William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

pressed.
    “ ’Course I’m sure,” the peddler replied, pulling his wide mouth into a grimace.
    “How do you know?” He had to be certain.
    “ ’Cos Mr. ’Arreford come by an’ bought ’is usual. Quarter past nine on the dot, ’e is, reg’lar as Big Ben.”
    “You can’t hear Big Ben from here,” Monk pointed out.
    The peddler looked at him crookedly. “ ’Course yer can’t,” he said. “Figure o’ speech, like. If Big Ben ain’t reg’lar, the world’s comin’ ter a rare fix!”
    “And this Mr. Harreford is never late—or early?”
    “Never. If yer knew ’im, yer wouldn’t ask.”
    “Where do I find him?”
    “Don’t yer believe me, then?”
    “Yes, I believe you, but the judge may not, if it comes to that.”
    The peddler shivered. “Don’ wanna tell no judge!”
    “You won’t need to, if I find Mr. Harreford.”
    “Works in the lawyer’s offices, number fourteen Amwell Street. That way,” he said instantly.
    Monk smiled. “Thank you.”
    An hour later Mr. Harreford, a dry, obsessively neat, little man, confirmed what the peddler had said, and Monk left with a feeling of growing relief. Perhaps his fears were unnecessary after all. Kristian had an excellent witness, one whom Runcorn would take sufficiently seriously that he would dismiss Kristian as a suspect. He walked back towards Tottenham Court Road with a light, swift step. After he had been to Sarah Mackeson’s funeral, he would be able to check again on the patient, Maude Oldenby, and that would account for Kristian’s time completely.
    “Thank you,” Monk acknowledged to the peddler.
    “Pleasure, Guv’nor,” the peddler said with a grin. “Yer owe me, mind!”
    “I do,” Monk agreed.
    “Still followin’ the doc’s path that night, are yer?”
    “I will, when I come back.”
    “Good, ’cos yer won’t find the chestnut seller on ’is patch till ’arter midday.”
    “Chestnut seller?” Monk asked doubtfully.
    “Yeah! Corner o’ Liverpool Street and the Euston Road. ’E must ’a seen ’im too, at twenty arter nine, or the like.”
    “You mean ten past,” Monk corrected. Liverpool Street was in the opposite direction.
    “No, I don’t!” The peddler stared at him, drawing his brows down.
    “If he was going from Risinghill Street, beyond Pentonville Road, towards Clarendon Square, he would pass Liverpool Street before here,” Monk pointed out with weary patience.
    “ ’Course ’e would,” the peddler agreed. “But as ’e were goin’ t’other way, ’e’d pass me first, wouldn’t ’e?”
    “The other way?” Monk repeated slowly, the relief freezing inside him to a small, hard stone.
    “Yeah. ’E weren’t goin’ ter Clarendon Square, ’e’d bin, an’ were comin’ back.”
    “You’re sure?” He knew it was stupid to ask even as he said the words. He was fighting against a truth part of him already accepted.
    “Yeah, I’m sure.” The peddler looked unhappy. “Is that bad?”
    “Not necessarily,” Monk lied. “It’s good to get it right. No room for mistakes. He was going that way?” He pointed towards Gray’s Inn Road.
    “Yeah!”
    “Did he say where to?”
    “No. Just took the sandwich and went. Didn’t stop an’ talk like ’e sometimes does. Reckon ’e ’ad someone real poorly.”
    “Yes, I daresay he did. Thank you.” He walked away. Of course he would have to check with the chestnut seller, but he was already certain of what he would find.
     
     
    The funeral of Sarah Mackeson was held in a small church in Pentonville. It was very quiet, and conducted so hastily as to be no more than a formality. It was an observance of the decencies for the sake of being able to say duty was done. There was a plain wooden coffin, but it was of pine, and Monk wondered if Argo Allardyce had paid for it, even though he was not present.
    He glanced around the almost empty pews, and saw only one middle-aged woman in a plain black coat and drab hat, and he recognized Mrs. Clark, looking tearful. There was no one else present except Runcorn, standing at the back, angry and embarrassed when his eyes met Monk’s. He looked away quickly, as if they had not seen each other.
    What was he doing there? Did he really imagine that whoever had killed her would be at the funeral? Whatever for? Some kind of remorse? Only if it were Allardyce, and his presence would prove nothing. He had employed her as his model for the last three or four years, painted her countless times. Until