Funeral in Blue

chapter Four

Monk and Hester attended the funeral of Elissa Beck, although they were unrelated to the deceased.  Hester went largely to support Callandra, who would go as someone who had long been a friend of the widower and had worked beside him at the hospital.  No one else would know the crushing loneliness she could feel, watching him in this agonising ritual, and excluded by propriety from offering more than a few formal phrases.  She must not linger or show more than the usual emotion anyone might feel.

Monk went to observe, in the vague hope that he might see an expression, overhear a word which would lead him closer to the truth.

He hoped profoundly it was as Fuller Pendreigh had said, that Sarah Mackeson was the intended victim, Elissa only a tragic intrusion at the worst possible moment.

It was a very moving affair, held in the High Anglican church with all the weight of spectacle accorded the death of someone who had been brave and beautiful, and deeply loved.

The fog had closed in again, thick yellow-grey in the weak daylight.

One of the feather men waving the black ostrich plumes began to cough as the chill of it caught in his throat.  Another stood red-nosed and shivering.

Like everyone else, Hester was dressed in black, but not the dead, light-consuming fabric of true mourning, where one was not permitted even a faint gleam in case it should be considered not to be taking bereavement seriously enough.  Aftera year a widow might wear silk, but still black, of course.  Petticoats should also be black, and boots and hose, and as plain as possible.  If a lady in mourning should lift a skirt to avoid a puddle, there would be considerable talk should she thereby exhibit a petticoat of some lighter shade.

The cortege had not yet arrived, but Kristian and Pendreigh were standing outside the main entrance of the church receiving the mourners and accepting condolences.  The magnificent stone archway was carved with angels and flowers.  The facade soared above until it faded and all but disappeared in the clinging, motionless fog, only here and there a gargoyle face leering downward.

Pendreigh looked haggard; his fair hair was still smooth and thick but his face had sunk as if the flesh had withered, and in spite of standing as to attention on parade, there was still something within him that sagged, giving an illusion of emptiness.  He was dressed in perfect black, so dark it absorbed even the little light there was, making his hair look the brighter.  He spoke with the same gesture to everyone, courteous and mechanical.

Beside him Kristian also looked stunned and pale.  He seemed to be making an effort to say something individual to people, but aftera little while he too began to repeat himself.

Hester saw Callandra move forward in the line to express her sympathies and for a moment their eyes met.  Callandra was dressed in unrelieved black, but her hat was uncharacteristically stylish, very simple in line, and it became her very much, accentuating the strength in her face, and for once her hair was immaculate.  She gave a tiny smile of recognition, but Hester saw the pain of exclusion in her eyes, the misery of not being able to share this whole area of Kristian's life which cut to the heart.  All she could do was offer the same polite words as everyone else.  She was merely one of the hospital's chief benefactors and was possibly representing them all.

She took her turn, speaking first to Kristian, then to Pendreigh.  It was brief.  In a matter of moments she was followed by Fermin Thorpe, his fleshy face smooth, his manner meticulous.  He expressed his horror and his sympathy, shaking his head and looking rather more to Pendreigh than to Kristian.  Then he moved on and his place was taken by the next mourner.

The church was filling.  The cortege must be due soon.  Hester was shivering in spite of her heavy black coat.  She moved forward a step ready to pay her own respects, and found herself immediately behind a very dark man she guessed to be in his forties.  His face was striking, with strong, generous features, but she would have paid him no further attention had she not seen Kristian's reaction to him.

Kristian's face to that point had been pale and almost expressionless, like that of a man exhausted but unable to sleep, driven to stand upright only by the utmost self-discipline.  Now suddenly there was a flash of light in his eyes and something close to a smile.

"Max!"  he said with obvious amazement and just as clear pleasure. "How good of you to come!  How did you know?"

"I was only in Paris," Max replied.  "I read it in the newspapers."  He clasped Kristian's hand in both his.  "I'm so desperately sorry.  There are too many things to say, a whole world for which there are no words.

