William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

different.
    “A need to feel alive,” he said, and then, seeing the disgust and incomprehension in Runcorn’s face, wished he had held his tongue.
    “Vermin!” Runcorn said savagely, yanking his boot off and massaging his cold, wet foot.
    Monk looked up sharply, then realized Runcorn was referring to the debt collectors, not the gamblers.
    “Wish we could catch a few of them and make a charge stick,” Runcorn went on. “I’d like to see ’em in the Coldbath Fields, on the treadmill, or passing the shot.” He was referring to the worst prison in London and the habitual punishments of walking inside a turning machine, where in order to remain upright a man had constantly to keep putting one foot in front of the other on a step which gave beneath his weight, spinning the wheel and pitching him forward again. Passing the shot was a useless exercise of bending to pick up a cannonball, straightening the back, and passing the ball to the next man, who put it down again. One could be forced to do it for hours until every muscle ached and movement was pain. It was all utterly purposeless, except to break the spirit.
    “Yes,” Monk agreed with feeling. “So would I. But we haven’t found a jot of evidence to suggest any debt collector went after her. In fact, we can’t even find anyone who’ll admit she owed him. She got the money from somewhere . . . or someone.”
    Runcorn looked up from the drawer where he was searching for dry socks. “You believe them?” he asked.
    Monk did not need to think about it; he already had. “Yes. Not their words, their lack of fear or anger. The emotion isn’t there. If anything, they’re disappointed to lose a good customer. They thought she was worth more.”
    Runcorn pursed his lips and pulled out one thick woollen sock, then another. “That’s what I thought, too. What about Sarah Mackeson?”
    Monk tried to read Runcorn’s face, the doubt, the hope, the anger in it, until Runcorn turned away, pulling on his socks one by one. “We’ve found nothing to suggest anyone cared enough to kill her,” he said miserably. He would rather have said there was passion, envy, fear, anything better than indifference. The most feeling she awoke seemed to have been in Allardyce, because she was beautiful to paint. The only other person who cared was Mrs. Clark.
    “I wish we knew which of them was killed first,” Runcorn said, slamming the drawer shut. “But the surgeon can’t tell us a damn thing.”
    Monk sat on the edge of the desk with his hands in his pockets. He turned over in his mind what possible evidence there could be which would tell them which woman had died first. It would be no use at all going back to the doctor. All he could say was that they had died in the same manner, and common sense said they had been killed by the same person. Only physical facts would make a difference.
    Runcorn was watching him. “We never found the earring,” he said, as if following Monk’s thoughts. It was disconcerting to have him so perceptive.
    “Well, if it got caught in his clothing, whoever it was, he’d have thrown it away,” Monk replied. “It wasn’t on the floor.”
    Runcorn said nothing, and silence filled the room again.
    “The ear bled,” Monk said after a while. “It must have. You can’t tear flesh like that without leaving marks on something.”
    Runcorn climbed to his feet, looking beyond Monk to the rain streaming down the window. “Do you want to go to Acton Street again?” he asked. “We didn’t see anything on the carpet before, but we can try again. If we could prove Sarah Mackeson died first it would change everything.”
    Monk stood up also. “It’s worth trying. And we could ask Allardyce how often he saw Max Niemann, and when.”
    “Think he could be involved?” Runcorn said hopefully. “Lovers’ quarrel? Nothing to do with the doctor?” His voice sank at the end. If Elissa and Max Niemann had been lovers, that was more motive for Kristian than ever. And Kristian had lied about where he was, even if unintentionally.
    But then Niemann had lied to Kristian also, by omission, allowing Kristian to believe that the funeral was the first time he had been to London in years.
    “Can you send men to find out where Niemann stayed?” Monk asked, collecting his coat from the stand. “If he stayed at the same place each time, we can see how often he was here.”
    “You think he paid her debts?” Runcorn said quickly. His face was pinched with