William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

and set all London dancing the waltz.
    Here in its own city it had a magic, a laughter and a speed that forgot politics, the cold wind across Hungary from the east beyond, or the losses and mistakes of the past. For three hours Monk saw the heart of Vienna, and past and future were of no importance, swallowed in the delight of the moment. He would never again hear three-quarter time without a lurch of memory and a sweetness.
    He returned to his hotel long after midnight, and at ten o’clock the next morning, after an excellent cup of coffee, he set out to keep his appointment with Father Geissner.
    This time he was shown in immediately, and the housekeeper left them alone.
    Father Geissner was a quiet, elderly man with an ascetic face, which was almost beautiful in its inner peace.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Monk?” he asked in excellent English, inviting him with a wave of his hand to be seated.
    Monk had already considered any possible advantage it might give him to approach the subject obliquely, and had discarded it as more likely to lose him the priest’s trust if he were discovered. This man spent his professional life listening to people’s secrets. Like Monk, he must have learned to tell truth from lies and to understand the reasons why people concealed their acts and often their motives. “You were recommended to me by Frau Magda Beck,” Monk answered, barely glancing around the comfortable, book-lined office where he had been received. “She told me that you knew her brother-in-law, Kristian Beck, when he lived here, especially during the uprising in ’48.”
    “I did,” Geissner agreed, but his expression was guarded, even though he looked directly at Monk and his blue eyes were candid. “Why is that of interest to you?”
    “Because Elissa Beck has been murdered in London, where they lived, and Kristian has been charged with the crime.” He ignored the startled look in Geissner’s face. “He is a friend of my wife, who is a nurse.” Then he added quickly, “She was in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale,” in case Geissner’s opinion of nurses was founded upon the general perception of them as domestic servants whose moral character precluded their obtaining an ordinary domestic position. “And he is also a friend of Lady Callandra Daviot, whom I have known for many years. We all feel that there is another explanation for what happened, and I have come to Vienna to see if it may lie in the past.”
    A brief flash of pity crossed Geissner’s face, but there was no way to tell whether it was for Elissa because she was dead, Kristian for his present situation, or even for Monk because he had set out on a task in which he could not succeed.
    “I used to be in the police force,” Monk explained, then realized instantly that that also might be little recommendation. “Now I investigate matters privately, for people who have problems beyond the police’s interest or on which they have given up.”
    Geissner raised white eyebrows. “Or have an answer which they find unacceptable?”
    “They might be forced to accept it,” Monk said carefully, watching Geissner’s face and seeing no reaction. “But not easily, not as long as there is any possibility at all of a different one. Those who know Dr. Beck now cannot believe he would do such a thing. He is a man of remarkable self-discipline, dedication and compassion.”
    “That sounds like the man I knew,” Geissner agreed with a faint smile which looked to be more sorrow than any reluctance to feel admiration.
    Monk struggled to read his emotions, and knew he failed. There was a world of knowledge behind his words, far more subtle than merely the passage of events.
    “Did you know Max Niemann also?” he asked.
    “Of course.”
    “And Elissa von Leibnitz?”
    “Naturally.” Was that a shadow in his voice or not? The priest was too used to hiding his feelings, keeping the perfect mask over his response to all manner of human passions and failings.
    “And Hanna Jakob?” Monk persisted.
    At last there was a change in Geissner’s eyes, in his mouth. It was slight, but an unmistakable sadness that also held regret, even guilt. Was it because she was dead, or more than that?
    “How did she die?” Monk asked, expecting Geissner to tell him it could not have any connection with Elissa’s murder. But there was the slightest tightening in the muscles of his neck, a hesitation.
    “It was during the uprising,” he answered. “But I