Something immeasurable has gone out of our lives." Kristian nodded without speaking, still clinging to Max's hand.  For the first time he looked close to losing his composure.  It cost him a visible effort to turn to Pendreigh, clear his throat, and introduce the two men.

"This is Max Niemann, who stood with us in Vienna in the uprising.  He and Elissa and I had a bond .. he cleared his throat and coughed, unable to continue.

"How do you do, Herr Niemann?"  Pendreigh stepped into the momentary silence, his own voice thick with emotion.  "I am deeply grateful for all that you have been to my daughter in the past.  She spoke of you with the profoundest admiration and affection.  It is a great comfort to me, and I am sure it is to my son-in-law as well, that you should be here.  Little in the world matters as much as friends at times like this." Niemann bowed slightly, bringing his heels together, but without sound.

He looked up at Pendreigh, met his eyes with the ghost of a smile, then turned away to allow Hesterand Monk to offer their condolences also.

Kristian had regained control of himself sufficiently to speak to Monk, who was now side by side with Hester.

"Thank you," he said quietly.  He managed to sound as if he meant it.

"It was good of you to come.  I know you are doing all you can to help, and we appreciate it."  He did not look towards Pendreigh, but his inclusion of him was obvious.  He looked at Hester, and suddenly speech was difficult for him again.  Perhaps it was memory of the experiences they had shared, the long nights in the fever hospital, the battles for reform, the victories and the failures they had felt so deeply.  She spoke quickly, to save him the necessity.  The words did not matter.

"I'm so sorry.  You know we are thinking of you all the time."

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice cracking.

To spare him she turned to Fuller Pendreigh, and Kristian introduced them.  She would have liked to have something original to say that would still have sounded sincere, but nothing came to mind except the usual platitudes.

"I'm so sorry, Mr.  Pendreigh."  She meant it, but there was nothing to add that made it more comforting.  She could remember the stunned : feeling she had had when she came home to her parents' empty house, the place where they should have been, and were not any more.

"Thank you," he murmured.  It was five days since Elissa's death, but Hester imagined it would be months before it no longer surprised him.

It was still new, a wound, not an ache.  He would be going through the ritual because it was expected of him.  He was a man who did his duty.

Even as she turned to move on, the hearse arrived drawn by four black horses, hoofs muffled by the fog, black plumes waving.  It loomed suddenly, as if it had materialised out of the smothering vapour.  The undertaker climbed soundlessly to the pavement.  Not a breath of air stirred the long, black 'weepers' trailing from his tall hat.  Six pallbearers carried the coffin into the church.

Hesterand Monk were now obliged to go in by the side door as the music of the organ shivered through the aisles between the columns of stone and echoed high in the Gothic arches above and the service began.

Charles had taken care of the funeral of their parents.  Hester wondered now if she had ever thanked him properly for that.  She looked around her at the ceremony.  It was magnificent, almost frightening in its power, and yet as the music swelled, the familiar words were pronounced and all the appropriate responses made, it was comforting also.  Here at home death was always a version of something like this, rich or poor, town or country.  There was more splendour or less, but the same ritual.  It made it decent, allowed people to do the right thing, and have some feeling that it was complete.

Except for those whose grief remained.

It had been different in the Crimea.  She had seen so much of it young men in the flower of their lives, broken on the battlefield or rotted by disease.  There were too many to hold funerals for, no churches, no music except a few ragged voices singing for courage rather than the glory of sound.

But the dead went into eternity just the same.  This pomp and solemnity, the black feathers and ribbons, the elaborate performance of sorrow was for the living.  Did it really make anyone feel better, or just that they had done their best and were acquitted?

As the service proceeded Hester looked sideways to watch Callandra to their left and a row in front, next to the aisle.  She wondered what thoughts teemed inside her.  A widow could not marry again for years, but a widower could remarry almost immediately, and no one thought the worse of him.  It was expected his new wife would wear black in mourning for her predecessor, and Hester wondered with a note of hysteria inside her if her wedding nightgown should be black as well!

