William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

Whatever Runcorn wore, whatever rank he attained, he would never have that air, the unconscious arrogance that Monk was born with. That was the core of his loathing all the years they had known each other: the fact that they were both aware of the differences between them, and Monk had never yielded a word of honest praise, or stayed his tongue. He was not proud of that now, but the pattern of years was too deep to erase.
    Again they rode in silence, this time as a matter of necessity. They alighted at the hospital some half an hour later, and Monk led the way, being familiar with the place from the times he had been there to see Hester.
    As soon as he was inside he smelled the familiar odors of carbolic and lye and another odor, sweeter and different, which might have been blood. His imagination raced to the morning he had woken up after his own accident, and to the battlefield in America where he had seen for the first time what it was that Hester had really done in the Crimea, not the English imagination of the horror and the helplessness but the reality of flesh and pain.
    Runcorn was a step behind him. The difference in experience was a gulf between them that could never be crossed. All the telling in the world, even supposing Runcorn were to listen, could not convey things for which there were no words.
    They passed a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy slop buckets, her shoulders dragged down by the weight. Her eyes did not meet theirs. She was a nurse, a hospital skivvy to fetch and clean, stoke fires, launder, roll bandages and generally do as she was told.
    Three medical students stood in earnest conversation, shirts spattered in blood. One had a neat incision in the side of his black frock coat, as if it had somehow got caught up in the speed of a surgical procedure. There was blood around that also, but dried dark, so not today’s events.
    “We’re looking for Dr. Beck,” Monk said, stopping beside them.
    They regarded him with slight disdain. “The waiting room’s over there.” One of them pointed, and then returned his attention to his colleagues.
    “Police!” Monk snapped, stung by the attitude, as much for the patients treated with such cavalier manner as for himself. “And we have no intention of waiting.”
    The student’s expression barely changed. He was a professional man, and he considered police to be on a level both of skill and in society equal to that of a bailiff, dealing with the detritus of the world. “You’ll have to wait,” he said dryly.
    Runcorn looked at the student, then at Monk, his hope that Monk’s razor tongue had not lost its edge plain in his face.
    “If the operating room is still where it was, I shall find it for myself,” Monk replied. He surveyed the young man’s coat. “I see you have something yet to learn regarding accuracy with the knife. Unless, of course, you were intending to remove your own appendix? If so, I believe it is on the other side.”
    The student flushed with anger, and his colleagues hid a smile. Monk strode on with Runcorn at his heels.
    “How did you know that?” Runcorn asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
    “I’ve been here before,” Monk answered, trying to remember exactly where the operating rooms were.
    “About the . . . appendix!” Runcorn corrected.
    “Man called Gray published a book on anatomy about three years ago,” Monk answered. “Hester has a copy. Here.” He reached the door he thought was the correct one, and went in.
    It was empty but for Kristian Beck standing beside a table. He was in shirtsleeves, and there was blood on his rolled-up cuffs, but his hands were clean. It had been a long time since Monk had seen him, and he had forgotten the impact of the doctor’s appearance. He was in his early forties, of average height, with hair receding a little, but it was his eyes which commanded the attention. They were dark and of such remarkable intelligence as to be truly beautiful. His mouth suggested passion, but there was a sense of inner control, as if the intense emotions there were seldom unguarded.
    He drew in his breath to protest the intrusion; then he recognized Monk and his face relaxed, but nothing could take from it the marks of shock.
    “I’m sorry,” Monk said, and the sincerity with which he felt it was clear in his voice.
    Kristian did not answer, and a glance at his face showed that for a moment loss overwhelmed him and he was incapable of speech.
    It was Runcorn who salvaged the