hester was clearing away the dishes after luncheon the following day and had just put the last one into the sink when the front doorbell rang.  She allowed Monk to answer it, hoping it might be a new client.

Also she was wet up to the elbows and disliked doing dishes quite enough not to have to make two attempts at it.

She heard Monk's step across the floor and the door open, then several moments of silence.  She had dried the first plate and was reaching for the second when she was aware of Monk standing in the kitchen doorway.

She looked around at him.

His face startled her it was so grave.  The clean, hard lines of it were bleak.  The light shone on his cheekbones and brow; his eyes were shadowed.

"What is it?"  she said with a gulp of fear.  It was evidently more than a new case, however tragic.  It was something that touched them in the heart.  "William?" He came a step further in.  "Kristian Beck's wife has been murdered," he answered, so quietly that whoever was waiting in the sitting room would not have heard him.

Hester was stunned.  It hardly seemed believable.  She had a picture in her mind of a thin, middle-aged woman, lonely and angry, perhaps attacked by a thief in the street.

"Does Callandra know?"  she asked the thing that was of most importance to her, even before Kristian himself.

"Yes.  She's come to tell us."

"Oh."  She put down the towel, her thoughts whirling.  She was sorry anyone should be dead but, no matter how ashamed she was of it, her imagination leaped ahead to a time when Kristian would feel free to marry Callandra.  It was indecent, but it was there.

"She'd like to see you," Monk said quietly.

"Yes, of course."  She went past him into the sitting room and immediately saw Callandra in the centre of the floor, still standing.

She appeared bereaved, as if something had happened which she could not begin to understand.  She smiled when she saw Hester, but it was a matter of friendship and without any pleasure at all.  Her eyes were bright and frightened.

"Hester, my dear," she said shakily.  "I'm so sorry to call at such a silly time of the afternoon, but I have just heard dreadful news, as I expect William has told you." Hester went to her and took both Callandra's hands in her own, holding them gently.  "Yes, he did.  Kristian's wife has been killed.  How did it happen?" Callandra's fingers tightened over hers and held her surprisingly hard.

"No one really knows yet.  She was found this morning in the studio of the artist Argo Allardyce.  He was painting a portrait of her."  Her brow puckered faintly as if she found it difficult to believe.  "The cleaning woman came and found them... both "Both?"  Hester said with a catch in her breath.  "You mean the artist as well?"  It seemed incredible.

"No, no," Callandra said quickly.  "Mrs.  Beck, and the artist's model, Sarah Mackeson."

"You mean Allardyce killed them both?"  Hester was struggling to make sense of it.  "Yesterday afternoon?  Why?" Callandra looked totally confused.  "No one knows.  There was nobody there from midday until this morning.  It could have happened at any time."

"She would not have a sitting in the evening," Hester replied.  "He wouldn't paint after the light was gone." Callandra coloured faintly.  "Oh no, of course not.  I'm sorry.  It's ridiculous how deeply it shocks one when it is someone connected, however ' Monk came in from the kitchen.  "The kettle is boiling," he told Hester.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!"  Callandra said with a tight little laugh.

"You can make a cup of tea, William!" He stopped, perhaps realising for the first time how close to hysteria she was.

Hester turned to him to see if he understood.  She saw the flash of comprehension in his eyes, and left him to attend to the tea.  She looked at Callandra.  "Sit down," she directed, almost guiding her to the other chair.  "Have you any idea why this Allardyce did such a thing?"  Now that she was met with the necessity of thinking about it more rationally she realised she knew nothing at all about Mrs. Beck.

Callandra made a profound effort at self-control.  "I don't know for certain that it was Allardyce," she answered.  "They were both found in his studio.  Allardyce himself was gone."  Her eyes met Hester's, pleading for some answer that would make it no more than a sadness far removed from them, like an accident in the street, tragic but not personal.  But that was not possible.  Whatever had happened it would change their lives irrevocably, simply by the violence of it.

She tried to think of something to say, but before she could, Monk came back into the room with tea on a tray.  He poured it and they all sat in a few moments' silence, sipping the hot liquid and feeling it ease the clenched up knots inside.