She must discipline her thoughts.  Callandra had said nothing so unseemly.  But Hester knew it was in her mind.  The very way she spoke Kristian's name betrayed her.

Had she any idea what kind of a woman lay in the coffin?  Could she imagine the beauty, the vitality and the courage she had had when she was alive, according to Fuller Pendreigh and Kristian himself?

The service was over at last and sympathies and the mourners must leave in the proper order.  There was a ritual to be observed.  Only the men would go to the graveside, a custom she was sometimes grateful for, but today Hester found it both patronising and irritating.  Women were considered good enough to nurse the sick and dying, to wash them and lay them out, but not strong enough in temperament or spirit to watch the coffin lowered into the earth.

However, she could attend the funeral meal afterwards which was to be held at Fuller Pendreigh's home, not Kristian's.  Had Pendreigh usurped that right?  Or did Kristian yield it willingly?  Hesterand Monk had been invited because of the help Monk had offered in attempting to solve the crime.

To Hester it seemed like an interminable wait between leaving the church and arriving at Pendreigh's house in Ebury Street for the funeral meal.  The guests were assembled in the splendid hall, and in the even more beautiful withdrawing room.  Hester noticed immediately that Callandra was not among them.  Perhaps that was better, even if faintly hurtful.  She had not known Elissa, and since she was representing the hospital her only connection was with Kristian.

Courtesy had been amply met, and for her to have been here now might suggest a personal relationship.  As Hester knew very well, funerals, even more than weddings, were places for rumour to abound and all kinds of speculation to be given birth.

The whole house was hung with crepe and all the servants were in unrelieved black, and their sorrow seemed genuine.  Maids had red eyes and looked shocked and tired.  Even the footmen carrying trays of wine and small tit bits to eat, spoke softly and stood for the most part in silence.

Hester knew no one present other than Monk and Kristian, and it was impossible to speak to Kristian except briefly.  This was Pendreigh's house, but Kristian was equally involved since he was legally Elissa's closest relative.  He had to be seen to speak to everyone, to make them welcome and thank them for their tributes of time and words, and in many cases flowers as well.  But standing in the corner, of choice by herself, she watched.

The people appeared to be largely Pendreigh's friends.  They were grave and polite to Kristian, but it was Pendreigh they knew.  When they spoke to him there was emotion in the attitudes of their bodies, their bent heads and solemn expressions.  They were his generation, and the cut and fabric of their clothes spoke of great wealth and a certain authority.  Hester even recognised a few of them from photographs in the newspapers.  At least two were Members of Parliament.

Did Kristian feel as much a foreigner as she felt for him?  Was his reserve a matter of a grief he could barely control, or did he know few of these mourners at his wife's funeral?

The marked exception to that was the striking figure of Max Niemann.

While Monk was speaking to Pendreigh and finding himself introduced to various other people, Hester managed to move closer to Kristian, though still unnoticed by him, and she listened to their conversation.

'..  . good of you to come," Kristian said warmly.

"For heaven's sake, man, did you imagine I would stay away?"  Niemann said in amazement.  "The past means too much not to have come this short distance.  It's absurd, isn't it, that afterall we've seen and done together, that one of us should die in an artist's studio in London?" Kristian smiled very slightly, but there was gentleness in it, and no bitterness that Hester could see.  "I think she would have preferred something a little... more dramatic," he said wryly.  Then his voice dropped.  "And to some purpose, not the idiotic accident of calling at an artist's studio at the wrong moment!" Niemann put his hand on Kristian's arm with only the barest hesitation, just a flicker across his face.  "I'm sorry," he said fervently.

"Elissa, of all people, should have gone out in a blaze of glory.

There's so much futility in the world, so many idiotic tragedies that strike from nowhere.  All I can think of is the emptiness now that she's gone."  His voice was thick with emotion and he did not move his hand from Kristian's arm, as if in touching him he could share some bond which was precious to him.

