William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

hair plastered to his face in the rain, he opened the door wider to invite him in.
    “Well?” he said as soon as they were in the small hallway. “What did you find in Vienna? Anything?”
    “Yes.” Somehow being with Runcorn in this close, ordinary hallway took Monk back to the facets of police procedure, of the law, of what the realities were, separated from the emotions of love and need. As Runcorn went into the kitchen ahead of him, Monk pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.
    Runcorn turned up the gas and went to riddle the ashes out of the black stove and try to get it burning hot again. “Well?” he said with his back to the room.
    “I brought Niemann back,” Monk replied. “He’s more than willing to testify, both to Kristian’s good character . . .”
    Runcorn swiveled around on his haunches and glared at Monk.
    Monk rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. For all the years of rivalry and dislike, the petty quarrels between them, they shared more beliefs than he had thought even a month ago, and they knew each other too well to hedge around with half-truths. He looked up at Runcorn, who had risen to his feet. The stove was beginning to draw again, and the heart of the fire burned red.
    “Niemann says he was in Swinton Street near the gambling house just before the murders, and saw Allardyce leaving.” Of course, Runcorn knew Allardyce had been there, from Hester. He must also know that she had stolen the picture, although she had returned it.
    Runcorn stared at him unblinkingly, only the barest, momentary reflection of that in his eyes. “Go on,” he prompted. Absentmindedly, he moved the kettle over onto the hot surface. “There’s more to it, or you wouldn’t be looking like a wet weekend in Margate. Maybe Allardyce is lying, but maybe he isn’t. Is Niemann Dr. Beck’s friend, or his enemy? Was he Elissa’s lover?”
    “Friend. And no, I don’t think so.”
    Runcorn leaned forward over the table. “But you don’t know! Have you got time to sit here half the night while I pull out of you whatever it is?”
    Monk looked up at him. It was extraordinary how familiar he was, every line of his face, each intonation of his voice. Evidence said that they had known each other since early manhood, over twenty years. And yet there were vast areas of emotion, belief, inner realities Monk was seeing only now. Perhaps he had never cared before?
    “There’s quite a lot of feeling against Jews in Vienna, in Austria,” he said slowly. “They’ve been persecuted for generations. I suppose centuries would be more accurate.”
    Runcorn waited patiently, his eyes steady on Monk’s face.
    “In order to survive, to escape discrimination, even persecution,” Monk went on, “some Jews denied their race and their faith and changed their names to German ones. They even became Roman Catholic.”
    “This must be going to mean something, or you wouldn’t be telling me,” Runcorn observed.
    “Yes. The kettle’s boiling.”
    “Tea can wait. What about people changing their names? What has it to do with the murder of Elissa Beck?”
    “I don’t know. But Kristian Beck’s family was one of those who did that. Elissa knew, but she never told Kristian, and he himself did not know. At least not at the time. She even went out of her way to protect him, knowing that if he were caught, and it became known he was really a Jew, it would be even harder for him.” Why was he still telling less than half the truth? To protect Kristian or Pendreigh?
    Runcorn’s face tightened. There was a flash of pity in his eyes, something that might even have been understanding. He turned away, hiding it from Monk, and began to make tea for both of them, clattering the teapot, spilling a few leaves onto the bench. The silence in the kitchen was heavy as he left the tea to steep. Finally he poured it, putting in milk and passing over two cups onto the table, pushing one across to Monk. He did not need to ask how he liked it.
    “And if she told him recently, perhaps in a quarrel over money and her gambling it away,” Runcorn said, stirring sugar into his own tea, clicking the spoon against the side of the cup, “that only gives him more reason to kill her.”
    “The prosecution doesn’t know that!” Monk said sharply.
    Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to testify?”
    “Yes, but I shan’t tell them that. It may have nothing to do with it. It would prejudice them against him . .