William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

to wonder in her shivering, darkest fears if perhaps he was? Who could say what emotions had filled Kristian when he was faced with ruin, not only personally, but of all the good he could do for those who suffered poverty and disease, pain, loneliness and bereavement? He had done so much, and it would all come to an end if he were ruined by debt.
    Of course, killing Elissa was no sensible solution. He could not ever, in a sane, rational moment, have thought it was. But in the heat of desperation, knowing what she was doing, perhaps being told of a new and even more crippling loss, that the gamblers were after her and perhaps even the house would have to go, maybe he had finally lost control, and his violent, revolutionary past had swept back to him. One quick grasp, a twist of the arms, and her neck was broken.
    And then Sarah the same?
    No! Nothing made that understandable. She shivered convulsively, even though in the press of bodies the courtroom was warm. Kristian could surely never have done that!
    Pendreigh’s voice filled her ears as he called yet another witness as to Kristian’s character, and the jury were already bored. They knew he was a good doctor. They had heard a dozen witnesses say so, and they had believed them. It was irrelevant. The defense was fumbling, and they saw it. It was in the air like the echo of a sound just died away.
    Hester sat through day after day longing for Monk to return, wondering what he was doing, even if he was safe. She tried to imagine where he was, what kind of rooms he had, if he was well cared for, if he was cold or ill-fed, if Callandra had given him sufficient money. It was all only a way of avoiding thinking about the real issue: what he was learning about Kristian. Even the loneliness of missing him with an almost physical pain was better than the fear and the bitter disillusion, the inability to offer any help at all.
    She tried not to turn and stare up at the dock, and felt intrusive. What would Kristian see in her face if he looked? Doubt. Fear for him, and for Callandra. She was terrified of the hurt Callandra would feel if he were found guilty. Would she go on believing in his innocence, make herself believe it no matter what happened? Or would she finally yield and accept that he could have been guilty, with all the terrible shattering of faith that that would bring?
    Then would she ever be the same again? Or would something inside her be broken, some hope, an ability to trust not only people, but life itself?
    Hester sat on the hard seat, pressed in on either side by the curious and critical, aware of their breathing, of their slight movement, the creak of corsets and faint rustle of fabric, the smell of damp wool and the sweat of tension and excitement.
    She looked across at Callandra and saw the exhaustion in her face. Her skin was papery and without any color, gray, almost as if it were dirty. The lines between nose and mouth were deeply etched. As almost always, her hair was escaping its pins. She looked every day of her years.
    Hester ached to be able to comfort her, to offer anything at all that would help, but there was nothing. She knew the bruising and terrible pain she had felt when she believed it could have been Charles. She was almost ashamed of her relief to know that it was not, no matter how humiliating the truth. Platitudes would only make it seem that she did not understand, and it was not the time to reach out and touch, even take a hand. She thought about it, and once she moved as if to lean across, then changed her mind. What might be read into it that she did not mean? Hope, a false importance to what was being said at that instant, even a despair she did not intend.
    Pendreigh was still calling character witnesses, but he was now reduced to Fermin Thorpe. They had debated whether to call him or not. He hated Kristian, but he would occupy time, which was now their only hope. He loved to talk, reveling in the sound of his own voice. He was a conserver, frightened of change, frightened of losing his power and position. Kristian was an innovator who challenged him, questioned things, jeopardized his authority. There had been particular instances, not long enough ago to forget, when Thorpe had lost. The memory and the resentment were there in his face as he took the stand. Pendreigh had known it; both Hester and Callandra had made certain he had no illusions. They had even told him the story in detail. But the only alternative was to end