"Another day... later ... we must talk about the past," Kristian responded.  "It's been far too long.  Present crises press and I've allowed them to crowd out too much." Niemann smiled and shook his head.  "Still the same!"  He gave Kristian's arm another swift clasp, then moved on to allow the next person to speak.

A little later Hester was standing a yard or two from Pendreigh.  He was a remarkably striking man.  Even in repose his face had power in it, a balance of nose and brow.  If he were aware of other people looking at him he gave no sign of it, yet even in his present grief he did not neglect his duty as host.

"May I offer you something more, Mrs.  Monk?"  He had remembered who she was.

"No thank you, Mr.  Pendreigh," she declined.  She wanted to say something to draw him into conversation, and yet the tragedy which had brought her here was one which inner decency treated in silence.  "You must be very tired of trying to think of courteous things to say to people."  She smiled impulsively.  "I imagine you would far rather be alone, and yet custom requires you do all this."  She half gestured to the room full of people all talking, nodding discreetly, murmuring meaningless words no one was really listening to, and drinking Pendreigh's excellent wine.  They all wore black; the only difference was in the cut and the fabric, some denser than others, some softerand more exquisitely cut.

He looked at her for a moment as if he actually saw her.  The spell of retreat was broken and a bottomless pain filled his face.  "Actually, I'm not sure," he said quietly.  "I think this has a ... a sort of comfort about it.  It's ... ghastly... and yet perhaps it's better than being alone."

"I'm sorry!"  she apologised.  "I shouldn't have spoken so intrusively.

I beg your pardon." The formal smile was back again.  "You don't need to, Mrs.  Monk.

Forgive me, I need to bid Mr.  and Mrs.  Harbinger goodbye.  They seem to be about to leave."  He gave a slight shrug as if he did not know what he wished to say, and with the faintest bow, he left.

Hester turned to look for Kristian, and saw him standing alone by the door into the withdrawing room.  His face was set in a blank, inner concentration that isolated him.  He looked utterly confused, as if he had lost sight of the duty Pendreigh strove so hard to fulfill.

Then an elderly woman approached him and he recalled his obligation, forcing himself to smile at her and say something trivial and polite.

Half an hour later Hesterand Monk excused themselves, but all the way home Hester wondered why the reception had been at Elissa's father's house, and not at her husband's, which was afterall where she had lived for the last twelve years since returning to London from Austria.

"Perhaps Pendreigh was afraid Kristian would not be well enough to carry the occasion himself?"  Monk suggested.

Hester looked sideways at him in the hansom as they moved through the streets muffled by fog, passing from the thick, yellow-grey density which caught in the throat, and out into a paler, thinner patch where the light broke through and she could see the black lattice of branches above.  There was a pallor of tiredness in his face, and he was staring ahead as if half his attention were in his own thoughts.

"Have you any idea who killed her?"  she asked.

"No," he answered without turning.

"But you don't think Runcorn will imagine it was Kristian, do you?" she pressed.

The hansom jolted to a stop at an intersection, then started forward again.  The vehicles passing in the opposite direction were visible only as shadows in the gloom.

"He has to consider it," Monk replied.  "We don't know yet if Elissa Beck was the intended victim, or simply an unfortunate witness."

"What do you know about the other woman?"

"Very little.  She was an artist's model, entirely for Allardyce over the last few years.  She was in her middle thirties, already past her prime for such a job.  Runcorn's got men trying to find out as much as possible about her lovers, anyone to whom she owed money.  Nothing that means anything yet."

"But surely she was more likely to be the intended victim, and Elissa Beck only a witness?"

"Perhaps." Hester wanted to pursue it, but she saw the tight line of his lips and knew further questions would serve no purpose.  She almost had to bite her tongue to keep it still.  She had found none of the comfort or assurance she expected.  Why had he not said at least that if Runcorn were stupid enough to suspect Kristian, then Monk would prove him wrong?  She wanted to ask him, but she knew she did not want the answer.

In the late afternoon Monk went out again, without saying where to, and he had not changed out of his best black, almost as if for him the funeral were not over.

