William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

to accept. What manner of woman was she? Why had she not brought happiness? The answer that forced itself upon her was that Kristian loved her but she did not return his feeling. It was comfort for which he turned to Callandra, for the solace of being loved.
    And yet going back over every moment they had shared, even in the impersonal times of sitting in management meetings in the hospital, or arguing with Fermin Thorpe, who was enough to try the patience of a saint, she had been certain there was a warmth between them that had dignity to it, and honesty. Kristian was not a man to descend to using someone else merely to make up for a lack in his own life.
    Without realizing it, she had stopped weeding.
    Then Hester had told her that Elissa Beck was a compulsive gambler, so addicted to the excitement of the game that she had thrown away all she owned, and almost all Kristian owned as well. She had poured out money, pawned or sold her possessions, until finally even the furniture had gone, debts were piled up, the house was cold and dark, and ruin was on the doorstep.
    She could not even imagine the fear and the shame that Kristian must have felt, although she did nothing but try to. Elissa’s death must have been a bitter loss to him, a part of his life torn away. And yet it had to have been a relief as well. The bleeding out of money was ended; like a patient whose hemorrhage has at last been staunched, he could begin to rebuild his strength.
    She closed her hand on a weed and yanked it out, throwing it at the trug and seeing it fly far beyond.
    She had worked beside Kristian, caring for the sick, fighting for reform and improvement. She had seen his compassion, knew he had driven himself beyond exhaustion. She could not believe he would have killed Elissa, still less have added to the crime by killing another woman whose only offense was to have seen him.
    But everyone has limits to his endurance, his patience or his threshold of pain. You cannot always say what grief or loss, what outrage, will carry anyone over the precipice. It may catch you completely by surprise, desperation erupting and overwhelming you before you know how close it was. She had felt that dark edge of panic brushing her. She did not imagine Kristian was immune. That would be naive and rob him of reality.
    But she could not help him if she did not know the truth, whatever it was. Half blind to it, believing what she wanted rather than what was, she could do more harm than good.
    Had Fuller Pendreigh known of Elissa’s gambling and paid her debts when Kristian could not? Or was it possible she owed more than she could meet and had found some desperate way of her own of raising the money? Could that somehow have led to her murder? She had been beautiful, imaginative and never lacked physical courage. She would not be the first woman to sell herself when it seemed the only resort.
    Had Pendreigh’s wealth cushioned her or not?
    She rose to her feet, leaving the weeds where they were, and went up the lawn to the French door and inside. She dropped the trug and the secateurs on the step and peeled off her gloves. Inside, she took off her shoes and went straight up the stairs to her bedroom.
    She was already washed and in fresh underlinen when she finally called her maid to help her lace up her stays and fasten the small buttons of the bodice. Her hair was another matter. No one had ever been able to make that look elegant for more than fifteen minutes, but the maid, an even-tempered woman of endless patience, did her best.
    An hour after making the decision, Callandra sat in her carriage on the way to visit Fuller Pendreigh. She would wait for him as long as necessary, or travel into the City if that was where he was, but she would see him.
    He was not at Ebury Street, but he was expected very shortly, and she was shown to a most pleasant conservatory. Had she had less on her mind, she would have enjoyed recognizing the various exotic plants and trying to decide where their native habitat might be.
    She was looking at a large yellow flower, without really seeing it, when she heard footsteps across the hall, the low murmuring of voices, and the moment after, Pendreigh was in the doorway, regarding her with slight puzzlement. She saw the signs of strain in his face. There was little color to his skin and a shadow about his cheeks almost as if he had not shaved, although actually he was immaculate. It was exhaustion which tightened his lips and