Funeral in Blue

chapter Eight
When Monk left the house early in the morning, almost before his footsteps died away and Hester heard the front door close, her mind was filled again with the fear that Charles was involved in Elissa's death.

It loomed so sharp and painful she would almost rather the unsigned letter Charles had left with her were a love letter from some man than proof that it was Elissa who had introduced Imogen to the gambling which had grown into a rage like a destroying fire.

She had to know.  As long as it was still unresolved every nightmare was a possibility.  And yet it was also possible that the note was not from Elissa, and the two women had never met, and whatever had made Charles lie to Hesterabout having driven down Drury Lane was perfectly innocent, at least as far as Elissa was concerned.  It could be simply embarrassing, a little foolish.

As soon as Mrs.  Patrick, her housekeeper, arrived, Hester explained that she had an urgent errand to run.  With the letter in her reticule, she put on her hat and coat and went out into the rain.  It was a considerable way from Grafton Street to the Hampstead Hospital to ask Kristian for any piece of Elissa's handwriting to compare.

All the long journey she sat and twisted her hands together, trying to keep her racing imagination from picturing Imogen and Elissa, Charles's fury when he found out, his incomprehension, and all the violence and tragedy that could have flowed from it.  She argued one way, and then the other, hope to terror, and back again.  It was so easy to let the mind race away, creating pictures, building pain.

By the time she reached the hospital and alighted she was so tense she stumbled over the kerb of the pavement and regained her balance only just in time to prevent herself falling.  This was ridiculous!  She had faced battlefields!  Why did it strike into the heart of her that her brother might have killed Elissa Beck?

Because whoever it was had killed Sarah Mackeson as well.  There was an element of justice in a crime of desperation to save someone you love from a force of destruction.  But killing Sarah was to save himself, an instinctive resort to violence, at the cost of someone else's life.

She ran up the steps, all but bumping into a student doctor coming down.  He scowled at her and muttered something under his breath.  She stopped and asked the porter if Dr.  Beck was in, and was told with a nod of sympathy that he was.  She thanked him and hurried down the corridor to the patients' waiting room where there were already three people sitting huddled in their pain and anxiety, now and then talking to each other to ease the imagination and the passing of time.

Hester considered whether to use the prerogative of interrupting, which she could exercise as someone who worked in the hospital.  Then she looked at their faces, strained already with hardship far beyond her own, and decided to wait.

She also talked, to fill the time, learning something of their lives and telling them a little of her own, until at last it was her turn, and there were seven more people waiting after her.

Kristian was startled.  "Hester?  You're not ill?  You look very pale," he said with concern.  Considering his own ashen face and hollow eyes, at any other time the remark would have held its element of irony.

"No, thank you," she said quickly.  "I'm just worried, like all of us." There was no point in being evasive.  "I have a letter and I need to compare the handwriting in order to know who sent it, because there is no signature.  I am hoping I am mistaken, but I must be certain.  Have you anything that Elissa wrote?  It doesn't matter what it is, a laundry list would do." A shadow of humour crossed his eyes, and vanished.  "Elissa didn't write laundry lists.  I expect I can think of something, but it will be at home, not here."

"Doesn't matter, if you will give me permission to look for it!"

"What is the other letter you wish to compare it with?" She avoided his eyes.  "I would rather not say ... please... unless I have to." There was a minute's silence.  Not even any hospital noises intruded through the thick walls into the room.

"There is a letter she wrote me, some time ago, in the top drawer of the chest in my bedroom.  I ... I would like it back..."  His voice broke and he gulped in, trying to control it.

"I don't need to take it away," she said quickly.  "I don't need to read it just compare the handwriting.  They may be quite different, and it will mean nothing at all."

"And if they are the same?"  he said huskily.  "Will that mean that Elissa has done something... wrong?"

"No."  She denied it, then knew it was a lie.  To have an addiction is a grief, but intentionally to introduce someone else to it she regarded as a profound wrong.  "I may be mistaken.  It is only an idea." He drew in breath as if to ask again, then changed his mind.

"If it has anything to do with her death, I will tell you," she promised, still looking down.  She could not bear to intrude on the pain in his eyes.  "Before I tell anyone else, except William."

"Thank you."  Again he seemed about to continue, and changed his mind.

"The room is full of people," she said, gesturing towards the door.

"What is your cleaning woman's name, so that she knows I have spoken to you?"

"Mrs.  Talbot."

