William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

door close, a murmur of voices, and a moment later Imogen’s footsteps across the hall.
    She threw the door open and swept in, her skirts wide, a lace fichu around her neck. Her dark eyes were shining and there was a flush on her cheeks. “Hello, Hester,” she said cheerfully. “Twice in the space of four days! Have you suddenly taken to visiting everyone you know? Anyway, it’s very pleasant to see you.” She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then stepped back to look at the table. “No tea? I suppose it’s far too early, but surely you’d like something? Nell says you have been here for three quarters of an hour. I’m so sorry. I’ll speak to her . . .”
    “Please don’t,” Hester said quickly. “She offered me tea and I declined. And don’t go to any trouble now. I expect you have only just come from luncheon?”
    “What?” Imogen looked for a moment as if nothing had been farther from her mind, then she laughed. It was an excited, happy sound. “Yes . . . of course.” She seemed too restless to sit down, moving around the room with extraordinary energy. “Then if you don’t want to eat or drink, what can I offer you? I’m quite sure you don’t want gossip. You don’t know any of the people I do. Anyway, they are the most crashing bores most of the time. They say and do the same things every day, and nearly all of them are completely pointless.” She whirled around, sending her skirts flying. “What is it, Hester? Are you collecting support for some charity or other?” She was speaking rapidly, the words falling over each other. “Let me guess! A hospital? Do you want me to see if I know any friends whose daughters want to become respectable, hardworking young ladies in a noble cause? Miss Nightingale is such a heroine they just might! Although it’s not quite as fashionable as it was at the end of the war. After all, we aren’t fighting with anyone just now, or are we? Of course, there’s always America, but that’s really none of our business.” Her eyes were bright and she was staring at Hester expectantly.
    “No, it never occurred to me to solicit help from any of your friends,” Hester replied with a slight edge. “People have to go into nursing because they care about it, not because anyone asked them, or they couldn’t marry the people they wished to.”
    “Oh, please!” Imogen said with a sharp wave of her hand. “You sound so pompous. I know you don’t mean to, but really . . .”
    Hester kept her temper with difficulty. “Do you know Argo Allardyce?” she asked.
    Imogen’s eyebrows rose. “What a marvelous name! I don’t think so. Who is he?”
    “An artist whose model has just been murdered,” Hester replied, watching her closely.
    “I don’t read newspapers.” Imogen shrugged very slightly. “I’m sorry, of course, but things like that happen.”
    “And a doctor’s wife was murdered at the same time,” Hester continued, watching her face. “In Acton Street, just around the corner from Swinton Street.”
    Imogen froze, her body stiff, her eyes wide. “A doctor’s wife?”
    “Yes.” Hester felt a flutter of fear inside her like nausea. “Elissa Beck.”
    Imogen was sheet white. Hester was afraid she was going to faint. “I’m sorry,” she said swiftly, going to Imogen to support her in case she staggered or fell.
    Imogen waved her away sharply and stepped back to the sofa, sinking down on it, her skirts puffing around her. She put her hands up to cover her face for a moment. “I was there,” she said hoarsely, her voice scratching as if her throat ached. “I mean, just around the corner! I . . . I called on a friend. How awful!”
    Hester hated pursuing matters now, but the thought of Charles drove her. “What kind of friend?”
    Imogen looked up, startled. “What?”
    “What kind of friend do you have in that area?”
    A flash of temper lit Imogen’s eyes. “That is not your concern, Hester! I have no intention of explaining myself to you, and it is intrusive of you to ask!”
    “I’m trying to save you from getting involved in a very ugly investigation,” Hester said sharply. “You were in Swinton Street, one block from where the murders took place. What were you doing there, and can you explain it satisfactorily?”
    “To you? Certainly not. But I was not murdering people! Anyway, how do you know where I was?” This was a demand, challenging and offended.
    There was no reasonable answer but the truth, and that was going