Callandra set her cup down and faced Monk with more composure.

"William, she and this other woman were murdered.  It is sure to be very ugly and distressing, no matter how it happened.  Dr.  Beck will be involved because he is ... was her husband."  Her hand wobbled a trifle and she set the cup down before she spilled it.  "There are bound to be a lot of questions, and not all of them will be kind."  Her face looked extraordinarily vulnerable, almost bruised.  "Please...

will you do what you can to protect him?" Hester turned to look at Monk also.  He had left the police force with extreme ill feeling between himself and his superior.  One could debate whether he had resigned or been dismissed.  Asking him to involve himself in a police matter was requiring of him a great deal.  Yet both he and Hester owed Callandra more than was measurable, in purely practical terms, regardless of loyalty and affection which would in themselves have been sufficient.  She had given them unquestioning friendship regardless of her own reputation.  In lean times she had discreetly supported them financially, never referring to it or asking anything in return but to be included.

Hester saw the hesitation in Monk's face.  She drew breath in to say something that would urge him to accept.  Then she saw that he was going to, and was ashamed of herself for having doubted him.

"I'll go to the station concerned," he agreed.  "Where were they found?"

"Acton Street," Callandra replied, relief quick in her voice.  "Number twelve.  It's a house with an artist's studio on the top floor."

"Acton Street?"  Monk frowned, trying to place it.

"Off the Gray's Inn Road," Callandra told him.  "Just beyond the Royal Free Hospital." Hester felt her mouth go dry.  She tried to swallow and it caught in her throat.

Monk was looking at Callandra.  His face was blank but the muscles in his neck were pulled tight.  Hester knew that it must be in Runcorn's area, and that Monk would have to approach him if he were to involve himself.  It was an old enmity going back to Monk's first days on the force.  But whatever he felt about that now he masked it well.  He was already bending his mind to the task.

"How did you hear about it so soon?"  he asked Callandra.

"Kristian told me," she replied.  "We had a hospital meeting this afternoon, and he had to cancel it.  He asked me to make his excuses." She swallowed, her tea ignored.

"She can't have been home all night," he went on.  "Wasn't he concerned for her?" She avoided his eyes very slightly.  "I didn't ask him.  I... I believe they led separate lives." As a friend he might not have pressed the matter it was delicate but when he was in pursuit of truth neither his mind nor his tongue accepted boundaries.  He might hate probing an area he knew would cause pain, but it had never stopped him.  He could be as ruthless with the dark mists of the memory within himself, and he knew with bone-deep familiarity just how that hurt.  He had had to piece together the shards of his own past before the accident.  Some of them were full of colour, others were dark and to look at them cost all the courage he had.

"Where was he yesterday evening?"  he continued, looking at Callandra.

Her eyes opened wide and Hester saw the fear in them as Monk must have seen it also.  She looked as if she were about to say one thing, then cleared her throat and said something else.  "Please protect his reputation, William," she pleaded.  "He is Austrian, and although his English is perfect, he is still a foreigner.  And... they did not have the happiest of marriages.  Don't allow the police to harass him, or suggest some kind of guilt by innuendo." Monk did not offer her any false assurances.  "Tell me something about Mrs.  Beck," he said instead.  "What kind of woman was she?" Callandra hesitated; a flicker of surprise was in her eyes, then gone again.  "I'm not certain that I know a great deal," she confessed uncomfortably.  "I never met her.  She didn't involve herself with the hospital at all and..."  She blushed.  "I don't really know Dr.  Beck socially." Hester looked at Monk.  If he found anything odd in Callandra's answer there was no sign of it in his expression.  His face was tense, eyes concentrated upon hers.  "What about her circle of friends?"  he asked.

"Did she entertain?  What were her interests?  What did she do with her time?" Now Callandra was definitely uncomfortable.  The colour deepened in her face.  "I'm afraid I don't know.  He speaks of her hardly at all.  I ... I gathered from something he said that she is away from home a great deal, but he did not say where.  He mentioned once that she had considerable political knowledge, and spoke German.  But then Kristian himself spent many years in Vienna, so perhaps that is not very surprising."