"Thank you."  And before either of them could struggle for anything more to say, she turned and went out through the waiting room and down the corridor to the entrance, and the street, to look for an omnibus or a hansom back towards Haverstock Hill.

She alighted within a few yards of Kristian's house and as soon as she knocked Mrs.  Talbot opened the door.  She had been cleaning the hall floor and the mop and bucket stood a few feet inside.

Hester bade her good morning by name, and explained her errand.  Rather doubtfully Mrs.  Talbot conducted her upstairs, after carefully closing the front door.  She remained in the bedroom while Hester went to the chest.  Feeling guilty for the intrusion into what was deeply private, Hester opened the top drawer and looked through the dozen or so papers that were there.  Actually there were two letters from Elissa, undated, but from the first line or two she could see that they were old, from when they were immeasurably closer than they had been when Elissa died.

With fumbling hands she opened her reticule and took out the letter Charles had given her, although she already knew the answer.  It was more scrawled, a little larger, but the characteristic curls and generous capitals were the same.

She placed them side by side on top of the dresser, and for a sick, dizzy moment fought off reality, searching for differences, anything that would tell her they were only similar, not the same.  On the second one the tails were longer!  A 'b' had a loop, the 'z' was different.  And even as she was doing it, she knew it was not true.  It was time and haste which gave an illusion of difference.  It was Elissa who had drawn Imogen into gambling.  Of course she had not forced her, only invited her, but Charles might blame her as if it were a seduction.  It is so easy, so instinctive to bring the fault away from those we love.

Would he have known it was Elissa?  He had no other writing to compare.

But he did not need it.  On his own admission, he had followed Imogen.

He needed only to have kept one of the appointments in the letters, and seen who she met.  Why the Drury Lane lie?  For the same reason as any lie to conceal the truth.

Thank you," she said to Mrs.  Talbot.  Conspicuously she folded up Kristian's letter and replaced it, and closed the drawer, then put Charles's letter back in her reticule.  "I won't disturb you any more."

"You look poorly, miss ... an' cold, if you don't mind me sayin'.  If yer'd like a cup o' tea, the kettle's on the 'ob," Mrs.  Talbot offered.

Hester hesitated.  Part of her was irritated and anxious to face Charles and know the best or the worst.  But it would be the same whenever she went, and a hot cup of tea would warm her, perhaps undo some of the knots in her clenched stomach.  She looked at the woman's weary face and felt a rush of gratitude.  "Yes, please.  Let's do that." Mrs.  Talbot relaxed and a surprisingly sweet smile lit her face.

"D'yer mind the kitchen, miss?"

"I'd like the kitchen," Hester said honestly.  For a start it would be a good deal warmer than the ice-cold room she was standing in now, and no doubt the one furnished morning room would be equally chilly.

It was an hour and a half later that she was shown into Charles's office in the City, and that was only after some rather heavy-handed insistence.

Charles rose from his desk and came around to greet her.  "What is it?" he demanded, his voice sharp.  "My clerk said it was an emergency. Has something happened to Imogen?"

"Not so far as I know."  Hester took a deep breath.  "But she is still gambling, even though she now goes alone."  She watched his face intently, and saw the dull flush of colour and the heat in his eyes.

Denial was impossible.

"If it's not Imogen, what is it?" She hated having to press him.  It would have been so much easier if they could have spoken as allies instead of adversaries, but she could not afford to let him evade the truth any longer.  "You told me that the night of Elissa's death you followed Imogen south, down Drury Lane towards the river." He could not retract it.  "Yes," he said, his voice cracking a little.

"You seemed to be thinking she was involved in ... in the murder.  Or she might have seen something."

"She might have."  Hester was hating this.  Why did he not trust her enough to tell her the truth?  Was it so hideous?  "You didn't go down Drury Lane that evening.  A dray slid over and dropped all its load of raw sugar barrels, blocking everything.  They took hours to clear it up." He stood motionless, not answering her.  She had never seen him look more wretched.  The fear bit so hard and deep inside her that for the first time she truly acknowledged the possibility that he was involved in Elissa's death.

"Where was she?"  she asked him.  "Did you follow her that night?"

"Yes."  It was little more than a whisper.

She found herself gulping also.  "Where?  Where did she go, Charles?"

"Gambling."

"Gambling where?"  Now she was all but shouting.  "Where?" He shook his head firmly.  "She wouldn't have killed Elissa.  She wouldn't have hurt her at all!"

