William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

testament to Kristian’s innocence that the victim’s father so obviously believed it.
    “It’s going badly, isn’t it?” Callandra said at last. “I can see it in the jury’s faces. They are beginning to realize that all Pendreigh’s tactics mean nothing except to spin out time.” She did not ask when Monk would be home, but the question hung heavily in the air between them. If he had found something easily he would have returned by now, or at least have sent word. Hester had received a couple of short letters, but they had been only personal, a desire to speak to her that could be partially satisfied on paper, and to let her know that he was well and still searching. He had asked her to tell Callandra so on his behalf.
    The fire roared in the grate and the coals collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. It seemed the only brightness in the room.
    “Yes,” Hester said aloud. There was no point in lying, and she could think of nothing to say to offer any comfort. “The trouble is we have no alternative they could believe.” Even a day ago she might have added that there must be one; today it seemed hollow. Then she looked across at Callandra. “But I have an idea where to look for one,” she said, pity wrenching inside her. Perhaps she was only putting off the inevitable, but she could see no farther than tonight. Tomorrow would have to bring whatever it would, and she would deal with it then.
    “Have you?” Callandra asked, struggling to grasp hope and feeling it almost impossible. Her eyes asked not to be told, so she could imagine it was real, just for a while.
    Hester stood up. She was astonished by how physically tired she was, and yet she had done nothing but sit in the courtroom all day, her body locked in the aching tension of hope and fear. “I shall begin to seek proof of it tomorrow, so I shall not be in court. Will you be all right?”
    “Of course.” Callandra rose to her feet also, a lift in her voice as if real, tangible alternatives were suddenly there in plain sight. If Hester had a clear intention, it must be something capable of proof. “Do you want my carriage?” she said hastily. “It would be quicker for you.” She did not add “and cheaper,” but that was a consideration also. She had not thought to get actual money to give Hester for the expenses of hansoms, and to wait for it tomorrow would be another delay.
    “Thank you,” Hester accepted. “That is a good idea.” She gave Callandra a quick, hard hug, then took her leave, her mind already planning ahead. There was no time to wonder about tactics, if she were offering false hope, or if it were wise or safe. She knew of no other course towards anything but defeat.
    She slept only fitfully, waking every hour or two, her mind still racing over what she should do, mistakes to avoid, how to get around lies she might be told. And always at the back, spreading across everything like a coming nightfall drawing closer every time she looked, having to tell Callandra that she had failed.
    She missed Monk with a constant hunger. Sometimes she could forget it, only to be reminded by the ache inside her. He would have known how to do this properly; success would not have eluded him if there were any chance of it whatever.
    She rose early, and ate two pieces of toast. She had learned long ago that no matter how busy your mind or clenched up your stomach, if you had work to do then you must eat. To say you were too excited or too worried was a self-indulgence and highly impractical. To be of any use to others you must maintain your own strength.
    Then she set out in Callandra’s carriage, whose driver had stayed around the corner at a suitable lodging house and was ready and waiting for her by half past seven. She requested to be driven straight to the police station, where she presented herself at the desk and asked for Superintendent Runcorn, telling the sergeant that it was a matter of urgency. The hour of the day and her name were sufficient to impress him, and he took the message straightaway. He returned with the answer that if she were to wait ten minutes, Mr. Runcorn would see her, and would she like a cup of tea. She declined the tea with thanks, and sat down, grateful that he was there and she could gain his attention.
    In ten minutes she was duly shown up to a freshly shaven Runcorn sitting behind a tidy desk. The shaving had obviously not been for her, but she thought the clearing of the desk might have