"Was she Austrian too?"  Monk asked quickly.

"No, at least I don't think so." Monk stood up.  "I'll go to the police station and see what I can learn."  His voice softened.  "Don't worry yet.  As you said, it may be the artist's model was the intended victim, and a tragic mischance that Mrs.  Beck was also there at that moment." She made an effort to smile.  "Thank you.  I... I know it is not easy for you to ask them." He shrugged very slightly, dismissing it, then put on his jacket, sliding it easily over his shoulders and pulling it straight.  It was beautifully cut.  Whatever his income, or lack of it, he had always dressed with elegance and a certain flair.  He would pay his tailor, even if he ate bread and drank water.

He turned in the doorway and gave Hestera glance in which she understood thoughts and feelings it would have taken minutes to explain, and then he was gone.

Hester bent her attention to Callandra, and whatever comfort she could offer.

Monk disliked the thought of asking any favour of Runcorn even more than Callandra was aware.  It was largely pride.  It stung like a burn on the skin, but he could not possibly ignore either the duty, both moral and emotional, or the inner compulsion to learn the truth.  The purity and the danger of knowledge had always fascinated him, even when it forced him to face things that hurt, stripped bare secrets and wounds.  It was a challenge to his skill and his courage, and facing Runcorn was a price he never seriously thought too high.

He strode along Grafton Street down to Tottenham Court Road and caught a hansom for the mile or so to the police station.

During the ride he thought about what Callandra had told him.  He knew Kristian Beck only slightly, but instinctively he liked him.  He admired his courage and the single-mindedness of his crusade to improve medical treatment for the poor.  He was gentler than Monk would have been, a man with a patience and broadness of spirit that seemed to be almost without personal ambition or hunger for praise.  Monk could not have said as much for himself, and he knew it.

At the police station he paid the driver and braced his shoulders, then, walked up the steps and inside.  The duty sergeant regarded him with interest.  With a wave of relief for the present, he recalled how different it had been the first time after the accident.  Then it had been fear in the man's face, an instant respect born of the experience of Monk's lacerating tongue and his expectation that everyone should match his own standards, in precisely his way.

"Afternoon, Mr.  Monk.  What can we do for yer terday?"  the sergeant said cheerfully.  Perhaps with the passage of time he had grown in confidence.  A good leader would have seen to that.  But it was pointless regretting past inadequacies now.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant," Monk replied.  He had been thinking how to phrase his request so as to achieve what he wanted without having to beg.  "I may possibly have some information about a crime which occurred late yesterday, in Acton Street.  May I speak with whoever is in charge of the investigation?"  If he were fortunate it would be John Evan, one man of whose friendship he was certain.

"You mean the murders, o' course."  The sergeant nodded sagely. "That'd be Mr.  Runcorn is self sir.  Very serious, this is.  Yer lucky as 'e's in.  I'll tell 'im yer 'ere." Monk was surprised that Runcorn, the man in command of the station and who had not worked cases personally in several years, should concern himself with what seemed to be an ordinary domestic tragedy.  Was he ambitious to solve something simple, and so be seen to succeed and take the credit?  Or could it be important in some way Monk could not foresee, and Runcorn dare not appear to be indifferent?

Monk sat down on the wooden bench, prepared for a long wait.  Runcorn would do that simply to make very sure that Monk never forgot that he no longer had any status here.

However, it was less than five minutes before a constable came and took him up to Runcorn's room, and that was disconcerting because it was not what he expected.

The room was exactly as it had always been tidy, unimaginative, designed to impress with the importance of its occupant and yet failing, simply because it tried too hard.  A man at ease with himself would have cared so much less.

Runcorn himself also was the same tall with a long, narrow face, a little less florid than before, his hair grizzled and not quite so thick, but still handsome.  He regarded Monk cautiously.  It was as if they were catapulted back in time.  All the old rivalries were just as sharp, the knowledge of precisely where and how to hurt, the embarrassments, the doubts, the failures each wished forgotten and always saw reflected in the other's eyes.

