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Authors: Anne Perry
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destroy his inspiration, whether she rebuffed him or not. And I had the feeling . . .” He stopped.
“What?” she said urgently.
“That . . . that he held her in some kind of awe,” he finished. “It wasn’t simply lust. I really don’t think Allardyce killed her.”
“And the other woman?” she said softly. “People have killed even those they loved to protect themselves—especially if the love was not equally returned.”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “You are right. Very probably someone killed her, and Elissa Beck was just unfortunate enough to witness it.”
“Or it could be the other way . . . couldn’t it?” She held his gaze steadily.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It could be almost anything. But Allardyce says he wasn’t there. He says she sometimes came without telling him, and they talked, or he painted her for his own pleasure, not to sell. There was a picture of her, set in Vienna. It was called
Funeral in Blue
and it was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever seen.” He did not continue. He could see in her face that she had already understood the darkness, the possibilities on the edge of his mind.
She stood in front of him. “You’re still going to help, though . . . aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m going to try,” he said, putting both arms around her and feeling the tension in her body under the fabric of her dress. He knew she was more afraid now than she had been when he left to see Runcorn. So was he.
CHAPTER THREE
Monk left home early the next morning, and by half past seven he was already walking smartly down Tottenham Court Road. There was a cold wind and the fog had lifted considerably. He heard the newsboys shouting about the American War, and there had been another outbreak of typhoid in the Stepney area, near Limehouse. He remembered the fever hospital there, and how terrified he had been that Hester would catch the disease. He had wasted so much effort trying to convince himself he did not really love her, at least not enough that he would be unable to carry on perfectly well with his life even if she were no longer there. How desperately he had struggled not to give any hostages to fortune . . . and lost!
He wondered about Kristian Beck. He had seen Beck work night and day to save the lives of strangers. His courage never seemed to fail him, nor his compassion. At first thought it was not difficult to see why Callandra admired him so much, but how well did she know him? Was it anything more than his professional character? What of his thoughts that had nothing to do with medicine? What of his fears or his griefs? What of his appetites?
He saw an empty hansom and stepped off the curb to hail it, but it hurried on blindly, the driver muffled in scarves, and he rounded a lamppost up onto the pavement again.
He increased his pace, suddenly angry, energy surging up inside him. He found his hands clenched and he all but bumped into the sandwich seller standing idly on the corner watching for custom. The streets were already busy with brewers’ drays and delivery carts with vegetables for the market. A milkman was selling by the jug or can on the corner of Francis Street, and two women were waiting, shivering in the wind and the damp.
Another hansom came by, and this one stopped. He climbed in, giving the driver the address of the police station and telling him to wait while he picked up Runcorn, then to take them both on to Haverstock Hill.
Runcorn was there within moments. He came down the steps with his jacket flapping and his cheeks still ruddy from the scraping of the razor. He climbed in beside Monk and ordered the driver on sharply.
They rode in silence. Half a dozen times Monk almost asked Runcorn for his opinion on some aspect of the case, a possibility, and each occasion he changed his mind. At least twice he heard Runcorn also draw in his breath as if to speak, and then say nothing. The longer the silence remained, the
“What?” she said urgently.
“That . . . that he held her in some kind of awe,” he finished. “It wasn’t simply lust. I really don’t think Allardyce killed her.”
“And the other woman?” she said softly. “People have killed even those they loved to protect themselves—especially if the love was not equally returned.”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “You are right. Very probably someone killed her, and Elissa Beck was just unfortunate enough to witness it.”
“Or it could be the other way . . . couldn’t it?” She held his gaze steadily.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It could be almost anything. But Allardyce says he wasn’t there. He says she sometimes came without telling him, and they talked, or he painted her for his own pleasure, not to sell. There was a picture of her, set in Vienna. It was called
Funeral in Blue
and it was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever seen.” He did not continue. He could see in her face that she had already understood the darkness, the possibilities on the edge of his mind.
She stood in front of him. “You’re still going to help, though . . . aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m going to try,” he said, putting both arms around her and feeling the tension in her body under the fabric of her dress. He knew she was more afraid now than she had been when he left to see Runcorn. So was he.
CHAPTER THREE
Monk left home early the next morning, and by half past seven he was already walking smartly down Tottenham Court Road. There was a cold wind and the fog had lifted considerably. He heard the newsboys shouting about the American War, and there had been another outbreak of typhoid in the Stepney area, near Limehouse. He remembered the fever hospital there, and how terrified he had been that Hester would catch the disease. He had wasted so much effort trying to convince himself he did not really love her, at least not enough that he would be unable to carry on perfectly well with his life even if she were no longer there. How desperately he had struggled not to give any hostages to fortune . . . and lost!
He wondered about Kristian Beck. He had seen Beck work night and day to save the lives of strangers. His courage never seemed to fail him, nor his compassion. At first thought it was not difficult to see why Callandra admired him so much, but how well did she know him? Was it anything more than his professional character? What of his thoughts that had nothing to do with medicine? What of his fears or his griefs? What of his appetites?
He saw an empty hansom and stepped off the curb to hail it, but it hurried on blindly, the driver muffled in scarves, and he rounded a lamppost up onto the pavement again.
He increased his pace, suddenly angry, energy surging up inside him. He found his hands clenched and he all but bumped into the sandwich seller standing idly on the corner watching for custom. The streets were already busy with brewers’ drays and delivery carts with vegetables for the market. A milkman was selling by the jug or can on the corner of Francis Street, and two women were waiting, shivering in the wind and the damp.
Another hansom came by, and this one stopped. He climbed in, giving the driver the address of the police station and telling him to wait while he picked up Runcorn, then to take them both on to Haverstock Hill.
Runcorn was there within moments. He came down the steps with his jacket flapping and his cheeks still ruddy from the scraping of the razor. He climbed in beside Monk and ordered the driver on sharply.
They rode in silence. Half a dozen times Monk almost asked Runcorn for his opinion on some aspect of the case, a possibility, and each occasion he changed his mind. At least twice he heard Runcorn also draw in his breath as if to speak, and then say nothing. The longer the silence remained, the
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