William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

Miss . . . an’ cold, if you don’t mind me sayin’. If yer’d like a cup o’ tea, the kettle’s on the ’ob,” Mrs. Talbot offered.
    Hester hesitated. Part of her was irritated and anxious to face Charles and know the best or the worst. But it would be the same whenever she went, and a hot cup of tea would warm her, perhaps undo some of the knots in her clenched stomach. She looked at the woman’s weary face and felt a rush of gratitude. “Yes, please. Let’s do that.”
    Mrs. Talbot relaxed, and a surprisingly sweet smile lit her face. “D’yer mind the kitchen, Miss?”
    “I’d like the kitchen,” Hester said honestly. For a start it would be a good deal warmer than the ice-cold room she was standing in now, and no doubt the one furnished morning room would be equally chilly.
     
     
    It was an hour and a half later before she was shown into Charles’s office in the City, and that was only after some rather heavy-handed insistence.
    Charles rose from his desk and came around to greet her. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “My clerk said it was an emergency. Has something happened to Imogen?”
    “Not so far as I know.” She took a deep breath. “But she is still gambling, even though she now goes alone.” She watched his face intently, and saw the dull flush of color and the heat in his eyes. Denial was impossible.
    “If it’s not Imogen, what is it?”
    She hated having to press him. It would have been so much easier if they could have spoken as allies instead of adversaries, but she could not afford to let him evade the truth any longer. “You told me that the night of Elissa’s death you followed Imogen south, down Drury Lane towards the river.”
    He could not retract it. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “You seemed to be thinking she was involved in . . . in the murders. Or she might have seen something.”
    “She might have.” Hester was hating this. Why did he not trust her enough to tell her the truth? Was it so hideous? “You didn’t go down Drury Lane that evening. A dray slid over and dropped all its load of raw sugar barrels, blocking everything. They took hours to clear it up.”
    He stood motionless, not answering her. She had never seen him look more wretched. The fear bit so hard and deep inside her that for the first time she truly acknowledged the possibility that he was involved in Elissa’s death.
    “Where was she?” she asked him. “Did you follow her that night?”
    “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper.
    She found herself gulping also. “Where? Where did she go, Charles?”
    “Gambling.”
    “Gambling where?” Now she was all but shouting. “Where?”
    He shook his head firmly. “She wouldn’t have killed Elissa. She wouldn’t have hurt her at all!”
    “Possibly not. But would you?”
    He looked startled, as if he had not even thought of such a thing. For the first time she hoped. Her heart lurched and steadied.
    “No! I . . .” He let out his breath slowly. “How could you think that . . .” He stopped.
    “Where were you?” she persisted. “Where did you follow her, Charles? Someone killed Elissa Beck. It wasn’t the artist, and it wasn’t one of the gamblers. I want above everything else to be able to prove it wasn’t you.”
    “I don’t know who it was!” There was desperation in his voice now, rising close to panic.
    “Where did Imogen go?” she said again.
    “Swinton Street . . .” he whispered.
    “Then where?”
    “I . . .” He gulped. “I . . . got very angry.” He closed his eyes as if he could not bear to say it while looking at her. “I made a complete fool of myself. I created a scene, and one of the doormen hit me over the head with something . . . I think I remember falling. Later I woke up in the dark, my head feeling as if it were splitting, and I lay for quite a little while so dizzy I daren’t move.” He bit his lip. “When I did, I crawled around and realized I was in a small room, not much more than a cupboard. I shouted, but no one came, and the door was heavy, and of course it was locked. It was daylight when they let me out.” Now he was looking at her, no more evasion in his face, only the most agonizing embarrassment.
    She believed him. She was so overwhelmed with relief that the stiff, formal office swam around her in a blur, and she had to make an effort not to buckle at the knees. Very deliberately, she walked forward and sat down in the chair opposite his