"Possibly not.  But would you?" He looked startled, as if he had not even thought of such a thing.  For the first time she hoped.  Her heart lurched and steadied.

"No!  I..."  He let out his breath slowly.  "How could you think that?"

"Where were you?"  she persisted.  "Where did you follow her, Charles?

Someone killed Elissa Beck.  It wasn't the artist and it wasn't one of the gamblers.  I want above everything else to be able to prove it wasn't you."

"I don't know who it was!"  There was desperation in his voice now, rising close to panic.

"Where did Imogen go?"  she said again.

"Swinton Street," he whispered.

"Then where?"

"I..."  He gulped.  "I ... got very angry."  He closed his eyes as if he could not bear to say it while looking at her.  "I made a complete fool of myself.  I created a scene, and one of the doormen hit me over the head with something ... I think I remember falling.  Later I woke up in the dark, my head feeling as if it were splitting, and I lay for quite a little while so dizzy I daren't move."  He bit his lip.  "When I did, I crawled around and realised I was in a small room, not much more than a cupboard.  I shouted, but no one came, and the door was heavy, and, of course, it was locked.  It was daylight when they let me out."  Now he was looking at her, no more evasion in his face, only the most agonising embarrassment.

She believed him.  She was so overwhelmed with relief the stiff, formal office swam around her in a blur, and she had to make an effort not to buckle at the knees.  Very deliberately she walked forward and sat down in the chair opposite his desk.  "Good," she said almost normally.

"That's... good."  What an idiotic understatement.  He was not guilty!  It was impossible.  He had spent the entire night locked up in a cupboard.  She remembered the bruises on his face, how ill he had looked when she had seen him afterwards.  The gambling club doormen would remember him and could swear to it.  She would tell Monk, of course, and get their testimony before they realised how important it was.  Charles was safe.  What was a little humiliation, compared with what she had feared?

She looked up at him and smiled.

For an instant he thought she was laughing at him, then he read her face more closely and his eyes filled with sudden tears.  He turned away and blew his nose.

She gave him a moment, but only one, then she stood up and went to him, putting her arms around him and holding him as tightly as she could.

She said nothing.  She could not promise that it would be all right, that Imogen was not involved, or even that she would stop gambling now.

She did not know any of those things.  But she did know that he could not have killed Elissa himself, and she could prove it.

The trip to the hospital was one of the worst journeys Monk could ever recall having made.  He and Runcorn took a hansom, intending it to wait outside so they would have no difficulty in obtaining one for the return to the police station with Kristian Beck.  Neither of them even mentioned the possibility of taking the police van in which criminals were customarily transported.  They sat side by side without speaking, avoiding looking at each other.  To do so would have made the silence even more obvious.

Monk thought about how he would tell Callandra that he had failed, and as he tried to work out in his mind what words he would use, each time he discarded them as false, and unintentionally condescending, something which she deserved least of all from him.

By the time they reached the hospital, and Runcorn had instructed the cabbie to wait, Monk's sense of failure was for having led her to hope so fiercely, rather than warning her more honestly in the beginning, so she might have been better prepared for this.

They went up the steps side by side, and in through the doors to the familiar smells of carbolic, disease, drifting coal smuts, and floors too often wet.  The corridors were empty except for three women with mops and buckets, but they did not need to ask their way.  They both knew by now where Kristian's rooms were, and the operating room.

"Are we Monk began.

"Are we what?"  Runcorn said tartly, glaring at him.

"Going to wait until he's seen his patients?"  Monk finished.

"What the hell do you think I'm going to do?"  Runcorn snapped.  "Take him away with a knife in his hand, and some poor devil's arm half off?" He drove his fists savagely into his pockets and strode along the corridor ahead of Monk, not looking back at him.  He turned the corner and left Monk to follow.

As it happened Kristian was not operating, but he still had five people in his waiting room, and Runcorn sat down on the bench as if he were the sixth.  He gave Monk one glowering look, and then ignored him.

The door opened and Kristian came out.  He saw Runcorn first, then Monk.

Monk would not lie, even by implication.  He wished he could have, because he knew Kristian would see the rest of those waiting for him, and it would have been easier if he had not known why the police were there.  But the instant he met Monk's eyes the question existed, and then the understanding.  Something inside him faded, as if he had come to the end of a long test of endurance, and reached the point at which he could no longer struggle.

"Mr.  Newbury?"  he said, turning away and looking at a large man with a pale, flabby face and receding hair.  "Will you come in, please?" Newbury stood up and limped across the floor, watched by everyone else in the room.

