William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

anyway. It was just another facet of Kristian he had not expected, and could not fit in with the man he had known, or thought he had. He ordered coffee for both of them, forgetting it was chocolate they had had before.
    Ferdi smiled, but said nothing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The upcoming trial of Kristian Beck caused a certain amount of public interest. It was not exactly a cause célèbre. He was not famous, and certainly far from the first man to have been accused of killing his wife. That was a charge with which everyone was familiar, and not a few felt a certain sympathy. At least they withheld their judgment until they should hear what she had done to prompt such an act. The charge of killing Sarah Mackeson as well was another matter. Opinion as to her style of life, her values or morality, varied from one person to another. There were those who considered she might have been little better than a prostitute, but even so, the brutality of her death filled them with revulsion.
    The first picture of Elissa, taken from one of Allardyce’s best sketches, that was published in the newspapers changed almost everyone’s view, and any tolerance or compassion for Kristian vanished. The beauty of her face, with its ethereal sense of tragedy, moved men and women alike. Anyone who killed such a creature must be a monster.
    Hester was with Charles when she saw the newspaper. She had heard Monk’s description of Elissa, but she was still unprepared for the reality.
    They were standing in her front room, which was robbed of its life for her because Monk was in Vienna and not returning tonight, or tomorrow, or any date that had been set. She was disconcerted by how profoundly she missed him. There was no point to the small chores she had to perform daily, no one with whom to share her thoughts, good and bad.
    Charles had come because he was still desperately worried about Imogen, but he was also concerned for Kristian, and for her, too.
    “I was uncertain whether to bring the newspaper,” he said, glancing at it where it lay open on the table. “But I felt sure you would see it sometime . . . and I thought it might be easier if it were here. . . .” He still looked uncomfortable at his assumption. “And if you had someone with you.”
    “Thank you,” she said sincerely. She found she was quite suddenly moved by his care. He was trying so hard to reach across the gulf they had allowed to grow between them. “Yes, I am glad you are here.” Her eyes moved to the picture of Elissa again. “William tried to describe her to me, but I was still unprepared for a face that would touch me so closely.” She looked across at him. “I never met her, and I suppose I imagined someone I would dislike, because in my mind she . . .” She stopped. She should not expose Callandra’s vulnerability to anyone at all. She ignored his look of confusion. “But when I see her, I feel as if I have lost someone I knew.” She went on as if no explanation were necessary. “I wonder if other people feel like that? It’s going to make it far worse for Kristian, isn’t it?”
    His face pinched a little. “I think so. I’m sorry. I know you admire him a great deal. But . . .” He hesitated, obviously uncertain how to say what he was thinking, perhaps even if he should say it at all. And yet it was equally plainly something he believed to be true.
    She helped him. “You are trying to tell me he might be guilty, and I must be prepared for that.”
    “No, actually I was thinking that one can never know another person as well as one thinks one does,” he replied gently. “Perhaps one cannot even know oneself.”
    “Are you being kind to me?” she asked. “Or are you equivocating the way you always do?”
    He looked a little taken aback. “I was saying what I thought. Do you think I always equivocate?” There was a thread of hurt in the question.
    “I’m sorry,” she answered quickly, ashamed of herself. “No, you are just careful not to overstate things.”
    “You mean I am unemotional?” he pressed.
    She could hear Imogen’s accusation in that, and unreasonably it angered her. She would not have been happy married to a man as careful and as guarded of his inner life as Charles was, but he was her brother, and to defend him was as instinctive as recoiling when you are struck. If she sensed capacity to be hurt, she tried to shield it. If she sensed failure, and she hardly admitted even the word, then she lashed out to deny it, and to