William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

been.
    “Good morning, Mr. Runcorn,” she said, swallowing down her nervousness. “Thank you for seeing me so rapidly. As you know, the trial of Dr. Beck is going badly for him. I have worked beside him for several years, and I believe there must be more to know than we have yet learned, and that the artist Argo Allardyce may be the source of at least some of it. William is in Vienna seeking knowledge of Max Niemann. I should like to pursue Argo Allardyce.” She had spoken too rapidly to allow him time to interrupt her, but she was aware that he had not attempted to, and it surprised her. His face looked sad, as if the way the evidence had gone distressed him also. He had not wished Kristian to be guilty, he had simply found it unavoidable.
    “Allardyce was in Southwark all that evening, Mrs. Monk,” Runcorn said ruefully. “Got a picture that proves it, much as I’d like it not to.”
    She must be very careful exactly what she said. A month ago she would have been delighted to dupe him in any way. Now she hated the necessity. She frowned, looking puzzled. “Does it really?”
    “Oh it’s him, plain as day,” he replied. “And it’s the Bull and Half Moon for sure. Landlord recalls Allardyce there, knows him quite well.”
    She managed to look doubtful. “I still believe he had something to do with it,” she insisted. “One way or another. If Dr. Beck wanted to kill her, he would hardly do it in another man’s house.”
    “Murder isn’t often very sensible,” he said sadly.
    She remained sitting. “Your sergeant was good enough to offer me a cup of tea, and I am afraid I was so eager to see you that I refused. I wonder . . .”
    He was glad of the chance to do something for her. “Of course.” He stood up immediately. “Just sit there, and I’ll have him bring one up.”
    “Thank you,” she accepted with a slight smile.
    He went out, and instantly she darted around his desk and opened the first drawer. There was nothing in it but pencils and blank paper. The second had neatly written reports. She was desperate, trying to keep her fingers from fumbling. He had spoken of the picture. Which way had he been looking? She had only moments before he came back.
    Third drawer . . . nothing. She turned to the shelf beside the desk. She moved two books lying flat. There it was! An artist’s sketch of a group of men sitting around a table. She snatched it and pushed it down inside her jacket just as she heard his hand on the door. She had no time to sit again. Instead, she moved towards him as if she had risen to take the cup from him.
    “Thank you!” she said with gratitude more for the escape than the tea. “I hadn’t realized I was so cold, or so thirsty. That is very good of you.”
    He colored very slightly. “I’m sorry it’s going badly for Dr. Beck. I wish there were . . .”
    “Of course,” she agreed, sitting down again and sipping the tea. “But you can’t alter the evidence, I know that. I was just hoping. I daresay it was foolish.” Since she had asked for the tea, she was obliged to stay long enough to finish it. She was terrified in case he decided to get the picture out just to prove to her that Allardyce was really in it. “I mustn’t take up your time,” she said, swallowing hastily. “You have been very patient. I suppose there is no possibility it had to do with gambling?”
    “Doesn’t make any sense, Mrs. Monk,” he said regretfully. “Nothing I’d like more than to string a few of them up, but I’ve got no excuse to. They kill slowly, not by breaking a neck.”
    She put the teacup down.
    “I’m sorry,” he apologized, his face flooding with color.
    “Please don’t be,” she said quickly. “It is only the truth.” She stood up. “I appreciate candor, Mr. Runcorn. Too many evils are tolerated because we give them harmless-sounding names. Thank you for your courtesy.” She did not hold out her hand in case the paper under her jacket crackled. “I can find my way downstairs. Good day.”
    “Good day, Mrs. Monk.” He had risen also, and came around the desk to open the door for her.
    She escaped with a pounding heart, and an acute sense of guilt, but she had the drawing.
     
     
    She spent a useless morning and early afternoon around the area of Allardyce’s studio, and came to the conclusion that in this type of detective work she lacked a skill. By the middle of the afternoon she had decided to follow Allardyce’s friends more directly, and if