Monk sat stiffly in his seat, willing himself not to fidget, not to stand up and pace back and forth.  These other people here were sick, and probably frightened of whatever pain or debility lay ahead of them.

Kristian faced God knew what.  All Monk had to deal with was the misery of arresting Kristian, and then of telling Hesterand Callandra what had happened.  Comparatively, it was nothing.

Still the minutes dragged by, and as one patient went in after another he alternated between anger with Runcorn simply for being here, for knowing what was in Monk's mind because he had worked with him and could remember a thousand things Monk could not, and a desire to say something to him to ease the waiting, because he knew Runcorn also loathed this necessity.  He too admired Kristian, whether he wanted to or not, and would have given a great deal for it to have been anyone else, preferably someone of a class and type he despised.  Best of all if it could have been a gambler, but Allardyce would have done.  Far bette ran artist, living a bohemian and essentially alien and dissolute life, than a doctor who spent his time healing the sick, the ordinary poor who came to this particular hospital.  But Runcorn did not have the courage or the imagination not to do his duty!

No, that was unfair and Monk knew it even as the thought filled his mind.  Monk too would have arrested Kristian, even if it had not been forced upon him by Runcorn's presence.  His own knowledge was enough.

He could have forgiven Kristian for killing Elissa.  She had provoked him beyond the limits of forbearance.  But Sarah had done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong moment.  There was no sense to it that he could explain, but the fact that no one else had mourned her except Mrs.  Clark, and Runcorn of all people, made her murder more of an offence in his eyes.

The last patient came out, and after barely a minute Kristian followed.

He stood in the middle of the room, stiff and very straight, his head high.  There were marks of sleeplessness like bruises around his eyes, and his skin was bleached of colour.  "I assume you believe that I murdered Elissa," he said very quietly, not looking at either of them.

"I did not, but I cannot prove it."

"I'm sorry, Dr.  Beck," Runcorn replied.  He was acutely miserable, but he would not shirk doing his duty to the letter.  "I don't know whether you killed her or not, but the evidence all points that way, and there's nothing to say anybody else did.  You'll have to come with me, sir.  You are under arrest for the murders of Elissa Beck and Sarah Mackeson." Kristian said nothing.

Monk cleared his throat.  He was surprised how difficult it was to speak steadily.  "Would you like me to collect some clothes for you from your home?" Kristian blinked and turned to him.  "I'd be grateful if you would tell the hospital what has happened, and... and Mrs.  Talbot, who cleans my house for me."  The ghost of a smile touched his mouth and echoed in his dark eyes.  "Fermin Thorpe will be pleased.  It will justify his opinion of me at last."  He could not have said anything which would have made Monk feel worse, or more totally inadequate.  He saw with a flash of irony that Kristian recognised that, and although possibly he had not intended it, he could not apologise.

"I'll do both," Monk replied, looking at Runcorn.

Runcorn nodded.

Kristian held out his hand with the front door key in it.

"Thank you."  Monk took it and turned away, engulfed in misery.

Monk went straight to Haverstock Hill and let himself into the house with the key.  Mrs.  Talbot had already left and there was no sound or movement at all.  He found it acutely distressing to see the bare, chilly rooms, and to go upstairs to the stark bedroom Kristian occupied.  The dressing room held only the necessities of grooming a plain hairbrush, a wooden-handled open razor and leather strop, cufflinks and shirt studs such as a clerk or shopkeeper might have owned.  In the dresser he found four clean shirts and the minimum of underwear.  There were two other suits in the wardrobe, and one other pair of boots, carefully resoled.  This was all that was owned by a man with years of skill and experience, who worked from dawn to dusk and into the night, every day of the week.

He left a note for Mrs.  Talbot, finding it difficult to think of the words, then he took the clothes back to the police station and gave them to the desk sergeant for Kristian.  Now he could no longer put off going home and telling Hester that he had failed, and why.

When he went out into the street again it was raining steadily and he walked for barely a mile, getting thoroughly soaked, before he finally caught a hansom for the last part of his journey.  He reached home shivering with cold, wishing there were any way of avoiding what he must do.

Inside, he took off his wet overcoat and removed his boots to save putting footprints over the carpet.  He heard Hester come through from the kitchen and half expected her to know already.  She was so quick to sense things, to understand, he imagined she would be aware of his failure and prepared for it.

He looked up and saw her face, full of relief, as if some burden had been lifted from her and realised how mistaken he was.