Runcorn looked up and regarded Monk steadily, his face very nearly devoid of expression.  "Baker says you know something about the murders in Acton Street," he said.  "Is that right?" Now was the time to avoid telling the slightest lie, even by implication.  It would come back in enmity later on, and do irreparable damage.  And yet the whole truth was no use in gaining any co-operation from Runcorn.  He was already tense, preparing to defend himself against the slightest insult or erosion of his authority.  The years when Monk had mocked him with quicker thought and more agile tongue, an easier manner, lay an uncross able gulf between.

Monk had racked his mind all the way here for something clever and true to say, and had arrived still without it.  Now he was standing in the familiar surroundings of Runcorn's office, and the silence was already too long.  In truth he knew no information about the murders in Acton Street, and anything he knew about Kristian Beck and the relationship between Beck and his wife was likely to do more harm than good.

"I'm a friend of the family in Mrs.  Beck's case," he said, and even as the words were on his tongue he realised how ridiculous and inadequate they were.

Runcorn stared at him and for a moment his eyes were almost blank.  He was weighing up what Monk had said, considering something.  Monk expected a withering reply and braced himself for it.

"That..  . could be helpful," Runcorn said slowly.  The words seemed forced from him.

"Of course, it may be a simple case," Monk went on.  "I believe there was another woman killed as well..."  He was undecided whether to make that a question or a statement and it hung in the air unfinished.

"Yes," Runcorn agreed, then rushed on.  "Sarah Mackeson, artist's model."  He said the words with distaste.  "Looks as if they were killed pretty well at the same time." Monk shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other.  "You're handling the case yourself."

"Short of men," Runcorn said drily.  "Lot of illness, and unfortunately Evan is away."

"I see.  I Monk changed his mind.  It was too abrupt to offer help.

"What?"  Runcorn looked up at him.  His face was almost expressionless, his eyes only faintly belligerent.

Monk was annoyed with himself for having got into such a position.  Now he did not know what to say, but he was not prepared to retreat.

Runcorn stared down at the desk with its clean surface, uncluttered by papers, reports, or books of reference.  "Actually Mrs.  Beck's father is a prominent lawyer," he said quietly.  "Likely to run for Parliament soon, so I hear." Monk was startled.  He masked it quickly, before Runcorn looked up again.  So the case had a different kind of importance.  If Kristian's wife had social connections, her murder would be reported in all the newspapers.  An arrest would be expected soon.  Whoever was in charge of the investigation would not escape the public eye, and the praise or blame that fear whipped up.  No wonder Runcorn was unhappy.

Monk put his hands in his pockets and relaxed.  However, he did not yet take the liberty of sitting down uninvited, which irked him.  He would once have sat as a matter of course.  "That's unfortunate," he observed mildly.

Runcorn looked at him with suspicion.  "What do you mean?"

"Be easier to conduct an investigation without newspaper writers trampling all over the place, or the Commissioner expecting results before you begin," Monk replied.

Runcorn paled.  "I know that, Monk!  I don't need you to tell me! Either say something helpful, or go back to finding lost dogs, or whatever it is you do these days!"  Then instantly his eyes were hot with regret, but he could not take back the words, and Monk was the last man to whom he would admit error, let alone ask for help.

At another time Monk might have relished Runcorn's discomfort, but now he needed his co-operation.  However much they both disliked it, neither could see how to achieve what he wished without the other.

Runcorn was the first to yield.  He picked up a pen, although he had no paper in front of him.  His fingers gripped it hard.  "Well, do you know anything useful, or not?"  he demanded.

Monk was caught out by the directness of the question.  He saw the recognition of it in Runcorn's eyes.  He had to allow him to taste the small victory.  It was the only way he could take the next step.  "Not yet," he admitted.  "Tell me what you have so far, and if I can help then I will."  Now he sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and waiting.