Hester waited an hour, trying to make up her mind, then also still in her black, she took a hansom and gave the driver Kristian's address in Haverstock Hill.  She did not know if he had returned home, but she felt compelled to seek him.  Why had he not held the reception in Elissa's own house?  Why had he allowed Fuller Pendreigh to take control of so much?  The whole of the funeral arrangements were out of character for the man she knew, or thought she did.  She had worked with him as Monk had not.  The black feather men the ostrich plumes, the hearse and four, were far from the simple dignity of life and death as he had known it in the hospital or the fever wards they had set up in Limehouse.  He was a man too used to the reality of physical death to wrap it in ceremony, and too genuine in his emotion.  His pity and his grief needed no display to others.

Was Elissa's death really so different, so shattering he had changed utterly?  Or, Hester wondered, had she misread him all the time?  Had there always been a ritualistic High-Churchman beneath the uncluttered man she had seen?

It seemed an endless journey through the fog-shrouded streets, but eventually she reached the house and requested the driver to wait while she ascertained that Kristian was there.  She had no intention of having to search for another cab were he not.  She rang the doorbell three times and was about to leave when Kristian himself opened it. His face looked eerie and his eyes enormous in the light from the streetlamp.  The hall behind him was in darkness, except for a single gas bracket burning low at the foot of the stairs.

"Hester?  Is something wrong?"  There was an edge of alarm in his voice.

"No," she said quickly.  "No one is ill.  I came because I was concerned for you.  I barely had the opportunity to speak with you earlier."

"That is most thoughtful of you, but I assure you I am merely tired." The ghost of a smile touched his lips but there was no echo in his eyes.  "It is an effort to accept people's sympathies graciously and think of something to say in return which is not so bland as to be a kind of rebuff.  I think we are all reminded of our own losses.  A hundred other griefs come far too close to us at such times."

"May I dismiss my hansom?"  It was an oblique way of inviting herself in.

He hesitated.

She blushed to do it, but with her back to the light he could not have seen.  "Thank you," she accepted before he spoke, and turned around to go back and pay the driver.

He was left with no alternative but to invite her in.  He led the way to a small morning room where he reached up and turned the gas a little higher.  She saw that the room was pleasantly furnished.  There were three armchairs, all odd, but of similar rusty shades, lending an illusion of warmth which in fact was not there.  The old Turkish rug was full of reds and blues.  The fire did not appear to have been used recently.  There was a worn embroidered screen in front of it and no poker, coal tongs or shovel in the hearth.

Kristian looked ill at ease, but he invited her to sit down.

She accepted, beginning to realise just how crass she had been in forcing her way in.  It was inexcusably intrusive.  She had allowed her concern to rob her of all sensitivity.  She did not know him nearly well enough to be placing herself here.

What could she possibly say to redeem the situation?

Honesty it would either make it excusable, or condemn her beyond recall.  She plunged in.  "William is working with Superintendent Runcorn to try and find out who is responsible.  They loathe each other, but they both want to know the truth enough to bury their feelings for the time being." Kristian's face was almost expressionless as he sat opposite her.  Was it exhaustion at the end of one of the worst days of his life and he was too in debt to old friendships to throw her out, as most men would have done in the circumstances?  Or was he really concealing a very different self he did not wish her to see, more particularly did not wish her to report back to the clever, perceptive, ruthless Monk, who never let go of a case, no matter who was destroyed by the truth?

An icy fear gripped her for Callandra, and she was ashamed of it.  She knew Kristian better than that!

"Kristian, was Elissa very religious?"

"What?"  He looked totally startled, then the dull colour spread up his cheeks, but he offered no explanation.

"The funeral was very High Church."  She knew she was hurting him, although not how.

"That was my father-in-law's wish," he said.  He was not looking directly at her but somewhere a trifle to her left.

She was aware of feeling cold.  The room was too chilly for comfort.