"William..."  She stopped.  "What is it?"  The muscles of her face and neck pulled tight.

He straightened up, ignoring the wet boots.  "Kristian wasn't where he said he was.  God knows he had cause enough to kill her.  She's bled him of everything, and if she'd lived she would have gone on until he ended up in prison.  Queen's if he was lucky!  Coldbath if he wasn't." 'For heaven's sake!"  she exploded.  "Some gambler killed her!  Someone she owed ' He took her shoulder, forcing her to face him.  "No they didn't.  Do you think we haven't pressed that as far as it will go?  No one wants it to be Kristian."

"Runcorn she began.

"No," he said sharply.  "He's stubborn and prejudiced, full of ambition, taking offence where there isn't any, thick-skinned and short of imagination ... at times.  But he didn't want it to be Kristian."

"Didn't!"  she challenged, her eyes blazing.  "You said "didn't"!"

"Didn't," he repeated.  He shook his head very slightly.  "There's nothing we could do to prevent it.  The evidence was too much."

"What evidence?"  she demanded.  "There's nothing except motive.  You can't convict anyone because they had a reason.  All you know is that he can't prove he was somewhere else!"

"And that he lied about it, intentionally or not," he answered quietly.

"No one else has reason to, Hester.  Allardyce was in the Bull and Half Moon on the other side of the river.  It doesn't make sense for any of the gamblers to kill her.  Apart from that, her debts were paid anyway."

"Then the other poor woman was the intended victim," she said instantly.  "I don't know why you even think Elissa Beck was the one killed first, and not Sarah Mackeson!  Perhaps she was having a love affair with someone and they quarrelled?  Isn't that far more likely than Kristian following his wife to an artist's studio and killing her there?  For heaven's sake, William!  He's a doctor ... if he wanted to kill her there are dozens of bette rand safer ways of doing it than that!" He did not bother to argue with her about passion and sense.  It was true, but irrelevant to this.  "Sarah wasn't killed first," he said, still holding her and feeling her pull against him, her muscles tight.

"Elissa was."

"You don't know that!  No doctor could tell you which of two people died first when it was within minutes of each other," she retaliated.

"We found Elissa's earring, torn from her ear in the struggle, fallen through a knot-hole in the floorboard, under where Sarah was lying." She drew in her breath, then let it out in a sigh.  "Oh," she said very quietly.  The anger drained out of her, leaving only misery, and he pulled her, unresisting, closer to him, then held her in his arms, feeling her shiver and struggle to keep from weeping.

It was several minutes, clinging close to him, before she finally drew back.  "Then we've got to fight it," she said, gasping over the words.

"You... you mean Runcorn will arrest him, don't you?"

"He already has.  I took his clothes and razor to him."

"He's in ... prison?"  Her eyes were wide.

"Yes, Hester."

"What?"  She shuddered.  "Don't you dare tell me you think he could have done it!"  Her eyes filled with tears.  "Don't dare!"

"Why would you think I might?"  he asked.  He wished passionately that he could say anything other.  She looked so frightened and vulnerable, so willing to take on the battles whatever the odds, and be hurt...

horribly.  And yet he could not have loved her so deeply had she been ready to give in, been wiser, more realistic, even more able to cast aside her emotions and arm herself against the loss.

She was furious because the tears slid down her cheeks.  "Because you think he could be guilty," she whispered.

"He could be," he said.  "Everyone has a breaking point, you know that as well as I do.  We all reach a degree where we can't bear it any longer, and either we crumple up and surrender, or we run away, or else we fight back.  Sometimes we lose our balance and we do something we thought was outside even our imagination.  I've been there.  Haven't you?" She leaned against him again, her voice muffled because her face was buried in his shoulder.  "Yes..." It was several moments later before Hester spoke clearly.  She sniffed hard and pulled away from him.  "What are we going to do?"  Her voice, her face, the angle of her body, all asserted passionately that they were going to do something.

"I don't know."  He hated admitting it, but he had already exhausted every possibility he knew, or he would have argued with Runcorn, and delayed the arrest even a day.

"Well, if it isn't Kristian, it has to be someone else!"  she protested with desperation.  "We've got to find out who it is.  I've done nothing so far.  I don't know how I can have been so stupid!  So complacent!  I took it for granted since I..."  she looked away, 'since I refused to believe it could be Kristian.  Where can I begin?"

"I don't know," Monk said again.  "Runcorn's sent men to check if Max Niemann came to London more often than the times we know of, but we know of no reason why he would kill her."

