William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

was he here?” There was no purpose in prevaricating. She found her heart was knocking in her chest as the seconds hung before he answered. She had no right to know. Please God, Niemann had been here! There had to be someone else to suspect, some other answer. A week ago she needed to find someone else guilty, now she would be grateful simply for the possibility, any belief to cling to.
    “Yes,” Runcorn replied. “He has been here three times this last year that we know of.” He looked deeply unhappy. “But nobody saw him quarrel with Mrs. Beck, ma’am. They were old friends from her time in Vienna. It makes no difference to the case. It would be very nice for us all if we could blame a foreign gentleman, but there isn’t any sense in it.”
    She could not bring herself to argue with him. The hope was too slender, and she was frightened of trying to keep control of herself without it. She stood up very straight. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Runcorn. I am obliged to you. I believe I am permitted to visit Dr. Beck, since he is not yet proven guilty.” It was a statement.
    “Yes, ma’am. Of course. Shall I . . .”
    “No, thank you. I have taken up enough of your time. I can find my own way downstairs again, and no doubt the sergeant at the desk will direct me where to go after that. Good day, Mr. Runcorn.”
    He scrambled to open the door for her, only just reaching it before she did. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, jerking the door open and banging it against his feet without making the slightest sign that it had caught the corn in his little toe, except a quick intake of breath and the slow letting out of it again.
    Downstairs, Callandra spoke to the desk sergeant, and was conducted to the cells. She had composed in her mind what she was going to say, but nothing could prepare her emotions. She stood on the stone floor in the closed-in space, the smell of iron and dust, the strange mixture of coldness and human sweat clogging her throat. This was a time for courage. It was not the place which frightened her, it was meeting Kristian’s eyes, and what she might see in them. In the night, she had always found that to name the fear made it more manageable. Was it rejection, her own foolishness exposed and the ensuing embarrassment, that she was afraid of? Or the struggle to keep up the charade that it was all going to be all right—he was not guilty, and even if it took a while, they would prove it. Or was it the acknowledgment at last that perhaps they would not?
    Could she cope with that, survive it and go on? She was not sure.
    The constable had already spoken to her twice, and she had not responded. He was beginning to fear that she was unwell.
    “Of course,” she said briskly, swallowing hard. She did not know what he had said, but that seemed a satisfactory response. He led the way down a narrow, echoing passage, her footsteps sounding as if she were shod with iron. He produced a huge key and let her into a cell where Kristian was standing in the middle. He was wearing a collarless shirt and plain, dark trousers. He looked exhausted, and there was a grayish tinge to his skin, even though he appeared to have shaved very recently.
    A flicker of surprise crossed his face, pleasure, and then a guardedness. He had had too many shocks, and he looked at nothing without suspicion. He smiled very slightly. It did not touch his eyes.
    She realized with a jolt, as if she had missed a step, that he did not know what to expect from her. Somehow that surprised her, even though it was totally reasonable. After all, she had not known what to expect of herself.
    Was the constable going to stand there forever? She turned to him. “You may go now,” she said briskly. “Lock me in, if it pleases you, or your instructions require it. I shall be perfectly safe. You may take my reticule, if you fear I have some weapon in it. I shall be ready to leave again in an hour.”
    “Sorry, Miss, you can’t stay that long,” the sergeant replied. “ ’Alf an hour.”
    “I am not ’Miss,’ I am Lady Callandra Daviot,” she corrected him firmly. “Then be so good as to return in half an hour—not twenty-five minutes. And don’t waste the little time I have by standing there eavesdropping. I have nothing secret to say, but it is private, and not your concern.”
    He looked taken aback, but decided he could not afford to be offended. “Yes, my lady,” he said, locking the door sharply behind him as he