William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

Leibnitz?” Pendreigh asked. His voice was thick with his own emotion.
    “Yes,” Niemann replied. “Very much.”
    “And she with him?”
    “Yes.” This time the word was simple, painful.
    “And they married?”
    “After the uprising, yes.”
    “Did you ever doubt his love for her?”
    “No. No, I didn’t.”
    “And you all three remained friends?” Pendreigh asked.
    Neimann’s hesitation was palpable.
    “You didn’t?” Pendreigh asked.
    “We lost touch for some time,” Niemann answered. “One of our number was killed, very violently. It distressed us all profoundly. Kristian seemed to feel it most.”
    “Was he at fault?”
    “No. It was just the fortune of war.”
    “I see. But he was the leader. Did he feel perhaps he should somehow have prevented it?”
    Mills half rose to his feet, then changed his mind. Niemann was painting a darker picture of Kristian than the dedicated doctor that had been shown so far. It was hardly in his interest to stop Niemann, or to question his veracity.
    “I don’t know,” Niemann answered. It was probably the truth, but it sounded evasive.
    Pendreigh retracted. “Thank you. Now may we come to the present, and your recent visit to London? Did you see Mrs. Beck?”
    “Yes.”
    “Several times?”
    “Yes.”
    “At her home, or elsewhere?”
    “At the studio of Argo Allardyce, where she was having a portrait painted.” Niemann looked uncomfortable.
    “I see. And were you in that vicinity on the night of her death?”
    “Yes, I was.”
    “Where, precisely?”
    “I was walking along Swinton Street.”
    “At what time?”
    “Shortly after nine o’clock.”
    “Did you see anyone you knew?”
    “Yes. I saw the artist, Argo Allardyce.” Niemann drew in a deep breath. “I also saw a woman who has since conceded that she was there, but unfortunately she does not remember seeing me.”
    “Argo Allardyce?” Pendreigh affected surprise. “What was he doing?”
    “Striding along the pavement with an artist’s case under his arm. He looked very angry. The woman was following him and spoke to him while I was there.”
    “Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Mills.”
    Mills bowed and rose. He did not ask more, but with a few skillful questions he drew from Niemann a picture of Kristian as a leader in the uprising which was even more self-controlled than before, a man who never lost sight of the goal, who could make sacrifices of all kinds, even of people, in the good of the greater cause.
    Hester sat cringing with every new addition, and felt Callandra stiffen beside her. She could only imagine what she must be feeling.
    “And you were in London and saw Elissa Beck several times, is that correct?” Mills enquired.
    “Yes.” Was it defiance or embarrassment in Niemann’s face?
    Mills smiled. “Indeed,” he observed. “Always at some place other than her home? Was Dr. Beck ever present, Mr. Niemann?”
    The implication was obvious. Niemann blushed. “I came because Elissa was in some financial trouble,” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in a position to help her. Kristian was not. In deference to his feelings, I did not wish him to know what I had done.”
    Mills smiled. “I see,” he said with only a whisper of disbelief in his voice. “I commend your loyalty to an old ally, and a woman with whom you were in love. I am afraid there is nothing you can do now to help either of them.” Mills thanked Niemann, and withdrew. He had caused the damage, and he needed do no more.
    The luncheon adjournment was brief. Hester saw Charles and Imogen only as they disappeared through the farther doorway. She, Monk and Callandra ate in a noisy public house, where they took refuge in the difficulty of hearing amid the clamor to avoid speaking of the trial.
    It was on the way back, on the steps going up to the court, that Runcorn caught up with them, his coat flying, his hair damp from the clinging fog.
    “What is it?” Monk demanded, turning to him.
    Runcorn looked at him, then at Hester. Callandra had gone ahead and he did not recognize her at this distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the weight of it was heavy in his voice. “We found the cabbie who picked up Allardyce outside the gambling house. He remembers it pretty clearly. There was a nasty scene. A woman snatched some drawings from Allardyce and tore them up there on the side of the footpath. He says Allardyce seemed glad to get away from her before she drew everyone’s