William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

sort of woman to have sat around talking to the model?”
    “Not if that’s all she went for.” Runcorn bit his lip, his face full of misery. He did not need to explain the pitfalls for a policeman faced with proving that the daughter of an eminent figure was having an affair, one so sordid in its nature that it had ended in a double murder, with an artist.
    There would also be no way whatever of avoiding dragging Kristian into it. No man would take lightly his wife’s betraying him in such a way. In spite of himself, Monk felt a twinge of pity for Runcorn, the more so knowing his pretensions to social acceptability and the long, hard journey he had made towards being respected, rather than merely tolerated, by those he admired. He would never achieve what he wished, and it would continue to hurt him. Monk had the polish in his manner, the elegance of dress to pass for a gentleman, partly because he did not care if he succeeded or not. Runcorn cared intensely, and it betrayed him every time.
    “Would it help if I were to see what I can learn in a round-about way?” Monk offered casually. “Through friends, rather than by direct questioning?” He watched Runcorn struggle with his pride, his dislike of Monk, and his appreciation of just how awkward the situation could become and his own inadequacy to deal with it. He was trying to gauge what help Monk would be and how willing he was to try. What did he want out of it, and how far could he be trusted?
    Monk waited.
    “I suppose if you know the family it might avoid embarrassment,” Runcorn said at last. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his hands were clenched on the desk. “Be careful,” he added warningly, looking up at Monk directly at last. “It may not be anything like it seems, and we don’t want to make fools of ourselves. And you’re not official!”
    “Of course not,” Monk agreed, keeping the amusement out of his expression, bitter as it was. He knew why Runcorn did not trust him. Given the circumstances, he would have despised him if he had. It was a large enough admission of his vulnerability that he had confided in Monk at all. “I suppose you’re looking for witnesses? Anyone seen near the place? Where does Allardyce claim to have been?”
    Runcorn’s face reflected his contempt for the unorthodox and bohemian life. “He says he was out drinking with friends in Southwark all night, looking for some kind of . . . of new light, he said. Whatever that may mean. Bit odd, in the middle of the night, if you ask me.”
    “And do these friends agree?” Monk enquired.
    “Too busy looking for new light themselves to know,” Runcorn replied with a twist of his mouth. “But I’ve got men following it up, and we’ll find something sooner or later. Acton Street’s busy enough—evenings, anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’d like to see the bodies? Not that the surgeon has much yet.”
    “Yes,” Monk agreed, trying not to sound eager. His affection for Callandra and his regard for Kristian made it imperative he do what he could to help, but it also made it a personal tragedy too close to his own emotions.
    Runcorn stood up, hesitated a moment as if still undecided exactly how to proceed, then went to the door. Monk followed him down the stairs and out past the desk. It was less than half a mile to the morgue, and in the density of traffic, easier to walk than try to find a hansom.
    The pavements were crowded and the noises of hooves and wheels, the shouts of drivers and street hawkers, the creak and rattle of harnesses filled the air. Sweat and horse manure were sharp in the nostrils, and they could go only a few yards before having to alter course to avoid bumping into people.
    They walked in silence, excused from trying to converse by the conditions, and both glad of it. They passed a seller of peppermint water on the first corner, and had to wait several moments for a lull in traffic before they could cross, dodging between carts, carriages and drays, and a costermonger’s barrow being pushed, oblivious of pedestrians. Runcorn swore under his breath and leaped for the curb.
    A newsboy was shouting the headlines about Garibaldi’s campaign in Naples and the fact that there had been no further major battles in America since the bloody encounter at Bull Run two and a half months ago. No one was paying him the slightest attention. The few bystanders who had no urgent business were listening to the running patterer whose