William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

wished she had been more frank. “I am afraid that much of what he has discovered is not what either you or I would have wished.”
    His attention upon her was absolute, his eyes unwavering. “What has he discovered, Lady Callandra? Please be candid with me. Elissa was my daughter; I cannot afford to know less than the truth.”
    “Of course not. I apologize if I seemed to be prevaricating,” she said sincerely. “We believed Dr. Beck could account for his time, that he was elsewhere with a patient, sufficiently far away to have made his involvement impossible. Unfortunately, he was mistaken in the times. I do not believe for an instant that he has any guilt at all, but he cannot prove it. Since he was her husband, naturally the police have to consider him suspect.”
    “That is a regrettable comment upon human nature,” he said with a very slight tremor in his voice. “And more so upon the state of marriage. But I suppose it is true.” He ignored his tea, leaning a little forward across the table. He was a very tall man, and his knees were level with its surface. It was a feat of elegance that he could move without looking ungainly. “Please do not try to spare my feelings, Lady Callandra. You say you do not believe for an instant that my son-in-law could be guilty—why not?” He tried to smile, and failed. It was a twisted grimace of pain. “I do not, either, but then I have known him for many years. Why do you not?”
    She drew in her breath to answer truthfully, then realized the danger not only to herself but, by implication, to Kristian also.
    “Because I have watched his work in the hospital,” she said instead. “But it is only my opinion, and will carry no weight with the police, or anyone else. I had hoped Mr. Monk would find some other person with a strong motive, and perhaps some evidence to implicate him, but so far he has not done so. However, another possibility has come to my attention.” She hated telling him of the gambling. Already she was all but certain he did not know, at least not the extent of it.
    Pendreigh put his cup down and pushed it a little further into the middle of the table. His hand was trembling very slightly. “It seems to me quite obvious that the artists’ model was the intended victim, and Elissa was simply unfortunate enough to have witnessed the crime. Surely that is what the police are really pursuing? Any consideration of Kristian must be merely a formality.”
    “I imagine so. Nevertheless, I would prefer to have forestalled them before this,” she answered.
    “Exactly what has Monk found?” he asked.
    This was the moment she could not avoid. “That Mrs. Beck gambled,” she answered, watching his face. “And lost very heavily.” She saw his eyes widen and something within him flinch, so deep it was visible more as a shadow than a movement. But she was convinced in that instant that he had not known. No man could have lied with the skill to blanch the color from his skin, to convey such pain within, and yet not move at all. “I . . . I wish I had not had to tell you,” she stumbled on. “But the police are aware of it, and I am afraid it provides a very powerful motive. Many men have killed for less reason than to avoid ruin. It occurred to me that perhaps in desperation to pay debts she may have incurred an enmity . . .” She drew in her breath. “Somehow . . .” Did he understand enough not to need the ugly picture detailed?
    He said nothing. He seemed too stunned to be able to respond. He stared into the distance, through her, as if seeing ghosts, broken dreams, things he loved taken from him.
    “But I saw her regularly over the last half year since I moved to London!” he protested, still trying to push the reality from him. “She was just as well dressed as always. She never seemed in any . . . difficulty!”
    Callandra wished she could have avoided reason and gone with hope, but there was none that stood the light. “She will have chosen the times when she was winning to call upon you,” she pointed out. “With skill and imagination one can appear well dressed. One has friends. There are pawnshops . . .”
    Something died in his face. “I see.” The words were a whisper.
    “I think she could not help it,” Callandra went on gently. She heard herself almost with disbelief. She was defending the woman who had driven Kristian to despair and the shadow of debtors’ prison. He was on the verge of being blamed for her murder.