Read Online William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

if you could be a bit more precise in telling us where you were last night. You said you went out of here about half past four, to Southwark, and didn’t get home until ten o’clock this morning. Make a list of everywhere you were and who saw you there.”
    Allardyce said nothing.
    “Mr. Allardyce,” Monk commanded his attention. “If you went out at half past four, you can’t have been expecting Mrs. Beck for a sitting.”
    Allardyce frowned. “No . . .”
    “Do you know why she came?”
    He blinked. “No . . .”
    “Did she often come without appointment?”
    Allardyce pushed his hands through his black hair and looked at some distance only he could see. “Sometimes. She knew I liked to paint her. If you mean did anyone else know she was coming, I’ve no idea.”
    “Did you plan to go out or was it on the spur of the moment?”
    “I don’t plan, except for sittings.” Allardyce stood up. “I’ve no idea who killed her, or Sarah. If I did, I’d tell you. I don’t know anything at all. I’ve lost two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever painted, and two friends. Get out and leave me alone to grieve, you damn barbarians!”
    There was little enough to be accomplished by remaining, and Monk followed Runcorn out into the streetin. Monk was startled how dark it was, more than just an autumn evening closed in. There was a gathering fog wreathing the gas lamps in yellow and blotting out everything beyond ten or fifteen yards’ distance. The fog smelled acrid, and within a few moments he found himself coughing.
    “Well?” Runcorn asked, looking sideways at him, studying his face.
    Monk knew what Runcorn was thinking. He wanted a solution, quickly if possible—in fact, he needed it—but he could not hide the edge of satisfaction that Monk could not produce it any more than he could himself.
    “Thought so,” Runcorn said dryly. “You’d like to say it was Allardyce, but you can’t, can you?” He put his hands into his pockets, then, aware he was pushing his trousers out of shape, pulled them out again quickly.
    A hansom cab was almost on them, looming up out of the darkness, hooves muffled in the dead air.
    Monk raised his arm, and the cab pulled over to the curb.
    Runcorn snorted and climbed in after him.
     
     
    Hester’s eyes met Monk’s with enquiry as soon as he was through the door into the sitting room. She looked tired and anxious. Her hair was straggling out of its pins and she had put it back too tightly on one side. She had taken no handwork out, as if she could not settle to anything.
    He closed the door. “Runcorn’s on it,” he said simply. “He’s frightened and he’s letting me help. Did you ever meet Kristian’s wife?”
    “No. Why?” Her voice was edged with fear. She was searching his face to know why he asked. She stood up.
    “Did Callandra?” he went on.
    “I don’t know. Why?”
    He walked further into the room, closer to her. It was difficult to explain to anyone the quality in Elissa Beck’s face that disturbed one and remained in the mind long after seeing her. Hester was waiting, and he could not find the words.
    “She’s beautiful,” he began, touching her, absently pulling the tight strand of her hair looser, then moving his hand to the warmth of her shoulders. “I don’t mean just features or color of hair or skin, I mean some inner quality which made her unique.” He saw her surprise. “I know! You thought she was boring, perhaps cold, even that she had lost her looks and no longer took care of herself. . . .”
    She started to deny it, then changed her mind.
    He smiled very slightly. “So did I,” he admitted. “And I don’t think the artist killed her. He was at least half in love with her.”
    “For heaven’s sake,” she said sharply. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her! In fact, if she rebuffed him it could be precisely the reason.”
    “He painted several pictures of her,” he went on. “I don’t think he would