William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

worked with him and could remember a thousand things Monk could not, and a desire to say something to him to ease the waiting, because he knew Runcorn also loathed this necessity. He, too, admired Kristian, whether he wanted to or not, and would have given a great deal for it to have been anyone else, preferably someone of a class and type he despised. Best of all if it could have been a gambler, but Allardyce would have done. Far better an artist, living a bohemian and essentially alien and dissolute life, than a doctor who spent his time healing the sick, the ordinary poor who came to this particular hospital. But Runcorn did not have the courage or the imagination not to do his duty.
    No, that was unfair, and Monk knew it even as the thought filled his mind. Monk, too, would have arrested Kristian, even if it had not been forced upon him by Runcorn’s presence. His own knowledge was enough. He could have forgiven Kristian for killing Elissa. She had provoked him beyond the limits of forbearance. But Sarah had done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong moment. There was no sense to it that he could explain, but the fact that no one else had mourned her except Mrs. Clark—and Runcorn, of all people—made it more of an offense in his eyes.
    The last patient came out, and after barely a minute Kristian followed. He stood in the middle of the room, stiff and very straight, his head high. There were marks of sleeplessness like bruises around his eyes, and his skin was bleached of color. “I assume you believe that I murdered Elissa,” he said very quietly, not looking at either of them. “I did not, but I cannot prove it.”
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Beck,” Runcorn replied. He was acutely miserable, but he would not shirk doing his duty to the letter. “I don’t know whether you killed her or not, but the evidence all points that way, and there’s nothing to say anybody else did. You’ll have to come with me, sir. You are under arrest for the murders of Elissa Beck and Sarah Mackeson.”
    Kristian said nothing.
    Monk cleared his throat. He was surprised how difficult it was to speak steadily. “Would you like me to collect some clothes for you from your home?”
    Kristian blinked and turned to him. “I’d be grateful if you would tell the hospital what has happened, and . . . and Mrs. Talbot, who cleans my house for me.” The ghost of a smile touched his mouth and echoed in his dark eyes. “Fermin Thorpe will be pleased. It will justify his opinion of me at last.” He could not have said anything which would have made Monk feel worse, or more totally inadequate. He saw with a flash of irony that Kristian recognized it, and although possibly he had not intended it, he could not apologize.
    “I’ll do both,” Monk replied, looking at Runcorn.
    Runcorn nodded.
    Kristian held out his hand with the front door key in it.
    “Thank you.” Monk took it and turned away, engulfed in misery.
     
     
    Monk went straight to Haverstock Hill and let himself into the house with the key. Mrs. Talbot had already left, and there was no sound or movement at all. He found it acutely distressing to see the bare, chilly rooms, and to go upstairs to the stark bedroom Kristian occupied. The dressing room held only the necessities of grooming: a plain hairbrush, a wooden-handled open razor and leather strop, cuff links and shirt studs such as a clerk or shopkeeper might have owned. In the dresser he found four clean shirts and the minimum of underwear. There were two other suits in the wardrobe, and one other pair of boots, carefully resoled. This was all that was owned by a man with years of skill and experience, who worked from dawn to dusk and into the night every day of the week.
    He took them back to the police station and gave them to the desk sergeant for Kristian. Now he could no longer put off going home and telling Hester that he had failed, and why.
    When he went out into the street again it was raining steadily, and he walked for barely a mile, getting thoroughly soaked, before he finally caught a hansom for the last part of his journey. He reached home shivering with cold, wishing there were any way of avoiding what he must do.
    Inside the door he took off his wet overcoat and removed his boots to save putting footprints over the carpet. He heard her come through from the kitchen and half expected her to know already. She was so quick to sense things, to understand, he imagined she would be aware of his