William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

it anything more than his professional character? What of his thoughts that had nothing to do with medicine? What of his fears or his griefs? What of his appetites?
    He saw an empty hansom and stepped off the curb to hail it, but it hurried on blindly, the driver muffled in scarves, and he rounded a lamppost up onto the pavement again.
    He increased his pace, suddenly angry, energy surging up inside him. He found his hands clenched and he all but bumped into the sandwich seller standing idly on the corner watching for custom. The streets were already busy with brewers’ drays and delivery carts with vegetables for the market. A milkman was selling by the jug or can on the corner of Francis Street, and two women were waiting, shivering in the wind and the damp.
    Another hansom came by, and this one stopped. He climbed in, giving the driver the address of the police station and telling him to wait while he picked up Runcorn, then to take them both on to Haverstock Hill.
    Runcorn was there within moments. He came down the steps with his jacket flapping and his cheeks still ruddy from the scraping of the razor. He climbed in beside Monk and ordered the driver on sharply.
    They rode in silence. Half a dozen times Monk almost asked Runcorn for his opinion on some aspect of the case, a possibility, and each occasion he changed his mind. At least twice he heard Runcorn also draw in his breath as if to speak, and then say nothing. The longer the silence remained, the harder it became to break it.
    As they went uphill out of the city, the fog lifted further and the cleaner air was sharp with the smell of damp earth, wood smoke, fallen leaves and horse manure.
    When they reached the corner of Haverstock Hill and Prince of Wales Street, the hansom stopped and they alighted. Runcorn paid the driver. The house in front of them was substantial but not ostentatious. Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw the respect in his face. This was the sort of home a man of moral quality should have. The curtains were lowered. There were black crepe ribbons on the door. Monk smiled, and forced back his own thoughts.
    Runcorn went ahead and yanked the bellpull, then stepped away.
    After several moments the door was opened by a middle-aged maid in plain stuff dress and a white apron that was wet around the bottom. Her hands were red, and a faint line of soap showed white on her wrists. It was plain from her face that she had been weeping and was controlling herself now only with the greatest effort.
    “Yes sir?” she enquired.
    It was not far off nine o’clock. “May we see Dr. Beck, please?” Runcorn asked. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.” He produced his card and offered it to her. “I’m from the police,” he added as she ignored it, and he realized she probably could not read.
    “ ’E can’t see yer,” she said with a sniff.
    “I’m aware of his bereavement,” Runcorn said quietly. “It’s about that that I must speak.”
    “Yer can’t,” she repeated expressionlessly. “ ’E in’t ’ere.”
    Monk felt his heart beat faster. Runcorn stiffened.
    “ ’E’s gorn ter the ’orspital,” the maid explained. “Up ’Ampstead. Poor soul, ’e don’t know wot ter do wif ’isself, but ’e don’t never forget the sick.” She blinked rapidly but the tears still ran down her rough cheeks. “You gotta find ’oo done this to ’im. If yer worth sixpence of a decent person’s money, yer can do that!”
    Runcorn drew in his breath to be reasonable, then changed his mind. Perhaps he was conscious of Monk a step behind him, watching, listening. He would be patient. “Of course we will, but we need his help . . .”
    “Up the ’orspital.” She waved her arm, indicating the direction. “I can’t do nothin’ for yer ’ere. An’ yer’d best ’urry, afore ’e starts operatin’, ’cos ’e won’t stop fer nothin’ then, not you ner me, ner Gawd ’isself.”
    Runcorn thanked her and went back to the street to look for a hansom, Monk a couple of steps behind him, finding it difficult to follow graciously, but if he wanted to be included he had no choice but to comply. He was certain Runcorn was conscious of it, and enjoying it.
    “Better get a cab, Monk,” Runcorn said after a moment or two.
    Monk knew why he did that. Hansom drivers could spot the self-assurance of a gentleman fifty yards away. A man with breeding would have more money, more appearance of position to keep up and therefore more generosity.