William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

one to another of them. “I shall do all I can to raise doubt as to the evidence and any conclusions that can be drawn from it, but we need more than that. Someone is responsible for the deaths of these two women. We need to raise at least one other believable alternative in the minds of the jurors.” He looked questioningly to Monk. “Is it true that witnesses preclude Allardyce from the possibility of having been there?”
    “Yes. They are willing to swear he was in a tavern on the other side of the river all evening.”
    “And I assume you have thoroughly investigated the people who own the gambling houses?” His distaste was hard in his voice, but he did not flinch from asking.
    “Yes. Apart from their wish to draw the attention of the police as little as possible, and to not frighten away their custom, Mrs. Beck did not owe them any significant amount of money. They say all her debts were paid to date. People like her are the main source of their profit. It would make no sense to harm her.”
    Pendreigh’s face tightened. “Then we must look further. We may not be able to prove anyone else’s guilt.” His voice was strained, and he did not quite meet Monk’s eyes. “But we must raise a very believable possibility. We must create so much doubt that they cannot convict Kristian.”
    Monk wondered how much that was spoken from the desire to protect not only Kristian, but Elissa’s reputation as well, which was going to be almost impossible. He felt an intense pity for the man, and a grave respect for his strength that he could even contemplate going into court and keeping his composure sufficiently to fight the case when his only child was the victim. But Fuller Pendreigh had not risen to the position he held without great resources of inner power and remarkable self-discipline. Perhaps his very appearance in court would be the best chance that Kristian had.
    They discussed details and ideas for another thirty minutes or so, then left Pendreigh to think over the plans that were already forming in his mind, people he should contact, witnesses who might be called, eventualities to follow or to guard against.
    Callandra took her own carriage home, and Monk and Hester called a hansom.
    “What do you really believe, William?” Hester asked when they were alone.
    He hesitated. Should he try to protect her? Was it what she wanted? He knew there were emotions inside her he could not reach, or understand, because they were to do with old loyalties to Charles, memories of family grief and loss, the passion to shield the weaker. He had only an empty space in his own life where those feelings should have been. His childhood held a few sharp moments, mostly physical memories, of the sea, bright and choppy, of sitting in a boat and the consuming need to be one of the men, to equal their courage and their ability to know what to do in any eventuality—how to tie ropes so they did not undo, how to balance when it was rough, how not to be sick or show fear. He realized with shame that there was no concern for anyone else. Every fear or need was for his own pride, his passion to be respected, to succeed. He was profoundly glad Hester could not see that as he did.
    “William?”
    “I don’t know what I think,” he answered. “It would be more comfortable for us to think it had something to do with Max Niemann, but there’s very little to suggest it. He said at the funeral that he had come from Paris because he read of her death there, and he’s in Vienna anyway, so far as we know.”
    “I could believe that Kristian could have panicked and lashed out in despair,” she said quietly, staring ahead into the darkness. “But not that he killed Sarah Mackeson. I’ll never believe that!” They were brave words, said with a tremor in her voice and the edge of tears too close to hide.
    He did not argue. He reached across and took her hand, and felt her fingers curl around his, cold in the chill of the hansom and the weariness of her heart, but gripping him with strength.

CHAPTER NINE
    Keeping her appointment with Fuller Pendreigh had been difficult for Callandra because of the element of self-control necessary to hide the depth of her emotions. As far as he was concerned, she was no more than a good friend and colleague who wished to help and was quite naturally grieved by the whole matter. For everyone’s sake, his perception must remain exactly that.
    Now, as she left Lincoln’s Inn, she was startled to find