William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafés, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”
    “To fight for?” Monk said curiously. It was an odd word to use.
    Kristian met his eyes. “I met her in 1848,” he said softly. “We were all caught up in the revolution.”
    “Is that where you lived then?”
    “Yes. I was born in Bohemia, but my father was Viennese, and we had returned there. I was working in one of the hospitals and I knew students of all sorts, not just medical. All over Europe—Paris, Berlin, Rome, Milan, Venice, even in Hungary—there was a great hope of new freedoms, a spirit of courage in the air. But of course, to us Vienna seemed to be the heart of it.”
    “And Mrs. . . .”
    “Elissa von Leibnitz,” Kristian supplied. “Yes, she was passionate for the cause of liberty. I knew no one with more courage, more daring to risk everything for victory.” He stopped. Monk could see in his face that he was reliving those days, sharp and fresh as if they were only just past. There was softness in his eyes, and pain. “She had a brighter spirit than anyone else. She could make us laugh . . . and hope . . .” He stopped again, and this time he turned away from them, hiding his face.
    Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw an instant of pity so naked it stunned him. It did not belong to the man he thought he knew. It felt intrusive for him to have seen it. Then it was gone and nothing but embarrassment remained, and an anger for being forced to feel something he did not wish to, a confusion because things were not as he had supposed, and not easy. He rushed into speech to cover the silence and his own awkwardness. “Were you both involved in the revolutions in Europe then, Dr. Beck?”
    “Yes.” Kristian straightened up, lifting his head a little, then turned around slowly to face Runcorn. “We fought against those who led the tyranny. We tried to overthrow it and win some freedom for ordinary people, a right to read and write as they believed. As you know, we failed.”
    Runcorn cleared his throat. The politics of foreigners were not his concern. His business was crime there in London, and he wanted to remain on ground he understood. “So you came home . . . at least you came here, and Mrs. Beck . . . Mrs. . . . what did you say?”
    “Frau von Leibnitz, but she was my wife by then,” Kristian replied.
    “Yes . . . yes, of course. You came to London?” Runcorn said hastily.
    “In 1849, yes.” A shadow passed over Kristian’s face.
    “And practiced medicine here?”
    “Yes.”
    “And Mrs. Beck, what did she do? Did she make friends here again?” Runcorn asked, although Monk knew from the tone of his voice that he had no purpose in mind, he was foundering. What he wanted to know was were they happy, had Elissa taken lovers, but he did not know how to say it so the answer was of value.
    “Yes, of course,” Kristian answered. “She was always interested in the arts, music and painting.”
    “Was she interested in your work?” Monk interrupted.
    Kristian was startled. “Medicine? No . . . no she wasn’t. It . . .” He changed his mind and remained silent.
    “When did she first meet Allardyce?” Runcorn went on.
    “I don’t know. About four or five months ago, I think.”
    “She didn’t say?”
    “Not that I remember.”
    Runcorn questioned him for several more minutes but knew he was achieving nothing. When there was a sharp knock on the door and a medical student asked if Kristian was ready to see patients again, both Monk and Runcorn were happy to leave.
    “Was Maude Oldenby the only patient you visited?” Runcorn asked as Kristian stood at the door.
    The ghost of a smile touched Kristian’s lips. “No. I also saw Mrs. Mary Ann Jackson, of 21 Argyle Street.” He went out and closed the door quietly. They heard his footsteps down the corridor.
    Neither of them remarked that Argyle Street was rather a long way from Haverstock Hill, but only a few hundred yards from Acton Street.
    “He’s lying,” Runcorn said when they were outside