Runcorn swallowed his temper and began.  "Number twelve Acton Street.

Cleaning woman found two bodies this morning when she went in around half-past eight.  Both roughly in their late thirties, the sergeant guessed, and both killed by having their necks broken.  Looks like there was a struggle.  Carpet rumpled up, chair on its side."

"Do you know which woman was killed first?"  Monk cut in.

"No way to tell."  There was resentment in Runcorn's voice but none in his face.  He wanted Monk's help whatever the emotions between them, he knew he needed it and at the moment that overrode all past history.

"The other woman was apparently Allardyce's model, and she sort of half lived there."  He let the sentence hang with all its ugly judgements.

Monk did not skirt around it.  "So it's going to look like jealousy of some sort." Runcorn pulled the corners of his mouth down.  "The model was half undressed," he conceded.  "And Allardyce was nowhere to be found this morning.  He turned up about ten, and said he'd been out all night.

Haven't had time yet to check if that's true."  He put the pen down again.

"Doesn't make sense," Monk observed.  "If he wasn't there, why did Mrs.

Beck go for a sitting?  If she arrived and found him gone, is she the sort of woman to have sat around talking to the model?"

"Not if that's all she went for."  Runcorn bit his lip, his face full of misery.  He did not need to explain the pitfalls for a policeman, faced with proving that the daughter of an eminent figure was having an affair with an artist, one so sordid in its nature that it had ended in a double murder.

There would also be no way whatever of avoiding dragging Kristian into it.  No man would take lightly his wife betraying him in such a way. In spite of himself Monk felt a twinge of pity for Runcorn, the more so knowing his pretensions to social acceptability and the long, hard journey he had made towards being respected by those he admired rather than merely tolerated.  He would never achieve what he wished, and it would continue to hurt him.  Monk had the polish to his manner, the elegance of dress to pass for a gentleman, partly because he did not care if he succeeded or not.  Runcorn cared intensely, and it betrayed him every time.

"Would it help if I were to see what I can learn in a roundabout way?" Monk offered casually.  "Through friends, rather than by direct questioning?"  He watched Runcorn struggle with his pride, his dislike of Monk, and his appreciation of just how awkward the situation could become, and his own inadequacy to deal with it.  He was trying to gauge what help Monk would be, and how willing he was to try.  What did he want out of it, and how far could he be trusted?

Monk waited.

"I suppose if you know the family it might avoid embarrassment," Runcorn said at last.  His voice was matter-of-fact, but his hands on the desk were clenched.  "Be careful," he added warningly, looking up at Monk directly at last.  "It may not be anything like it seems, and we don't want to make fools of ourselves.  And you're not official!"

"Of course not," Monk agreed, keeping the amusement out of his expression, bitteras it was.  He knew why Runcorn did not trust him.

Given the circumstances, he would have despised him if he had.  It was a large enough admission of his vulnerability that he confided in Monk at all.  "I suppose you're looking for witnesses?  Anyone seen near the place?  Where does Allardyce claim to have been?" Runcorn's face reflected his contempt for the unorthodox and bohemian life.  "He says he was out drinking in Southwark all night with friends, looking for some kind of ... of new light, he said!  Whatever that may mean.  Bit odd, in the middle of the night, if you ask me."

"And do these friends agree?"  Monk enquired.

"Too busy looking for new light themselves to know!"  Runcorn replied with a twist of his mouth.  "But I've got men following it up, and we'll find something sooner or later.  Acton Street's busy enough evenings, anyway."  He cleared his throat.  "I suppose you'd like to see the bodies?  Not that the surgeon has much yet."

"Yes," Monk agreed, not sounding at all eager.  His affection for Callandra and his regard for Kristian made it imperative he do what he could to help, but it also made it a personal tragedy too close to his own emotions.

Runcorn stood up, hesitated a moment as if still undecided exactly how to proceed, then went to the door.  Monk followed him down the stairs and out past the desk.  It was less than half a mile to the morgue, and in the density of traffic, easier to walk than try to find a hansom.

