William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

anybody else to do things he wasn’t prepared to do himself. And he saw several steps ahead, thinking what his decisions would do, what they might cost.” He looked down at the table, his voice soft. “He really hated the commander of one of the divisions of police, Count von Waldmuller. There was sort of . . . a feud between them, because this Count von Waldmuller was a great believer in military discipline, and certain people being fit to rule, and others not. He was pretty rigid, and he and Dr. Beck got across each other, and every new thing made it worse.”
    “What happened to him?” Monk asked.
    “He got shot during the fighting in October,” Ferdi replied with satisfaction. “In the streets, actually. He led the army against the barricades and Dr. Beck led the resistance.” He pulled a rueful face. “The revolutionaries lost, of course, but at least they got Count Waldmuller. I’d love to have been there to see that! It was one of the count’s lieutenants who found out where that group were all going to be, and brought the troops up behind them.” He shivered and reached for another cake. “But he did it too late. Elissa von Leibnitz had taken a message to one of the other groups, and reinforcements came. Dr. Beck led them out to fight and they were so brave, and acted as if they knew they’d win, that Count Waldmuller fell back, and got shot. Lost his leg, apparently.” He grinned suddenly. “Has a wooden one now. They said it was Dr. Beck who shot him! I know where Max Niemann lives. Shall we go to see tomorrow?”
    “Not yet,” Monk said thoughtfully. He was aware of Ferdi’s acute disappointment, and also rather surprised that his father had not curtailed his time spent assisting someone of whom they had no personal knowledge whatever. Were Pendreigh’s and Callandra’s letters really of such force as to allay all anxieties?
    “But you know everything about him,” Ferdi urged, leaning forward and demanding Monk’s attention. “What else can I find out? Dr. Beck lives in England now. He and Elissa von Leibnitz fell in love and married.” His face was bleak for a moment. “The others are dead. What’s wrong, Mr. Monk? Isn’t it what you needed?”
    “I don’t know. It certainly isn’t what I expected.” It had given him nothing to indicate that Max Niemann had gone to London seeking to rebuild an old love affair, and when rejected had lost control of himself and murdered two women. Every one of the stories Ferdi had told him only emphasized the bonds of loyalty among them all, and it seemed very clear that Elissa had chosen Kristian from the beginning, and married him before they left Vienna. If Niemann had come imagining a change in love or loyalty, then Monk would have to find irrefutable proof of it before it would be of any use to Pendreigh in court.
    “What about Beck’s friends who weren’t revolutionaries?” he asked. “He must have known other people. What about his family?”
    Ferdi sat up. “I’ll find them! That should be very easy. I know just where to ask. My mother’s brother knows everyone, or if he doesn’t, he can find out. He is in the government.”
    Monk winced, but he had already been away from London for almost a week. He could not afford the luxury of being careful. He accepted.
     
     
    It took another exhausting, precious two days to engineer the meeting, and since they apparently spoke excellent English, to his chagrin, Ferdi was not required. Monk promised to report to him anything that was of interest, wording his pledge carefully so that it allowed him to exclude bits at his own judgment, and saw Ferdi’s face light up with belief. Then he felt a sharp and totally unexpected stab of guilt. Ferdi was not listening to his precisely chosen words, but to the honest intent he believed in. Monk realized with surprise that he would fulfill the boy’s expectation. Ferdi’s opinion mattered to him more than the guarding of the case, or the trouble it would take him to explain to anybody . . . except Hester. She had earned that right, and it was also comfortable and often very productive to share his thoughts, even when they were half formed or mistaken, with her. It clarified his own mind, and she frequently added to his perception. He realized with sudden misery how much he missed her now.
    Fifteen-year-old Ferdi, whom he barely knew, was a totally different matter. Nevertheless, he would do it.
    Kristian’s elder brother and his wife lived