William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

him. There was a thrill to winning; the danger of loss sharpened it. It was like galloping a little too fast along the white surf where the sea joins the land, feeling the wind and the spray in your face, and knowing that if you fell you could break bones, perhaps even be killed.
    He played another hand, and another, and won. He was now ten guineas better off, police pay for over a month. He stood up and made an excuse to leave. He had more than established himself. He was there to find out about Elissa Beck, not to increase his own wealth. Kristian might have murdered her, and be hanged for it. Someone had killed her! And poor Sarah Mackeson as well. This was life and death. Money was a distraction, winning or losing at the turn of a piece of colored cardboard was idiotic!
    But it was remarkably difficult to get any sensible conversation from any of the players. The game was everything. They barely glanced at each other. One could have stood next to a brother or sister and been unaware of it while the next play was awaited.
    That was how he was so slow in noticing the woman at the table to his left. Her soft dark hair and slender body, bent forward in eagerness, jolted him back to his reason for being here. She was consumed in the game, her eyes fixed on the dice, her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. For an instant it could have been Elissa Beck. There was something familiar about her that clutched at his emotions and turned his heart. He could not help staring at her, sharing the moment’s exhilaration when she won. Her face was flushed with excitement. She seemed to vibrate life as if her energy could fill the room. She was beautiful with an inner fire.
    He watched as she played again, and won again.
    “Go play against her!” a voice said at his elbow. He turned to see the man who had let him in. “Go on!” he was urged with a broken-toothed smile. “Do the house good. You can’t both win.”
    “Does she come often?” Monk said quickly.
    The man grimaced. “Too damn often. I’d make it worth your while to beat her. I’ve watched you. You’re good. You could do it. Send her somewhere else for a month or two.”
    Monk decided to play the part. “How much worth my while? I can pick an easier opponent, if she’s really so lucky.”
    The man regarded him with contempt. “Is that what you came for? An easy opponent?”
    Monk smiled back at him, showing his teeth wolfishly. “It doesn’t hurt, now and again.” But his expression conceded that what mattered was the game. This conversation might be his only opportunity to find out anything useful. “She reminds me of Elissa,” he said to the man.
    The man gave a sharp bark of amusement. “Except this one wins. Elissa lost. Oh, she won occasionally; you have to see to it that they do, or they don’t come back. But this one wins too often. I could do without her. She was good for a while. People liked watching her, pretty thing, and she encouraged others. Time to get rid of her, though. Some bloke hanging around after her. Could be her husband. Don’t want any more trouble. Not good for business.”
    “Husband?” Then suddenly, like a rush of ice, Monk realized why she looked so familiar. Certainly there was a resemblance to Elissa Beck, the same slender body, the same soft dark hair, but this woman’s face was gentler, prettier, just without the passionate, haunting beauty he had seen in
Funeral in Blue
. She was less marked by the triumphs and tragedies of life. She was his sister-in-law, Imogen Latterly.
    He found his mouth too dry to answer. Did Hester know? Was this what she was afraid of?
    There was another game, and this time Imogen lost, and instantly played again.
    He turned away quickly, suddenly realizing that if she looked up she would recognize him, too. He found his voice at last. “Her husband plays?” he said in amazement. He could not imagine Charles Latterly playing anything that involved the slightest risk. Surely his father’s death and the circumstances around it had driven every gamble of even the mildest sort from his mind?
    “No, he was following her,” the man said tartly. His respect for Monk’s perspicacity had taken a sharp turn downward.
    Monk cursed his emotions for getting in the way of his professionalism. He must make up the lost ground. “Not in here?” he assumed, forcing himself to smile again. “Jealous sort, is he? Or worried for his pocket?”
    The man shrugged. “Could be