Surely he had been sitting somewhere else when she had rung the doorbell?  Was he keeping her here in the hope that the cold would persuade her to leave?  If so he had forgotten most of what he had learned about her.  Did he really not remember the long, exhausting nights of labour and despair they and Callandra had spent together in Limehouse?

"And you conceded to it?"  she asked with a lift of surprise.

"He is deeply grieved!"  he replied a trifle sharply.  "If it comforts him it does no harm, Hester."  It was a reproof and she felt its sting.

"I'm sorry," she apologised.  "It is very generous of you.  It did not seem your way, and it is an enormous expense." Now it was his turn to blush painfully.  It startled her to see it. She had no idea what she had said to provoke it.  He was obviously acutely embarrassed.  He looked down at his hands as he answered. "None of it is my way, but if it helps him to go through the ritual, how could I deny him that?  They were unusually close.  She admired him intensely." He raised his eyes to meet hers at last.  "He had great physical courage also, you know.  When he was still little more than a boy he was a mountaineer.  There was an accident and, at great risk to his own life, he rescued the three other members of his party. Climbing was very fashionable then, and the incident became well known. One of the men rescued wrote a book about it."  He half smiled.  "I think in a way Elissa was trying to live up to him." In spite of herself, Hester found her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged and shook his head a little.

"Was that why you allowed him to host the funeral meal also?"  she asked.

He looked away again.  "In part.  They are a Liverpool family, not London.  He has only been here a year or so, but he has many friends here, people I don't know, and he wished them to be invited.  As you saw, a great number came." Without thinking, she gazed around the room.  Even in the meagre light of the one lamp she could see it was shabby.  The fabric on the arms of the chairs was worn where hands and elbows rested.  There was a track of faded colour across the carpet from the door to each of the chairs.

This was a room as one might furnish it for the servants to sit in during the brief times free from their duties.

She looked again at Kristian, and saw with a rush of horror that his eyes were hot with shame.  Why had he brought her to this room?  Surely any other room would be better?  Was it nothing to do with desiring her to leave?  Was it conceivable... ?  She stared at him and a flood of understanding opened up between them.  "The rest of the house?"  she said in almost a whisper.

He looked down at the floor.  "This is the best," he answered.  "Apart from the hall, and Elissa's bedroom.  The rest is empty." She was stunned, ashamed for herself and for him because she had exposed something immeasurably private.  At the same time it was incomprehensible.  Kristian worked harder than any other man she knew.

Even Monk did not work consistently as long.  A great deal of it was done without payment she knew that from Callandra, who was very familiar with the hospital's finances but his ordinary hours were rewarded like any other doctor's.

It flickered through her mind that he could even have given certain things away, but that would have been a noble thing to do.  He would have looked her in the face and said it with pride, not down at the floor in silent misery.

"What happened?"  she said the words hoarsely, conscious of a terrible intrusion.  Had Elissa not been murdered, she would never have deepened such a pain by seeking explanation, but now, like probing for a bullet in torn flesh, it might be the only way towards healing.

"Elissa gambled," he said simply.  "It was only a little to begin with, but lately it became so she couldn't help it."

"G-gambled?"  Hester felt as if she had been struck.  Her mind staggered, trying to retain balance.  "Gambled?"  she repeated pointlessly.

"It became a compulsion."  His voice was flat, without expression.  "At first it was just a little excitement, then when she won it took hold of her.  Then it went on, even when she began to lose.  You think the next time you will make it up again.  Reason doesn't have any part in it.  In the end all you think about is the next chance to test your luck, to feel the excitement in the mind, the blood beating as you wait for the card, or the dice, or whatever it is." She looked around the room, her throat tightening in misery for the emptiness of it.  "But it can cost you everything!"  she said, her voice choking in spite of herself.  Anger boiled inside her at the futility of it.  She turned to face him.  "And you can't ever win unless somebody else loses!" This time his eyes did not waver.  He was not evading the truth any more, and there was a mark of defiance in him.  "I know.  If there were no real danger, no loss, it wouldn't make the heart go fasterand the stomach knot inside.  For the real gambler you must risk more than you can afford to lose.  I don't think it was even the winning that mattered any more, it was the defying of fate, and walking away." But she had not.  She had lost.  It had taken from her the warmth and beauty of her home, then even the necessities of it, and it had cost her husband grief, exhaustion and the comfort of a home he had laboured to provide, and a shame that was almost insupportable.  All social life had been swept away.  He could not accept an invitation from anyone, because he could not return it.  He was cut off, isolated and surely terrified of ever increasing debt he would not be able to meet.  This would become public disgrace, perhaps eventually even the utter despair of debtors' prison, as other bills of life could not be met, creditors closed in, angry and vengeful.

