William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

how the case is conducted, for the sake of Elissa’s reputation, if nothing else.”
    “Then we shall begin with him,” Callandra said decisively. “I shall send my card at first light, and ask permission to call upon him as soon as possible.” She turned to Hester. “Do you wish to come?”
    “Of course,” Hester responded. “We shall be ready as soon as you send for us.” She touched Callandra lightly on the arm, but it was a gesture of extraordinary tenderness. Callandra moved away, as if emotion now was more than she could bear.
    “Come.” Monk turned towards the door, guiding Hester with him. “It is time we went home and considered what to say when we see Pendreigh.” He turned to Callandra. “We shall be ready for eight o’clock. Send word and we will be wherever you wish.”
    “Thank you.” Callandra reached out and rang the bell for the maid, keeping her face turned towards the fire.
    Monk followed Hester out as the maid led them to the door and helped them into their coats again. Outside was raw, with wind driving the rain. As soon as they were beyond the shelter of the steps he felt the chill of it through him, but it was only on the periphery of his awareness. Far deeper, as he watched Hester move into the arc of the lamplight ahead of him, and the gusting rain in the glare it shed, was the realization of how deeply Callandra cared. It was immeasurably more than admiration, loyalty or friendship, for all that that was worth. This was a wound which might not heal, a pain within her heart neither he nor Hester could reach to give any ease.
    He caught up and put his arm in Hester’s, felt her respond, matching her step to his. He knew that she had known this all along, and he understood why she had not told him.
     
     
    In the morning they ate breakfast early, and Monk went out as far as the corner to buy the morning edition of the newspapers. He scanned the front page, and then the second and third. The North had gained a considerable success in the Civil War. General Butler had taken the Confederate forces on the Hatteras Inlet. Forty-five officers and six hundred men were prisoners of war.
    There was no word of Kristian’s arrest—in fact, no mention of the case at all. He returned home uncertain whether he was really relieved or if it only pushed ahead the inevitable. Did the silence bring them any time, any chance to find refuting evidence before the press destroyed all innocence or doubt?
    It seemed a wasted age of time until there was a polite tap on the door, and Monk strode over to open it and found Callandra’s coachman on the step to say they had an appointment with Fuller Pendreigh in his office in Lincoln’s Inn, and would they please come.
    The journey took some time in the early-morning traffic, the wet streets glistening in fitful sun breaking through the clouds, gutters awash from the night’s rain. The air was damp and milder, full of the odors of smoke, manure, leather and wet horseflesh. No doubt, unless the wind rose considerably, there would be fog again by dusk.
    They were there only a few minutes early, but Pendreigh received them immediately. He had obviously expected both women, from whatever Callandra had written to him, but it was Monk to whom he addressed his attention. It was apparent that he was unaware of Kristian’s arrest, and he was visibly shaken when he was told. His face was already colorless, and he seemed to sway a little on his feet as if the shock was so profound it had robbed him of balance.
    “I’m sorry,” Monk said sincerely. “I wish I could have prevented it, but there really is no other reasonable person to suspect.”
    “There must be,” Pendreigh said in a quiet, intensely controlled voice. “We just haven’t thought of him yet. Whatever the provocation, or the despair, I do not believe Kristian would have killed Elissa. He loved her . . .” He stopped, his voice wavering a little. He turned half away from them, shielding his face. It was the nearest to privacy he could come. “If you had ever known her, you would understand that.”
    Monk was compelled by reason. All the passion and idealism in the world, the most devoted love possible, could not alter the truth, and only the truth would serve now. There was a cleanness in it, no matter how terrible, a relief in the mind from the struggle of denial. But it took a fearful courage. He did not know, in Pendreigh’s place, if he could have done it. He could not afford to