"Perhaps they were lovers?"  she said the words with difficulty.  "And they quarrelled?  You said Allardyce told you she met Niemann there! That makes sense... doesn't it?"  There was no conviction in her voice.  Maybe she was remembering Niemann clasping Kristian's hands at the funeral; the feeling between them that had looked intensely real.

Yet it seemed as if one of them had killed the woman they had both loved, and with whom they had shared a noble and turbulent past.  Which of them was lying so superbly, and what agony of emotions was pouring through him?

"Hester..."  Monk drew in a deep breath.  "Of course it could be someone else, but Kristian's been arrested.  He'll stand trial.  He'll need a better defence than your belief that it could be Niemann, or someone else we don't know."

"Have you told Callandra?"  she shivered.

"No."

"Then I'd better go and do it."  She pulled away from him.

"Tonight?"  He was startled.

"Yes.  It won't hurt any less in the morning."

"I'll come with you."  He bent down and picked up his boots again.

Callandra refused to accept it.  She had received them in her sitting room with the gas jets blazing, throwing the dark walls into a radiance of warmth, the flames from the fire dancing red and yellow.  Suddenly the familiar comfort of it vanished and even the beauty of the paintings seemed no more than a trick of light.

"No," she said, looking at neither of them, her face white, her body rigid.  "He might have been tempted to kill his wife, but he could not have killed the artist's model as well.  There is another answer.  We must find it."

"I'll go on looking," Monk promised.  He said it because he could not deny her, but he had no idea where to begin, and no belief that he could succeed.  "But we must think how to defend Kristian as well."

"Oliver?"  she said immediately.  "I'll pay."  She did not bother to add how highly Sir Oliver Rathbone had regarded Kristian.  Rathbone was more than a colleague or a friend, he was an ally in battles they had fought before, and his passion for justice was equal to their own.

"He is away in Italy," Monk said grimly.  "He might be gone another two or three weeks.  We can't afford to wait that long before beginning.

Even when he returns, he might be committed." She looked at him with misery and rising panic.  "Who else is as good?"

"I don't know," he admitted.  They had always turned to Rathbone, whatever the case, or the difficulty.  "We'll have to make enquiries.

I'll start in the morning, as soon as there's anyone to ask.  We'll need every moment we have."  They would need far more than that, but he did not say so.

"I must come with you," Callandra insisted.

Monk thought of the rejections, those who would point out what a futile struggle it would be, but slight the chance of winning.

"Callandra..."  he began.

She stared at him.  "You will need my influence, William," she said with infinite dignity.  "And my money.  I am perfectly aware of the arguments we shall receive and you cannot protect me from them without also robbing me of the chance to be of any effect.  If you imagine you can do it without me, then you are being naive." He surrendered without a pointless struggle.  "Pendreigh doesn't believe Kristian is guilty," he said reasonably.  "We could begin by seeking his advice.  He will care very much how the case is conducted, for the sake of Elissa's reputation, if nothing else."

"Then we shall begin with him," Callandra said decisively.  "I shall send my card at first light, and ask permission to call upon him as soon as possible."  She turned to Hester.  "Do you wish to come?"

"Of course," Hester responded.  "We shall be ready as soon as you send for us."  She touched Callandra lightly on the arm, but it was a gesture of extraordinary tenderness.  Callandra moved away, as if emotion now was more than she could bear.

"Come."  Monk turned towards the door, guiding Hester with him.  "It is time we went home and considered what to say when we see Pendreigh." He turned to Callandra.  "We shall be ready for eight o'clock.  Send word and we will be wherever you wish."

"Thank you."  Callandra reached out and rang the bell for the maid, keeping her face turned towards the fire.

Monk followed Hester out as the maid led them to the door and helped them into their coats again.  Outside was raw, with wind driving the rain.  As soon as they were beyond the shelter of the steps Monk felt the chill of it through him, but it was only on the periphery of his awareness.  Far deeper as he watched Hester move into the arc of the lamplight ahead of him, and the gusting rain in the glare it shed, was the realisation of how deeply Callandra cared.  It was immeasurably more than admiration, loyalty or friendship, for all that that was worth.  This was a wound which might not heal, a pain within her heart neither he nor Hester could reach to give any ease.

He caught up and put his arm in Hester's, felt her respond, matching her step to his.  He knew that she had known this all along, and he understood why she had not told him.