It was like a disease of the mind a madness!  She was a woman he had once loved, perhaps still did, but there was a part of her he could not reach, and it was destroying both of them.

Hester did not want to think of it, still less to face it.  But it was blazingly, luminously clear even to her, with all her friendship for Kristian and her love for Callandra, that he had a supreme motive for killing Elissa.  It was so powerful, so totally understandable, that she did not deny to herself the possibility that in a moment of engulfing panic as ruin faced him, he could have done it.  He was guilty.  She felt grieved and guilty and frightened, but above all she felt wrenchingly sorry.

"Did Pendreigh know?"  she asked.

"No.  She always managed to keep it from him.  She only called on him when she was winning, and she managed to find excuses never to invite him here.  I think that was easy enough.  She used my work as excuse." He shivered and pushed his hand over his brow, hard back, as if the pressure of it eased some pain inside.  "She wouldn't have to explain," he went on, his voice husky.  "She didn't know much about my work, I never really shared it with her.  I brought her here from the passion and excitement of Vienna, and expected her to be happy in a domestic life amid people she did not know, and with no cause to fight, no admiration, no danger, no loyalties..." There are plenty of battles to fight here," she said softly.  "Not at the barricades, not with plain enemies, and not always with any glory, but they are real." He pressed his hands over his eyes.  "Not for her.  I did nothing to help her find them.  I was too drawn into my own work.  I expected her to change.  You should never expect that..  . people don't." She struggled for something to say, a way of denying what he said to offer some comfort.  But there was an element of truth in it, and that was all he could see.  All the ways in which Elissa could have found causes worth all her efforts, he would see only as excuses for his own failure to make her happy.

"Perhaps we all have something of that hunger in us," she said at last.

"But when we love someone we do learn to change its direction.  I went to the Crimea to nurse, but I also went for the adventure.  It's wonderful to be so very alive, even if some of the living is horror and rage and grief.  Not to have lived is the worst death of all."  She smiled briefly.  "I was going to say that we have the right to make those dreams only for ourselves, not for others, but there's hardly anything we do that doesn't take others along with us, in some way.  If I'd stayed at home my family's lives would have been different, and their deaths." It hurt to say that.  She had never allowed herself even to think it before.  Perhaps life would be different for Charles if she had been there to share the burden instead of leaving him alone with the loss of a brother, then a father.  Only now, sitting quietly in this room with Kristian Beck, did she try to imagine how Charles had coped with all that grief, trying to think of anything to say or do to ease his mother's sorrow.

Did he blame himself that he had failed, and she had died too?  Did Imogen ever even think of that?  Hester was furious with her, and then with herself!  She had not been there either.  Love, loyalty, the bonds of family should mean more than simply writing good letters now and again.

She lifted her hand and touched Kristian's arm.  "I'm so sorry.  I can't say "I know how you feel".  Of course I don't no one does who has not been where you are.  But I know what pain is, and the knowledge afterwards that you might have added to it, and I am truly sorry."

"Thank you," he said quietly.  He bit his full lower lip, bringing blood to it.  "I'm not sure I can say I am glad you came, but I am certainly glad you care."  His eyes were soft, a profound honesty in them, and a depth of emotion she preferred not to name.

It was pointless offering to do anything for him.  All anyone could do was find the truth, and pray it did not hurt him any more profoundly.