The pavements were crowded, and the noise of hoofs and wheels, shouts of drivers and street hawkers, the creak and rattle of harnesses filled the air.  Sweat and horse manure were sharp in the nostrils, and the two men could go only a few yards before having to alter course to avoid bumping into people.

They walked in silence, excused from trying to converse by the conditions, and both glad of it.  On the first corner, beside a seller of peppermint water, they had to wait several moments for a lull in traffic before they could cross, dodging between carts, carriages and drays, and a costermonger's barrow being pushed, oblivious of pedestrians.  Runcorn swore under his breath and leaped for the kerb.

A newsboy was shouting the headlines about Garibaldi's campaign in Naples.  There had been no major battles in America since the bloody encounterat Bull Run, two and a half months ago, and America was not the current headline.  No one was paying the lad the slightest attention.  The few bystanders who had no urgent business were listening to the running patterer whose entertainment value was far higher.

"Double murder in Acton Street!"  he called in his singsong voice. "Two 'alf-naked women found broken-necked in artist's rooms!  Stop a few minutes an' I'll tell yer all abaht it!" Half a dozen people accepted his invitation and coins chinked in his cup.

Runcorn swore again and plunged on, pushing his way between a large city gentleman in pinstriped trousers, who blushed at being caught listening to the gossip, and a thin clerk clutching a briefcase, who only wanted to attract the attention of the ham sandwich seller.

"See what I mean?"  Runcorn said furiously as they reached the morgue and went up the steps.  "Story's got arms and legs even before we've said a word to anyone!  I don't know who tells them these things!  Seem to breathe it in the air."  He pushed the door open and Monk followed behind him, tasting the sweet and sour odour of death which was always made worse by carbolic and wet stone.  He saw from the tightness in Runcorn's face that it affected him the same way.

The police surgeon was a dark, stocky man with a voice like velvet.  He shook his head as soon as he saw Runcorn.

"Too soon," he said, waving a hand.  "Can't tell you any more than I did this morning.  Think I'm a magician?"

"Just want to look," Runcorn replied, walking past him towards the door at the other end of the room.

The surgeon regarded Monk curiously, raising one eyebrow so high it made his face lop-sided.

Runcorn ignored him.  He chose not to explain himself.  "Come on," he said to Monk abruptly.

Monk caught up with him and went into the room where bodies were kept until they could be released to the undertaker.  He must have been in places like this all his professional life, although he could remember only the last five years of it.  It always knotted his stomach.  He would not like to think he could ever have come here with indifference.

Runcorn moved over to one of the tables and pulled the sheet off the face of the figure, holding it carefully to show only as far as the neck and shoulders.  She was a tall woman, her flesh smooth and blemish less  Her features were handsome rather than beautiful, and the bones of her cheek and brow suggested her eyes had been remarkable, and now her lashes stood out against the pallor of her skin.  Her thick hair was tawny red-brown and lay about her like a russet pillow.

"Sarah Mackeson," Runcorn said quietly, keeping his face averted, his voice catching a little as he tried to keep emotion out of it.

Monk looked up at him.

Runcorn cleared his throat.  He was embarrassed.  Monk wondered what thoughts were going through his mind, what imagination as to this woman's life, the passions that had moved her and made her whatever she was.  Artists' models were by definition disreputable to him, and yet whatever he meant to feel, he was moved by her death.  There was no spirit, no consciousness in what was left of her, but Runcorn seemed discomforted by her closeness, the reality of her body.

A few years ago Monk might have mocked him for that.  Now he was annoyed because it made Runcorn also more human, and he wanted to retain his dislike for him.  It was what he was used to.

"Well?"  Runcorn demanded.  "Seen enough?  Her neck was broken.  Want to look at the bruises on her arms?"

"Of course," Monk replied curtly.

Runcorn moved the sheet so her arms were shown, but very carefully held it not to reveal her breasts.  Without wishing to, Monk liked him the better for that too.  It didn't occur to him that it could be prudery rather than respect.  There was something in the way he held the cloth, the touch of his fingers on it, that belied the idea.