In the morning they ate breakfast early and Monk went out as far as the corner to buy the morning edition of the newspapers.  He scanned the front page, and then the second and third.

There was no word of Kristian's arrest, in fact no mention of the case at all.  Monk returned home uncertain whether he was really relieved, or if it only pushed ahead the inevitable.  Did the silence bring them any time, any chance to find refuting evidence before the press destroyed all innocence or doubt?

It seemed a wasted age of time until there was a polite tap on the door, and Monk strode over to open it and found Callandra's coachman on the step to say they had an appointment with Fuller Pendreigh in his chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and would they please come.

The journey took some time in the early morning traffic, the wet streets glistening in fitful sun breaking through the clouds, gutters awash from the night's rain.  The air was damp and milder, full of the odours of smoke, manure, leather and wet horseflesh.  No doubt unless the wind rose considerably, there would be fog again by dusk.

They were there only a few minutes early, but Pendreigh received them immediately.  He had obviously expected both women, from whatever Callandra had written to him, but it was Monk to whom he addressed his attention.  It was apparent that he was unaware of Kristian's arrest and he was visibly shaken when he was told.  His face was already colourless, and he seemed to sway a little on his feet as if the shock was so profound it had robbed him of balance.

"I'm sorry," Monk said sincerely.  "I wish I could have prevented it, but there really is no other reasonable person to suspect." There must be," Pendreigh said in a quiet, intensely controlled voice.

"We just haven't thought of him yet.  Whatever the provocation, or the despair, I do not believe Kristian would have killed Elissa.  He loved her..."  He stopped, his voice wavering a little.  He turned half away from them, shielding his face.  It was the nearest to privacy he could come.  "If you had ever known her, you would understand that." Monk was compelled by reason.  All the passion and idealism in the world, the most devoted love possible, could not alter the truth, and only the truth would serve now.  There was a cleanness in it, no matter how terrible, a relief to the mind from the struggle of denial.  But it took a fearful courage.  He did not know, in Pendreigh's place, if he could have done it.  He could not afford to think of Callandra, or how she would feel, nor of Hester beside him.

"Fear can drive us all to thoughts and acts we could not imagine when we are safe," he said clearly.  "We don't know each other when that last boundary has been crossed.  We don't even know ourselves.  I used to imagine that no one would act against their own interests or do things that are going to result in something they passionately don't want.  But that isn't true.  Sometimes we just react to the moment, and don't look even to the very next thing after it.  We lash out in terror, or outrage.  Something seems so monstrously unjust we seek reparation, or revenge, without looking further to think what that does to us, or to anyone else."

"Oh no..."  Callandra protested, turning to him with an ashen face.

"Some people, perhaps, but..."

"Elemental emotions can override reason in even the most rational of us," he insisted, holding her eyes and forcing her to meet his.  He wanted to find the right words, but there were none.  All he could do was be gentle in his tone.  "Reasonable men can be passionate as well," he said softly.  "You know that as profoundly as I do.  I have seen the mildest and most intelligent of men change utterly if, for example, his wife is violated."  He saw Hester wince, but ignored it.  "Does he stay at home and comfort her, assure her of his love?"  he went on.  "Or does he go storming off to kill the man he believes responsible leaving his wife alone, terrified and ashamed and hurt when she needs him the most?"  Pendreigh was staring at Monk.  Callandra tried to interrupt him, but he overrode her.  "In his own rage and guilt that he was not there to protect her, he can attack someone who may or may not be responsible, and risk injustice and his own catastrophic blame, almost certainly arrest, and possibly prison or the rope for himself.  All of which makes his poor wife's situation unimaginably worse!  Is that reasonable, or intelligent?  Is it going to produce good for anyone at all?"  His voice softened suddenly.  "Judges know that, even juries. It won't help to pretend it couldn't be, because we believe that Kristian's innocent."

"But no one has been violated!"  Callandra protested at last.  "And it is Elissa who is dead."  Her voice was full of argument, but he could see in her face that she understood what he meant.  The parallel was not irrelevant.

"We shall go on searching for some other answer," Monk agreed, still facing Callandra and ignoring Pendreigh and Hester.  "But we must accept the fact that Kristian will stand trial." Callandra closed her eyes.  Monk saw courage and defeat struggling in her face.  The daylight in the room was hard and cold, the clear, pale autumn sun, and it did nothing to disguise the marks of age in her.  In grief there was no kindness in it.

