William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

affair, too. He would rather she were obsessed with gambling, ruinous as it could be, than with another man. He was shocked by the knowledge that he was not certain if he could endure that. He had meant never, ever to be so dependent on someone else. Love was acceptable, but not the power to be so hurt, to be crippled beyond ever being whole again.
    Was that what Charles Latterly faced? Or Kristian? Did Allardyce have a part in it, other than as a bystander who drew pictures and provided an occasional refuge? One thing was true for certain: somebody had killed both women.
    “Why did Charles think it was an affair?” he asked. “Did he tell you?”
    “He found some letters, agreeing to meet someone who didn’t bother to sign them,” she answered. “The way they were phrased made it obvious they met often. Perhaps it was someone she gambled with. . . .” She sounded uncertain.
    A smattering of memory came back to Monk. “Some people like to have company, especially someone they think brings them luck . . . and Imogen is lucky, at least so far. But the gambling house will put an end to that. Hester . . . if Charles can’t stop her, you must. They won’t let her go on winning. The Swinton Street house has already had enough.”
    “She goes somewhere else as well,” she said miserably. “Charles followed her the night of the murders, down in Drury Lane.”
    “Drury Lane?” he said with a chill of fear. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes. Why? Don’t they have gambling houses there, too?”
    “He didn’t go down Drury Lane the night Elissa was killed.”
    “Yes, he did. He told me . . .” Now she was staring at him with growing alarm. “Why?”
    “Drury Lane was closed,” he said softly. “A dray slid over and dumped a load of raw sugar kegs, most of which cracked open over the road.”
    “He just said that direction,” she lied. “I assumed he meant Drury Lane.” Her mind was whirling, trying to absorb his words and conceal her emotions from him.
    The sauce in the pan thickened and went cold, and she ignored it. Why had Charles lied? Only because the truth was dangerous. He was trying to protect Imogen or himself. Either he thought she had been in Acton Street that night, or he knew it because he had been there himself. Vividly she saw again in her mind his ashen face and shaking hands, the fear in him and the rising sense of panic. The stable, safe world he had so painstakingly constructed around himself was falling apart. Things he had believed to be certainties were spinning away out of his grasp. She realized with a sick churning in her stomach that she did not think it impossible that he had killed Elissa Beck, and then also Sarah Mackeson—who had unintentionally witnessed the first crime.
    She was almost unaware of Monk watching her as the reason took hideous form in her mind. She remembered the letter Charles had shown her. It was still upstairs in the bottom drawer of her jewel box. It was a strong, firm hand, but not necessarily a man’s. What if the person who had introduced Imogen to gambling and set her on her own ruinous course were Elissa Beck? What if Charles had seen them together that night, had followed Elissa when she left, and caught up with her in Allardyce’s studio? He might have assumed it was where she lived. He would have challenged her, begged her to leave Imogen alone. She would have laughed at him. It was already too late to rescue Imogen, but perhaps he would not know that, or would refuse to believe it. They could have struggled, and he could have tightened his grip on her neck without even realizing his strength.
    Then Sarah would have awakened from her stupor and staggered through just in time to witness what had happened and would have begun screaming, or even flown at him. He would have gone after her to silence her . . . and the same swift movement, more deliberate this time.
    No! It was nonsense! She must go to Kristian’s house and find a letter of Elissa’s, compare the writing. That would end it. It could not be Charles! He had not the physical skill, the decisiveness, even the strength . . .
    That was damning! So condescending. She did not know that side of him at all. She had no idea how deep his passions might run under his self-controlled exterior. That calm banker’s face might hide anything.
    After all, who looking at her with the saucepan in front of her could imagine the places she had been to, the violence and death she had seen, or the