He bent and looked at the very slight indentations on the smooth flesh, barely discoloured.

"Dead too quickly for it to mark much," Runcorn explained unnecessarily.

"I know that!"  Monk snapped.  "Looks as if she fought a bit."  He picked up one of the limp hands and looked to see if she might have scratched her killer, but none of the nails was broken, nor was there any skin or blood underneath them.  He put it down and looked at the other, finding nothing there either.

Runcorn watched him silently, and when he had finished, pulled up the sheet again, and walked over to the next table.  He lifted the sheet from the face and shoulders of the woman there.

Monk's first reaction was to be angry that Runcorn had made such a disturbing mistake.  Why couldn't he have been careful enough to have got the right body?  This could not be Kristian Beck's wife.  She was very slender, and must have been almost as tall as Kristian.  Her cloud of dark hair was untouched by grey and her face, even without the spark of life in it, was beautiful.  Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, and yet haunted by an element of passion that remained even now in this soulless place with its damp air and smell of carbolic and death.

He did not care in the slightest what Runcorn thought of her, yet he had to look up at him to see.

Runcorn was watching him.  Through the trouble and the uncertainty in his eyes there was a sudden spark of triumph.  "You didn't know her, did you?  You were expecting someone else.  Don't lie to me, Monk!"

"I didn't say I knew her," Monk replied.  "I know her husband." The momentary satisfaction died from Runcorn's face.  "He's still too shocked to make any sense, but we'll have to question him again.  You know that?"

"Of course!"

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?  You're afraid he did it! Found her with Allardyce and killed her."  His voice was harsh, as if he were angry with his own vulnerability, and deliberately hurting himself by saying something before anyone else could.

But she had the kind of face that affected people in such a way.  It was that of a dreamer, an idealist, someone intensely alive, and it twisted some secret place inside to see her broken.  Monk looked up and met Runcorn's angry gaze with an equal anger of his own.  "Yes, of course I'm afraid he did it!  Are you saying you've only just realised that?" Now Runcorn had to say yes, and look stupid, or no, and leave himself no reason to change his mind about seeking Monk's help.  He chose the latter, and without a struggle, betraying just how worried he was, how far beyond his depth.  "She died of a broken neck also," he said flatly.  "And two of her fingernails are torn.  She put up more of a fight.  I'll bet someone has a few bruises and maybe a scratch or two... and' he indicated her right ear and pulled back the hair to show the torn flesh where an earring must have been ripped from her 'and this."

"Did you find it?"  Monk asked.

"No.  Searched the place, even the cracks between the floorboards, but no sign of it."

"And you've searched Allardyce?"  Monk said quickly.  He found himself shaking with anger that this woman had been destroyed, and confused by how different she was from anything he had imagined.

"Of course we have!"  Runcorn said waspishly.  "Nothing!  At least nothing that counts.  He's got the odd cut and scratch on his hands, but he says he has them all the time, from palette knives, blades to cut canvas, nails and things to stretch them, that kind of thing.  He said to ask any artist and they'd say the same.  He swears he never even saw her that night, much less killed her.  He looks shattered by it, and if he's acting that then he should be on the stage." The chill of the morgue began to eat into Monk and the smell of it churned his stomach.  He reminded himself he had known men before who had killed in rage, jealousy or wounded pride and then been as horrified as anyone else afterwards.  And a woman as hauntingly beautiful as Kristian's wife might have woken all kinds of passions in Allardyce, or anyone else, especially Kristian himself.

"Seen enough now?"  Runcorn's voice cut across his thoughts.

"Clothes' Monk said almost absently 'how were they dressed?"

"The model had on a loose kind of gown, a sort of ... shift, I suppose you'd call it," Runcorn said awkwardly.  His embarrassment and contempt for her style of life and all he imagined of it was sharp in his voice.

His lips tightened and a faint colour washed up his cheeks.  "And Mrs.

Beck wore an ordinary sort of dress, high neck, dark, buttoned down the front.  It fitted her very well, but it's not new."

"Boots?"  Monk asked curiously.

