William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

can’t afford ignorance.”
    “Could it have been someone to whom she owed money?” Callandra began.
    “Of course,” Hester agreed too quickly.
    Callandra’s face tightened into blank misery. “Kristian would have paid. You said everything was gone, at least you implied it. Ruined gamblers commit suicide. I’ve known soldiers to do that. Do creditors really murder them? And what about the other poor woman?” She shivered convulsively. “Surely she didn’t gamble, too?”
    “She was possibly the one they intended to kill.” Hester was trying to convince herself as much as Callandra. “They are trying to find out as much as they can about her.”
    “Perhaps it was a lover’s quarrel that went much too far?” Callandra’s voice hovered on the edge of conviction. “What about the artist?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Well, this won’t do any good standing here.” Callandra forced herself to smile. “How is the woman who had the hairball? I thought only cats got them. For them it’s understandable, but I can’t think of anything more revolting than eating hair.”
    “The wound is healing well. I’m wondering what we can do to give her the belief in herself to heal the inside of her.”
    “Work,” Callandra replied without hesitation. “If she stayed here we could find her enough to do so she would be too busy to sit and worry about herself.”
    “I doubt her mother would allow her to,” Hester replied. “Hospitals don’t have a very good reputation for young ladies of genteel background.” She gave a twisted smile as she said it, but there was too much truth in it to ignore.
    “I’ll speak to her,” Callandra promised.
    “I think she would like it, but she’d never have the courage to defy . . .”
    “The mother,” Callandra supplied. “I’m good with dragons, believe me. I know exactly where the soft spots are.”
    This time Hester’s smile was wholehearted. “I’ll hold your shield for you,” she promised.
     
     
    The following day was the funeral of Sarah Mackeson. Monk wondered if anyone but the priest and the gravediggers would attend. There would be no family to hold an elaborate reception afterwards, no one to pay for a hearse and four horses with black plumes or for professional mourners to carry feathers and stand in silence with faces like masks of tragedy.
    Someone should be there. He would go. Whatever the need for truth, this was a need also. He would follow Kristian’s path on the evening of the murders and check every detail, speak to every peddler, shopkeeper and barrow boy he could, but he would check his watch regularly and make the time for Sarah’s funeral.
    He left the house at seven. It was a heavy, still morning with a distinct coldness in the air, but the fog had cleared, at least for the meantime. It was easy to believe that winter was ahead, even if there were still leaves on the trees. Dusk was growing earlier and dawn later by a few minutes every day.
    It was hardly worth looking for a cab for the short distance to Acton Street, and walking gave him the opportunity to think about what he was going to do. If he traced Kristian’s path precisely, there was a possibility that he could prove he could not have been in Allardyce’s studio. Then the question of his guilt would not arise. Runcorn’s men had already tried to establish this, and failed to do it conclusively.
    He passed a newspaper seller shouting that the government in Washington was starting a crusade against antiCivil War journals, some of which had been seized at a post office in Philadelphia.
    By the time he reached Acton Street and found the constable it was a quarter to eight. He rehearsed Kristian’s movements as he had recounted them, and found the first witness, a peddler who sold sandwiches and knew Kristian quite well, having often provided him with what served for luncheon or dinner when he was hard-pressed, hurrying from one patient to another.
    “Oh, yeah,” he said with conviction. “Dr. Beck passed ’ere ’bout quarter past nine the other night. ’Ungry, ’e were, an’ rushed orff ’is feet, like most times. Sold ’im an ’am san’wich an’ ’e ate ’alf of it and went on wi’ the other ’alf in ’is ’and.”
    Monk breathed a sigh of relief. If Kristian had been on his way to his patient in Clarendon Square at quarter past nine, then he could not have been in Acton Street at just after half past. “Are you sure it was quarter past nine?” he