William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

was pushing his trousers out of shape, pulled them out again quickly.
    A hansom cab was almost on them, looming up out of the darkness, hooves muffled in the dead air.
    Monk raised his arm, and the cab pulled over to the curb.
    Runcorn snorted and climbed in after him.
     
     
    Hester’s eyes met Monk’s with enquiry as soon as he was through the door into the sitting room. She looked tired and anxious. Her hair was straggling out of its pins and she had put it back too tightly on one side. She had taken no handwork out, as if she could not settle to anything.
    He closed the door. “Runcorn’s on it,” he said simply. “He’s frightened and he’s letting me help. Did you ever meet Kristian’s wife?”
    “No. Why?” Her voice was edged with fear. She was searching his face to know why he asked. She stood up.
    “Did Callandra?” he went on.
    “I don’t know. Why?”
    He walked further into the room, closer to her. It was difficult to explain to anyone the quality in Elissa Beck’s face that disturbed one and remained in the mind long after seeing her. Hester was waiting, and he could not find the words.
    “She’s beautiful,” he began, touching her, absently pulling the tight strand of her hair looser, then moving his hand to the warmth of her shoulders. “I don’t mean just features or color of hair or skin, I mean some inner quality which made her unique.” He saw her surprise. “I know! You thought she was boring, perhaps cold, even that she had lost her looks and no longer took care of herself. . . .”
    She started to deny it, then changed her mind.
    He smiled very slightly. “So did I,” he admitted. “And I don’t think the artist killed her. He was at least half in love with her.”
    “For heaven’s sake,” she said sharply. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her! In fact, if she rebuffed him it could be precisely the reason.”
    “He painted several pictures of her,” he went on. “I don’t think he would destroy his inspiration, whether she rebuffed him or not. And I had the feeling . . .” He stopped.
    “What?” she said urgently.
    “That . . . that he held her in some kind of awe,” he finished. “It wasn’t simply lust. I really don’t think Allardyce killed her.”
    “And the other woman?” she said softly. “People have killed even those they loved to protect themselves—especially if the love was not equally returned.”
    “I don’t know,” he answered. “You are right. Very probably someone killed her, and Elissa Beck was just unfortunate enough to witness it.”
    “Or it could be the other way . . . couldn’t it?” She held his gaze steadily.
    “Yes,” he agreed. “It could be almost anything. But Allardyce says he wasn’t there. He says she sometimes came without telling him, and they talked, or he painted her for his own pleasure, not to sell. There was a picture of her, set in Vienna. It was called
Funeral in Blue
and it was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever seen.” He did not continue. He could see in her face that she had already understood the darkness, the possibilities on the edge of his mind.
    She stood in front of him. “You’re still going to help, though . . . aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
    “I’m going to try,” he said, putting both arms around her and feeling the tension in her body under the fabric of her dress. He knew she was more afraid now than she had been when he left to see Runcorn. So was he.

CHAPTER THREE
    Monk left home early the next morning, and by half past seven he was already walking smartly down Tottenham Court Road. There was a cold wind and the fog had lifted considerably. He heard the newsboys shouting about the American War, and there had been another outbreak of typhoid in the Stepney area, near Limehouse. He remembered the fever hospital there, and how terrified he had been that Hester would catch the disease. He had wasted so much effort trying to convince himself he did not really love her, at least not enough that he would be unable to carry on perfectly well with his life even if she were no longer there. How desperately he had struggled not to give any hostages to fortune . . . and lost!
    He wondered about Kristian Beck. He had seen Beck work night and day to save the lives of strangers. His courage never seemed to fail him, nor his compassion. At first thought it was not difficult to see why Callandra admired him so much, but how well did she know him? Was