William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

to press again to see if Niemann had any idea of the betrayal, or if all he knew was the subtle guilt in Kristian, the perception of his own bigotry which troubled him ever after that.
    “No,” Niemann answered. “He couldn’t talk about it. I never knew what it was.”
    “Do you think Elissa knew?” The question was a double irony.
    Niemann thought for quite some time, then eventually answered with sadness edged in his voice. “No. I think she wanted to, and was afraid of it. I don’t think she asked him.”
    Monk leaned forward a little over the table. “You went to London three times this last year. Each time you saw Elissa, but not Kristian. You did not even let him know you were in England. What happened to your friendship that you would do that?”
    Niemann looked up at him, then away. “How did you know that?”
    “Are you saying it is untrue?” Monk challenged.
    “No.” There was weariness in Niemann’s voice, and a slump to his shoulders. “No, I did not tell Kristian because I did not want him to know. Elissa wrote to me. She was badly in debt and she knew Kristian had no more money to give her. She needed help. I went and did what I could for her, paid her debts. They were not so very great, and I have done well.” He smiled very slightly. “I did not tell Kristian. Sometimes the best way to help a friend is not to let him know that you have seen that he needs help.”
    He looked up from his cup. “But surely it was the artist who killed her? What was his name . . . Allardyce? He was utterly in love with her, you know. Sarah Mackeson must have known it, and she had enough imagination to fear that Elissa would supplant her not only in Allardyce’s affections, but more importantly, on canvas, and she would be without the means of support. She must have been frightened and jealous. What if she killed Elissa? She was a stronger and heavier woman. And when Allardyce came home he found Elissa’s body and knew what had happened, and in his own rage and grief, he killed Sarah.”
    “Possibly,” Monk agreed with a shrug. “But he wasn’t there that evening. He was in Southwark, and didn’t return until the morning.”
    Niemann looked startled, staring at Monk with slow incredulity. “Yes he was! I saw him myself. He was coming out of the gambling house with paper and pencils and things under his arm. He’d been drawing the people at the tables—he often did. There were several people in the street, men and women, but he’s highly individual to look at with that broad brow and black hair falling over it. Besides that, I knew him. I spoke to him.”
    Hope surged up in Monk, making him almost dizzy. “Allardyce was there? You’re sure it was that night?”
    “Yes. He was in Swinton Street. Whether he went back to the studio or not I don’t know, but he certainly wasn’t all evening in Southwark. If he said he was, then he lied.” He watched Monk closely.
    “Are you prepared to come back to London and swear to that?” Monk asked.
    “Of course. And you’ll find others who saw him, but they may have their own reasons for not being willing to say so.”
    “Thank you. We had better hurry. Can you leave tomorrow? I know that is almost without notice, and . . .”
    “Of course I can.” Niemann finished his coffee and stood up. “It’s a murder trial. Once the verdict is in, nothing I say can help, unless I knew who did kill poor Elissa, and could prove it. Unfortunately, I don’t, nor can I swear that Kristian was somewhere else. Through Cologne is the best way. The train leaves at half past eight. I’ll meet you in the morning at the ticket office at the station at eight o’clock. Now you must excuse me. I need to make some arrangements, and pack my suitcase.”
     
     
    Hester and Callandra sat opposite each other in the quiet, comfortable sitting room in Callandra’s house. They had been back from the trial for nearly an hour. It was dark outside but not particularly cold, and the fire blazed up in the grate, yet both were shivering. They had spoken of events during the evidence of the day, but neither had said what Hester knew they were both thinking. Kristian looked haggard and without hope as one witness after another built up a picture of Elissa’s gambling, her desperation, her total inability to exercise any control over her compulsion. Pendreigh’s skill was remarkable in that he had been able to drag out the proceedings this far. It was perhaps the greatest