No one could lift the darkness yet, or share it.

She stood up and excused herself, and he collected his hat and coat and walked through the fog with her along Haverstock Hill towards the city until he found a hansom for her, but they did not speak again.

All the way home through the fog-choked streets Hester's mind whirled around the new knowledge she had stumbled on so insensitively.  She blamed herself for the pain she had caused, and yet it was woven into every part of the life of the dead woman.  Elissa Beck was nothing like the person any of them had imagined.  Monk had said she was beautiful not just attractive but hauntingly, unforgettably beautiful.  Kristian himself had said she was brave.  Now it seemed she was also driven by a compulsion which devoured not only her own happiness, but Kristian's as well.  He was taken to the brink of ruin and, had she lived, surely it would soon have been beyond it into an abyss.

How would Callandra feel about this when she knew and there would be no way of protecting her from the knowledge?  Kristian had had an urgent, compelling motive to kill his wife.

When Hesterarrived home Monk was in the sitting room pacing the floor.

"Where have you been?"  he demanded.  "It's after ten o'clock!  Hester He stopped abruptly, staring at her face.  "What's happened?  What is it?  You look awful!"

"Thank you!"  she snapped, deciding in that instant that she could not tell him what she had learned.  It was too difficult, too painful.  "It has not been a pleasant day."

"Of course it hasn't been pleasant," he responded.  "But you looked a lot bette rat the funeral.  What's happened since then?  You're as white as paper!"

"I'm tired."  She started to walk past him.

He put out his hand and grasped her arm, nor hard, but firmly enough to stop her and swing her slightly round.  "Hester!  Where have you been?" His voice was not rough but there was no yielding in it, no acceptance of denial.

"I went to see Kristian," she replied, intending to tell him only that much.

His eyes narrowed.  "Why?  You've already seen him." She hesitated.  How little could she tell him and be believed?  "I was concerned for him."

"So you went to his house, after the funeral of his wife?"  he said with open disbelief.  "Didn't it occur to you that he might wish to be alone?" She was stung by his belief in her insensitivity, partly because she had been intrusive exactly as he accused.  "Yes, of course it did!" she snapped back at him.  "I didn't go imagining I could comfort him. I went because I needed to know Then she stopped.  She did not want to tell him yet what she had seen.  He would know that Kristian could be guilty, then sooner or later he would have to tell Runcorn.

"What?"  he said sharply.  "What did you need to know?" She was angry at being caught having either to tell him the truth, or think of a convincing lie that would not stand between them for ever.

Or she could simply refuse to answer.  "I would prefer to speak about it at another time," she said a little primly.

"You would what?"  he said incredulously, his grasp tightening on her arm.

"Let go of me, William.  You are bruising me," she said coldly.

He loosened his grip, without removing his hand.  "Hester, you are deliberately being evasive.  What have you discovered that is so ugly that you are prepared to compromise yourself for it?"

"I'm..."  she began, then the truth of what he was saying bit more deeply.  She was compromising herself, and also the trust between them.

He would find out soon anyway.  She was not really protecting Kristian by hiding what she had learned from Monk.  If Kristian had killed his wife, nothing would protect him, or Callandra, and if he had not," then only the whole truth would do any good.

She looked at Monk's face and met his eyes squarely.  "I went to find out why the funeral breakfast was held in Pendreigh's house, not Elissa's own home," she answered.

"And why was it?"  he said softly, a shadow in his face.

"Because Elissa gambled," she replied.  "Compulsively.  Kristian has hardly anything left no furniture, no carpets, no resident servants, nothing but the bedroom, and one shabby sitting room, without a fire." He stared at her, absorbing what she had said.  "Gambled?"  he repeated.

"Yes.  It became so she couldn't help it, no matter how much she lost.

In fact, if she weren't risking more than she could afford, it didn't have any excitement for her." Monk looked very pale, his face tight.  He did not say anything of how he understood all that that meant, but he did not need to.  It stood like a third entity, a darkness in the room with them.