William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

you credit.”
    It was sarcastic. It was also a tactical error.
    “It is not loyalty!” Thorpe said furiously. “I loathe the man! But personal feelings did not alter my judgment that he is an excellent and dedicated surgeon, and a man of high moral character. Otherwise I would not have kept him in the hospital.” He did not have to add that if he could have found an excuse to dismiss him he would have taken it; it was only too unpleasantly evident in his furious bright eyes and snarling mouth.
    “Thank you,” Mills murmured, returning to his seat. “I have no further questions, my lord.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    “What did you learn from the Father?” Ferdi asked Monk eagerly on the following morning as they sat over coffee in one of the numerous cafés. Vienna served more kinds of coffee than Monk knew existed, with or without chocolate added, with or without cream, sometimes whipped cream, or hot milk, or laced with rum. This morning the wind scythed in from the Hungarian plains, touching his skin like a knife, and Monk felt an even deeper coldness inside him. He had ordered coffee with chocolate and thick cream for both of them.
    Ferdi was waiting for an answer. Monk had wrestled long into the night, much of it when he should have been asleep, worrying how much to tell the boy of the truth he was now certain of, even though he had no proof and no one who would testify. Did it really have anything to do with Elissa’s death?
    “Mr. Monk?” Ferdi prompted, putting down his coffee and staring across the table.
    He needed Ferdi’s help. “He didn’t exactly tell me,” Monk answered slowly. “He knew many things about the time, the people, but some of them were told to him under the seal of the confessional.”
    “So you learned nothing?” Ferdi said, his young face filling with disappointment. “I . . . I was sure you had discovered something terrible. You seem . . . different, as if all kinds of things had changed . . . feelings . . .” He stopped, confused and a little embarrassed that he had intruded on inner pain without thinking.
    Monk smiled very slightly and stared at the cream slowly melting into his coffee. “You can guess this much from my face, and my manner?”
    Ferdi hesitated. “Well . . . I thought I could.”
    “You can,” Monk agreed. “And if I did not deny it, and you asked me questions, made good guesses as to what it was I know, would you say that I had told you anything?” He looked up and met Ferdi’s eyes.
    “Oh!” Ferdi’s face filled with understanding. “You mean the Father couldn’t tell you, but you know from his manner, his feelings, that you were right. I see.” His eyes clouded. “And what was it? It was hard, wasn’t it? Something terrible about your friend, Dr. Beck?”
    “No, only slightly shabby, and he knew it and was ashamed. What was tragic and destructive”—he could not find a word powerful enough for the darkness he felt—“was about Elissa von Leibnitz. We didn’t live here in those days, we haven’t stood in her place, so we shouldn’t judge easily, and God knows, I have done many things of which I am ashamed . . .”
    “What?” Ferdi sounded almost frightened. “What did she do?”
    Monk looked at him very steadily. “She was in love with Dr. Beck, and she knew that the Jewish girl Hanna Jakob was in love with him also, and she too was brave and generous . . . and perhaps she was funny or kind . . . I don’t know. Elissa betrayed her to the authorities, who tortured her to death.” He saw the color drain from Ferdi’s skin, leaving his face ashen and his eyes hollow. “She expected Hanna to break, to tell them where the others were, and she saw to it that they escaped long before they could have been caught,” he went on. “She believed Hanna would crack, and only be hurt, not killed. I don’t think she wanted anyone killed . . . just broken . . . shamed.”
    Ferdi stared at him, tears suddenly brimming and sliding down his cheeks. He stumbled for words, and lost them.
    “We all do bad things,” Monk said slowly, pushing his fingers through his hair. “She may have repented of it, or found it impossible to live except with terrible pain. It seems that after that no risk was too great for her, no mission too dangerous. We can’t say whether it was glory or redemption she was looking for . . . or simply a way out.”
    “What are you going to do?” Ferdi asked, his voice a whisper.
    “Finish my coffee,” Monk replied.