"I'm sorry," he said gently.  For a moment even Pendreigh's loss did not mean anything to him.  Monk had known Callandra since shortly after his accident, and that was six years now, all the life he could remember.  She had always been loyal, brave, funny and kind.  He would have done anything within his power to have saved her from this, but the only way he could offer his love was not to make the ordeal harder by drawing it out with lies.  "We have to think who we can ask to defend Kristian when the case opens.  At the moment that is the most urgent thing."  As he spoke he turned to Pendreigh.  "That is the principle reason we have come to you, sir."

"I'll do it," Pendreigh answered without hesitation.  Obviously he had been thinking of it while they were speaking.  It was not a question he was asking, but a statement of intent.  "I'll defend him myself.  I don't believe he's guilty, and that fact will be apparent to the jury.

As Elissa's father, I'll make the best character witness he could have." Callandra's face filled with relief and for the first time the tears spilled over her cheeks.  She turned to Pendreigh, and was about to speak, perhaps to thank him, when she must have realised how inappropriate that would be, and stopped.

Hester hastened into the silence, and perhaps to distract Pendreigh's eye from Callandra's emotion.  "That would be excellent!  We will do everything we can to find more evidence, seek everything you want, talk to anyone." Pendreigh looked thoughtful.  Now that he had made a decision his manner changed.  Some kind of strength returned.  "Thank you."  He looked from one to another of them.  "I shall do all I can to raise doubt as to the evidence, and any conclusions that can be drawn from it, but we need more than that.  Someone is responsible for the deaths of these two women.  We need to raise at least one other believable alternative in the minds of the jurors."  He looked questioningly to Monk.  "Is it true that witnesses preclude Allardyce from the possibility of his having been there?"

"Yes.  They are willing to swear he was in a tavern on the other side of the river all evening."

"And I assume you have thoroughly investigated the people who own the gambling houses?"  His distaste was hard in his voice, but he did not flinch from asking.

"Yes.  Apart from their wish to draw the attention of the police as little as possible, and not to frighten away their custom, Mrs.  Beck did not owe them any significant amount of money.  They say all her debts were paid to date.  People like her are the main source of their profit.  It would make no sense to harm her." Pendreigh's face tightened.  "Then we must look further.  We may not be able to prove anyone else's guilt."  His voice was strained and he did not quite meet Monk's eyes.  "But we must raise a very believable possibility.  We must create so much doubt they cannot convict Kristian." Monk wondered how much that was spoken from the desire to protect not only Kristian, but Elissa's reputation as well, which was going to be almost impossible.  He felt an intense pity for the man, and a grave respect for his strength that he could even contemplate going into court and keeping his composure sufficiently to fight the case when his only child was the victim.  But Fuller Pendreigh had not risen to the position he held without great resources of inner power and remarkable self-discipline.  Perhaps his very appearance in court would be the best chance that Kristian had.

They discussed details and ideas for another thirty minutes or so, then left Pendreigh to think over the plans that were already forming in his mind people he should contact, witnesses who might be called, eventualities to follow, or to guard against.

Callandra took her own carriage home, and Monk and Hester called a hansom.

"What do you really believe, William?"  Hesterasked when they were alone in the cab.

He hesitated.  Should he try to protect her?  Was it what she wanted?

He knew there were emotions inside her he could not reach nor understand because they were to do with old loyalties to Charles, memories of family grief and loss, the passion to shield the weaker. He had only an empty space in his own life where that should have been.

His childhood held a few sharp moments mostly physical memories, of the sea, bright and choppy, of sitting in a boat and the consuming need to be one of the men, to equal their courage and their ability to know what to do in any eventuality, how to tie ropes so they did not undo, how to balance when it was rough, how not to be sick, or show fear.  He realised with shame that there was no concern for anyone else.  ; Every fear or need was for his own pride, his passion to be respected, to succeed.  He was profoundly glad Hester could not see that as he did.

"William?"

"I don't know what I think," he answered.  "It would be more comfortable for us to think it had something to do with Max Niemann, but there's very little to suggest it.  He said at the funeral that he had come from Paris because he read of her death there.  And he's in Vienna anyway, so far as we know."

"I could believe that Kristian could have panicked and lashed out in despair," she said quietly, staring ahead into the shadows.  "But not that he killed Sarah Mackeson.  I'll never believe that!"  They were brave words, said with a tremor in her voice and the edge of tears too close to hide.

Monk did not argue.  He reached across, took her hand and felt her fingers curl around his, cold in the chill of the hansom, and the weariness of heart, but gripping him with strength.