"Of course!  She didn't go there barefoot!"  Then understanding flashed in his face.  "Oh you mean had she them on?  Yes!"

"Actually I meant were they old or new?"  Monk replied.  "I assumed that if she had taken them off you'd have mentioned it." The colour deepened in Runcorn's face, but this time it was irritation.

"Oldish why?  Doesn't Beck make a decent living?  Her father's Fuller Pendreigh.  Very important man, and bound to have money."

"Doesn't mean he gave any of it to his daughter," Monk pointed out, 'now that she's a married woman, and has been for ... do you know how long?" Runcorn raised his eyebrows.  "Don't you know?"

"No idea," Monk admitted testily.  Except that it had to be longer than he had known Callandra, but he would not say that to Runcorn.

"I suppose you want to see the clothes.  They won't tell you much. I've already looked."  Runcorn covered the white face again, tucking in the corner of the sheet as if it mattered, then he led the way across the floor, his footsteps echoing, to the small room where property of the dead was kept.  It was locked away.  He had to get a clerk to open up the drawers for him.

Monk picked up Sarah Mackeson's shift.  There was still a faint aroma of her clinging to it, almost like a warmth.  The sense of her reality came over him like a wave, more powerful than actually seeing her body.

His hands were shaking as he put it down.  There was no underwear. Had she been so confident in her beauty she was happy to dispense with the privacy more conventional dress would have given her?  Or had she been sitting for Allardyce, and simply slipped these things on while he took a break, expecting him to resume?  Why hadn't he?

Or had she gone to bed for the night, either alone or with someone, when Mrs.  Beck had arrived?  For that matter, did she often spend the night at Allardyce's studio?  There were a lot of questions to be answered about her.  The most important in Monk's mind, and becoming more and more insistent with every moment, was: had she been the intended victim, and Kristian's wife only an unwilling witness who had been silenced in the most terrible way?

"Is there really nothing to tell which one died first?"  he said, putting the clothes back and beginning to go through the next box, which was Mrs.  Beck's.  He found it difficult to think of her by that name, she was so different from anything he had envisioned, and yet he knew no other.

"Nothing so far."  Runcorn was watching him as if every move he made, every shadow across his face might have meaning.  He was desperate.

"Surgeon can't tell me anything, but we know from the tenant on the floor below that he heard women's voices at about half-past nine in the evening."

"Presumably Mrs.  Beck arriving?"  Monk observed.  "Or whoever killed her?  At least one or both of them were alive then."

"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 the 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 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 let to a jeweller who was presently away on business, the first floor to a milliner.

The milliner 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 studio 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 colours on the floor, their edges touching.  Windows faced 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 room's almost shadow-less 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 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 either someone had just killed Sarah Mackeson as Mrs. Beck came in from the street and saw them, and he killed her before she could escape," Monk observed.  "Or else someone killed Mrs.  Beck, not realising the model was here, and she disturbed him and got killed for her pains."

"Something like that," Runcorn agreed.  "But no clues 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 dishevelled 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 coloured 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.  It would paint him in an ugly light and he was obviously aware of it.  "He didn't appreciate her any more, 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 climbed 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 was unfinished, a far more formal portrait of a woman very obviously posing.  She wore a gown of rich plum colour 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 greys 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 streetlamps.  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 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 him 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 became 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 he simply did not care.

Monk looked across at Runcorn and saw the struggle for comprehension in his face.  He was floundering in an unfamiliar world, afraid even to try to find his way.  Everything about it was different from that which 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 realise 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 an 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 again.  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.  It smelled acrid and within a few moments he found himself coughing.

"Well?"  Runcorn asked, looking sideways at him, studying his face.

Monk knew what he 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," he said drily.  "You'd like to say it was him, 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, the hoofs muffled in the dead air.

Monk raised his arm and it pulled over to the kerb.

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 know why he had 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 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 colour of hair or skin, I mean some inner quality which made her unique."  He saw Hester's 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," Monk 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 Elissa Beck 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 is 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.

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," Monk 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.