William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

in Margareten, a discreet but obviously well-to-do residential area to the south of the city. Monk had the address, and had picked up enough German from experience with Ferdi to acquire a cab and arrive there at five o’clock in the darkening afternoon, as had been arranged.
    He was admitted by a footman, much as he might have been in England, and then to a beautiful, rather ornate withdrawing room, although he hesitated to think of it by that term. It was far too formal to give the feeling of a place where one withdrew for comfort and privacy after a meal, to talk to guests or one’s family, and to relax at the end of the day.
    Within minutes he was joined by Josef and Magda Beck. Monk was intrigued by how like Kristian his brother was. He had the same build—the average height, slender but strong body, good breadth of chest, neat well-manicured hands which he moved very slightly when he spoke. His hair was also very dark, and good, but his eyes had not the extraordinary, luminous beauty of Kristian’s. Nor had his features the passion or the sensuality of the mouth.
    His wife, Magda, was fairer, although her skin had an olive warmth to it, and her eyes were golden brown. She was not so much pretty as pleasing.
    “How do you do, Mr. Monk,” Josef said stiffly. “I understand from your letter that you have some serious news about my brother.” He did not sound startled or afraid, but perhaps those were private emotions he would not have betrayed in front of a stranger. If Magda felt differently within herself, she was too dutiful not to follow his example.
    Monk had already decided that directness, up to a point, was the tactic most likely to be productive, and therefore to help Kristian, if that were possible. His hope for that was dwindling day by day.
    “Yes,” he said gravely. “I am not sure if you are aware that his wife was killed about three weeks ago . . .” He saw from the horror in their faces that they were not. “I’m sorry to have to tell you such tragic news.”
    Magda was clearly distressed. “That’s terrible.” Her voice was charged with emotion. “How is Kristian? I know he loved her very deeply.”
    He searched her face to read what her own emotions were. How well had she known Elissa? Was her sorrow only for Kristian, or for her sister-in-law as well? He decided to keep back the rest of the story until he was more certain of their reactions. “He is very shocked, of course,” he replied. “It was sudden and profoundly distressing.”
    “I’m sorry,” Josef said rather formally. “I must write to him. It is good of you to have told us.” He made no remark of surprise that Kristian had not told them himself. The omission gave Monk a feeling of unease. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hester’s turmoil of distress over Charles’s pain, and it gave him a sharp sense of loneliness for Hester. He thought of his own sister, Beth, in Northumberland, and how seldom he wrote to her. He was the one who had broken the bond, first by leaving the north, then by answering her letters only perfunctorily, giving nothing of himself but bare facts, no feelings, no sharing of laughter or pain, none of the details that make a picture of life. He had done it for so long that Beth wrote only at Christmas and birthdays now, like someone who has had the door closed in her face too often.
    The conversation seemed to have died. They assumed he had called merely to inform them of Elissa’s death. In a moment they would politely wish him good-bye. He must say more, just to jolt them into reaction. “It is not so simple as that,” he said a trifle abruptly. “Mrs. Beck was murdered, and the police have arrested Kristian.”
    That certainly provoked all the emotional reaction he could have wished. Magda buckled at the knees and sank onto the sofa behind her, gasping for breath. Josef went absolutely white and swayed on his feet, ignoring his wife.
    “God in heaven!” he said sharply. “This is terrible!”
    “Poor Kristian,” Magda whispered, pressing her hands up to her face. “Do you know what happened?”
    “No,” Monk replied with less than the truth. “I think the beginning of it, and perhaps even the end, may be here in Vienna.”
    Josef jerked up his head. “Here? But Elissa was English, and they both lived there since ’49. Why should it be here? That makes no sense at all.”
    Magda looked at Monk. “But Kristian didn’t do it, did he!” It was an exclamation, almost a