William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

retreated.
    There was a flash of humor in Kristian’s face, but it died immediately. He struggled to find something to say that was not absurd, and discarded each idea as it came to him.
    “Stop it!” she said sharply. “Stop trying to be polite. We have to talk about what matters. Half an hour will go by far too quickly as it is.” She saw relief in his eyes, and then fear, real and deep, gouging into the heart of her. It shocked her more than anything physical could have. But before she could respond to it, it was masked, gone again by an effort of will.
    She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.
    There was nowhere to sit down but the cot, and she was not going to sit side by side with him on that. It was low and awkward.
    “Oliver Rathbone is in Italy, so Pendreigh has offered to conduct your defense,” she said abruptly.
    He breathed in, surprised, not certain if he had heard correctly, if he should believe it.
    “He is certain you are not guilty,” she added.
    Bitterness filled his face, and he turned away from her. “Not guilty,” he repeated the words softly. “Not guilty of what? I didn’t put my hands around her neck and break it, certainly. I was with a patient. I may have miscalculated the time, but not the essential facts.” His voice dropped still lower, filled with bitterness. “But am I ’not guilty’ of ignoring her, allowing her to fall further and further into gambling and debt and the kind of desperate boredom that took her to Allardyce’s studio, alone, where she could be killed?”
    She wanted to deny it immediately. It was an absurd assumption of responsibility for someone else’s weaknesses, but she could hear in the strain of his voice that it was more real to him than the physical imprisonment of his own circumstances. Perhaps it was easier to consider that kind of guilt than the future and the accusations he would have to answer in court.
    He straightened his shoulders, but he still did not turn to face her. His voice shook when he spoke again. “She was so full of life in Vienna. She made every other woman look gray in comparison. She would have stayed there, you know? It was I who was sick to the heart of it and wanted to come to England.”
    Callandra said nothing. She sensed in him the need to talk; she was only the audience for something he was saying to himself, perhaps putting into words for the first time.
    “She would have gone to Paris, Milan, Rome, anywhere that the struggle was still going on. But I brought her here and turned her into a housewife to spend her time ordering groceries and exchanging gossip about the daily trivia of lives she saw as perfectly safe and ordered, and with nothing on earth to fight for.”
    “What absolute rubbish!” She exploded in real anger. “There is everything to fight for, and you know that, even if she did not. There is ignorance and pain to battle, disease, crime, selfishness, domestic and social violence, prejudice, authority, bigotry and injustice of every kind and color. And when you have conquered all of those, you can always try addressing poverty, madness, and perfectly ordinary dirt. Or, if those seem too large and indeterminate, what about common or garden loneliness and fear of death, hungry children with no one to tell them they are good . . . and lonely old people neglected by the rest of us—in a hurry and too busy to listen anymore. If she didn’t find that exciting enough, or glorious . . . that is not your fault!”
    He turned slowly to face her. For a moment, surprise was sharper in his face than anything else. “Honest to the last,” he said. “You really are angry! Thank you at least for not patronizing me with false comfort. But I did ignore her. I knew her, and if I had thought more of her and less of myself I would not have tried to change her. Her gambling was beyond control, and I didn’t do anything about it. I argued with her, of course. I pleaded, I threatened, reasoned. But I didn’t look at the cause, because that would have meant I would have to change as well, and I was not prepared to.”
    “It’s too late for that now, Kristian,” she replied. “We have only fifteen minutes left at the most before the constable comes back. Pendreigh will defend you in court. I don’t know whether he expects to be paid for it or not. He may do it simply out of belief, and because he would naturally prefer that you were shown to be not guilty, because it reflects less badly on his daughter if