William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

Callandra about what had happened to Kristian years ago. It would be better for everyone if the tragedies and the guilt could be buried.
    Unless Kristian already knew? If so, it seemed he was prepared to go to the grave keeping Elissa’s secret, and his own.
    There were too many decisions to make now, without Hester.
    He settled down a little further into the seat and prepared to sleep as much as he could during the long journey home, rattling and lurching through the darkness, troubled by dreams, permanently uncomfortable.
    He had not intended to, but in the morning he found himself sharing the trials and wry amusements, the interest and the tribulation of travel, with Max Niemann. The Austrian was an intelligent man with quirks of character which were both unusual and pleasing. Talking with him made the time pass far more rapidly, and as long as they did not speak of Kristian, Elissa, or the uprising, there was no difficulty in avoiding the emotional traps of the knowledge he could not share.
    They passed through Cologne and moved onward towards Calais. Time dragged by interminably, but they were mile by mile getting closer to England.
    The Channel crossing was rough and cold, and docking seemed to take ages. The London train was delayed, and they had to go up and down looking for seats, but eventually, in the evening of the third day, at last they pulled in. Doors were flying open and people were shouting; cases were heaved out, and the scramble began to find hansoms.
    Monk was tired beyond any sharpness of sense. He walked as if in a dream. Every part of his body ached, and he felt as if his muscles would never move easily again. He wanted to see Hester so intensely he half imagined her in the back of every slender woman he saw. He began to wonder if he were awake or asleep.
    Max Niemann said he would stay at his usual hotel. They always found a room for him, regardless of the lack of notice, and he would report to Monk at Grafton Street in the morning.
    Monk bade him good-night and began to relax at last as his cab made for the Tottenham Court Road, and Grafton Street. He was almost asleep when it jerked to a halt and the driver informed him that he had arrived. He was startled, falling half forward as he staggered out, paid him, and pulled out his door key so that he might surprise Hester and see the delight in her face, feel the warmth of the house, the familiar smells of polish, burning coal, winter leaves in the vase, and above all feel her in his arms.
    But it was dark, and there was no one there. He dropped his cases, then fumbled in the gloom to find the gas knobs. There was no fire lit. There had not been all day. He was so stunned with disappointment it was as if someone had struck him physically, bruising his flesh and driving the breath out of his lungs. Exhaustion took hold of him and he began to shiver uncontrollably.
    He went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. It took him half an hour to light the stove and for it to burn up heat enough to boil the water. He was about to make tea when he heard the front door open. Still with the caddy in his hand, he strode through to the front room.
    Hester was just inside the front door, her coat still on. Her face was white and there was a bruise on her cheek. Her hair was coming undone and her clothes were disheveled.
    “Where the hell have you been?” he shouted at her. “Do you know what time it is?”
    She looked astonished, then angry. “No! Nor do I care!” she retorted.
    “Where were you?” he repeated, his voice shaking with emotion he could not conceal. He could not take his eyes from her face, drawing into himself every detail of her, furious that he cared more than he could control, or hide. He wished to hold her and never let her go, not all night, not tomorrow, not ever. The power of it frightened him. “Don’t stand there! Where were you?” he demanded.
    “Are you saying that you may go halfway around Europe and I may not go around the corner to the police station?” she asked with a sharp lift to her voice. She stared at him, her eyes brilliant, her face almost colorless except for the dark bruise.
    “The police station? Why?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
    “I have discovered that Argo Allardyce was not in Southwark on the night Elissa was killed,” she replied. “He was in Swinton Street, at least earlier on.”
    “Yes, Max Niemann saw him,” he replied. “How do you know?”
    Her eyes widened in surprise. “I