William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

year,” the man agreed. “Best gingerbread man in England, ’e were. An’ why shouldn’t I copy him? Do you good—warm the cockles o’ yer ’eart. ’Ere—threepence worth. Keep the cold out o’ yer.”
    Monk handed him threepence and took the generous slice. “Thank you. You here most evenings?”
    “ ’Course I am. Come by any time. You’ll not find better in London,” the man assured him.
    “Do you know Dr. Beck, Bohemian gentleman, who tends patients all around this area? He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, dark hair, remarkable dark eyes. Probably always in a hurry.”
    “Yeah, I know the gent you mean. Foreign. Out all hours. Friend o’ yours?”
    “Yes. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”
    “Lorst ’im, ’ave yer?” He grinned again.
    Monk maintained his self-control with an effort. “It was his wife who was murdered in Acton Street. When did you see him?”
    The gingerbread man whistled between his teeth, and all the humor died out of his face. “I saw ’im that night, but it were about ten-ish. Bought a piece o’ gingerbread an’ took a cab up north. Goin’ ’ome, I reckoned, but maybe not. I went ’ome meself just arter that. ’E were me last customer.”
    “How was he?”
    “Fit ter drop, if yer ask me. That tired ’e could ’ardly stand up. Terrible thing to lose yer wife like that.” He shook his head and sighed.
    Monk thanked him and moved on. He was not sure if the man’s news was good or bad. It tallied roughly with what Kristian had said, but it also placed him within a few hundred yards of Acton Street.
    Perhaps rather than trying to follow Kristian he should learn more about Elissa? Obviously, she had been in Allardyce’s studio at the time of the murder, but what about before that? Both he and Runcorn had assumed she had gone from her home straight to Allardyce’s studio. Maybe she had gone to Swinton Street to gamble? Regardless of that, he should know more of her gambling. He had accepted Kristian’s word, given to Hester. If he believed Kristian capable of killing his wife, why did he assume that his account was true in every other particular, simply because it was humiliating and gave him a motive in her death? There might be things he was ignorant of, or mistaken in. He could be lying to conceal something else.
    It was not difficult to find the gambling house. The most simple questions, asked with an assured eagerness and a certain glint in the eye, determined that it was the fifth house along from the Gray’s Inn Road, in the north side of the street, well concealed behind a butcher’s shop.
    He walked briskly and went up the shallow step and through the interior, stacked only with a few miserable-looking sausages, and knocked on the door beyond. It was opened by a large-shouldered man with a badly broken nose and a soft, slightly lisping voice. “Yes?” he said guardedly.
    “I’m told a man with a little money to spend can find rather better amusement here than in music halls or the local tavern,” Monk replied. “Something with a chance to win . . . or lose . . . a bit of involvement.”
    “Well now? And who told you that, then?” The man still looked dubious, but there was a flicker of interest in his face.
    “A lady I know who enjoys some excitement in her life now and then. Gentlemen don’t mention names.”
    The man smiled, showing a chipped front tooth, and asked to see the color of his money.
    “Gold—same color as everyone else’s! What’s the matter? Only cater for silver here, do you? Or copper, maybe?”
    “No call to be rude,” the man said patiently. “Just a few ladies and gentlemen spending a pleasant afternoon. Causing nobody no fuss. But I think as I’d like ter know your friend’s name, gentleman or no gentleman.”
    “Unfortunately, my friend met with a . . . misfortune,” Monk replied.
    “A financial one, like?” the man asked with a sigh.
    “She met with a few of those, but that’s life,” Monk replied laconically. “This one was worse. She was murdered.”
    The man’s face tightened around the lips and jaw. “Very sad. But isn’t nothing to do with us ’ere.”
    The fact that he denied it gave Monk a sudden sense of chill, but he knew that a murder which would draw such intense police attention was the last thing a house like this would wish. They would have to close down and set up somewhere else. That would take time and cost money. They would lose business, and while they