William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

few months,” he answered. “I’m not sure. What does it matter? What is time anyway, except what we put into it? It’s like space. Who can measure nothingness?”
    Was the man being deliberately contentious, or were his words a reflection of how deeply he had cared for Kristian’s wife? From the wretchedness of his body, the sagging shoulders, the feet sticking out, the bowed head, Monk could easily believe it was the latter. “So you knew her well?” he said aloud.
    “Infinitely,” Allardyce answered, looking up at Monk now as if he perceived some glimmer of understanding where he had not expected it.
    “Was her husband aware of that?” Runcorn interrupted.
    “Her husband was a philistine!” Allardyce said bitterly. “As you are!”
    Runcorn colored faintly. He knew he was being insulted but he was not quite sure how. If it were his morality, then from such a man it was a compliment, even if not intended as such.
    “Did you know him well?” Monk enquired conversationally.
    “What?” Allardyce was startled.
    Monk repeated the question.
    Allardyce’s face tensed, and he retreated a little into himself. “No. Actually, I never met him.”
    “So why is it you think he is a philistine? Did she say so?”
    Allardyce hesitated. Admitting this would paint him in an ugly light, and he was obviously aware of it. “He didn’t appreciate her anymore, didn’t see the depth of her, the mystery,” he tried to explain. “She was a remarkable woman—unique.”
    “She was certainly beautiful,” Monk agreed. “But perhaps beauty wasn’t his chief criterion?”
    Allardyce climbed to his feet, glanced at Monk for a moment, then walked over to a pile of canvases in the corner behind his easel. He picked out two or three and turned them face out so Monk could see them. They were all of Beck’s wife. The first was quickly done, a simple sketch of a woman sitting in the sun, painted in afterwards to catch the spirit of light and shade, the spontaneous smile of someone caught in a moment of enjoyment. It was excellently done, and Monk immediately saw Allardyce in a different light. He was a man with acute perception and the gift to capture it with his hand and eye. He was an artist, not merely a craftsman.
    The second, a far more formal portrait of a woman very obviously posing, was unfinished. She wore a gown of rich plum color which faded into the warm, dark tones of the background, throwing her face and shoulders into prominence as the light gleamed on her skin. She looked delicate, almost fragile, and yet there was extraordinary strength of passion in her features. Now Monk knew what she had been like when she was alive. He almost imagined he could hear her voice.
    But the last picture was the one which affected him the most. It was painted with a limited palette, mostly blues and grays with barely a touch of green in the foreground. It was a city street in the evening in the rain. The shop signs were suggested rather than depicted in detail, but there was enough of the writing to show it was German. In the foreground was Beck’s wife, younger than now, and the haunting quality of her beauty and the strength of her passion and sorrow were enhanced by the misty half-light from the street lamps. Horses with black plumes—again, suggested more than painted in full—made it plain that she was watching a funeral; and the shadows of other mourners—almost the ghosts, as if they, too, were dead—ringed the cortege. But all the emphasis was upon her and her feelings, everything else was merely to enhance the power and mystery of her face.
    Monk stared at it. It was unforgettable. From what he had seen of her in the morgue, it was an excellent likeness, but far more than that, it had caught the spirit of an extraordinary personality. To have painted such a portrait the artist must have felt for her deeply and understood far more of her nature than mere observation could have taught him. Unless, of course, he was investing in her some passionate experience of his own?
    But Monk had seen Beck’s wife; the former was easy to believe. “Why this?” he asked Allardyce, indicating the painting.
    “What?” Allardyce forced his attention back. “
Funeral in Blue
?”
    “Yes. Why did you paint it? Did her father ask for this, too?” He would not have believed Allardyce if he had said he had. No man could create a picture like this on the request of someone else.
    Allardyce blinked. “No, I did it for myself.