William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

unhappiness. “At a price, maybe?”
    “Wouldn’t be the first woman who felt she had to sell herself to pay her debts,” Monk replied, walking to the door and opening it. The thought sickened him, but it was pointless denying its possibility. As they passed the desk, Runcorn gave the sergeant instructions to send men searching the hotels for where Niemann had stayed.
    They set out in the direction of Acton Street, intending to pick up a hansom on the way, but they were no more than two hundred yards from Allardyce’s studio when they finally saw one that was free. It was not worth the effort or the fare. Runcorn shrugged in disgust and waved it away.
    Allardyce was busy, and irritated to see them, but he knew better than to refuse them admittance.
    “What is it now?” he said with ill grace.
    Runcorn walked into the studio and looked around, his coat dripping water on the floor. Allardyce was working at a picture on the easel; his shirt was smeared with paint where he had wiped his hands.
    “You told us you saw Niemann with Mrs. Beck a number of times,” Monk began. “Before the night she was killed.”
    “Yes. They were friends. I never saw them quarrel.” Allardyce looked at him challengingly, his blue eyes clear and hard.
    “How often altogether, then or earlier?”
    “Earlier?”
    “You heard me. Did he come over from Vienna just once, or several times?”
    “Two or three that I know of.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t remember.” Allardyce shrugged. “Once in the spring, once in the summer.”
    “You’ve moved things!” Runcorn accused, pulling at the sofa. “It used to be over there!”
    Allardyce glared at him. “I have to live here,” he said bitterly. “Do you think I want it exactly as it was? I need the light. And wherever I live I can’t get rid of the memories and I can’t bring them back, but I don’t have to keep it just as it was. I’ll have the sofa and the carpets any damn way I like.”
    “Put them back,” Runcorn ordered.
    “Go to hell!” Allardyce responded.
    “Just a minute!” Monk stepped forward and almost collided with Runcorn. “We can work out where the bodies lay. Look at the line of the windows; they haven’t moved.” He faced Allardyce. “Put the carpets where they were—now!”
    Allardyce remained motionless. “What for? What have you found?”
    “Nothing yet. It’s only an idea. Do you know which woman died first?”
    “No, of course . . .” Allardyce stopped, suddenly realizing what he meant. “You think someone might have killed Sarah, and Elissa was an accidental witness? Who?” His face was full of disbelief. “She never did anyone any harm. A few silly quarrels, like everybody.”
    “Maybe she learned something she wasn’t meant to know?” Monk suggested.
    “Put the carpets back!” Runcorn repeated.
    Silently, Allardyce obeyed, moving them with Monk’s help. They were neither large nor heavy, and he was almost finished when Monk noticed that just under the fringed edge of one of them there was a knothole in the pine boards. “I didn’t see that before!”
    “That’s why I put the edges there,” Allardyce pointed out.
    Monk put his foot on the fringe and scuffed it up, showing the hole again. He glanced at Runcorn and saw the flash of understanding in his eyes. “Get me a chisel or one of those heavy knives,” he ordered Allardyce.
    “What for? What is it?”
    “Do as you’re told!” Monk said.
    Allardyce obeyed, passing him a small claw-headed hammer, and a moment later there was a splintering of wood and the screech of nails prying loose as the board with the knothole came up. Lying in the dust below, glinting in the light, was a delicate gold earring, the loop stained with blood.
    “That was Elissa’s,” Allardyce said after a moment’s utter silence. “I painted it; I know.” His voice cracked. “But this is where Sarah was lying! It doesn’t make sense.”
    “Yes, it does,” Monk said quietly. “It means Elissa was killed first. The earring was torn off when he put his arm around her neck . . . and broke it. It probably caught in his sleeve and in her struggle was ripped from her. He didn’t notice it fall. Then when Sarah came out of one of the other rooms and saw Elissa dead, he killed her, too, and she fell onto the floor, over where the earring had disappeared.”
    Allardyce rubbed his hand across his face, leaving a smear of green paint on his cheek. “Poor Sarah,” he said softly. “All she