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“So why is it you think he is a philistine? Did she say so?”
Allardyce hesitated. Admitting this would paint him in an ugly light, and he was obviously aware of it. “He didn’t appreciate her anymore, didn’t see the depth of her, the mystery,” he tried to explain. “She was a remarkable woman-unique.”
“She was certainly beautiful,” Monk agreed. “But perhaps beauty wasn’t his chief criterion?”
Allardyce climbed to his feet, glanced at Monk for a moment, then walked over to a pile of canvases in the corner behind his easel. He picked out two or three and turned them face out so Monk could see them. They were all of Beck’s wife. The first was quickly done, a simple sketch of a woman sitting in the sun, painted in afterwards to catch the spirit of light and shade, the spontaneous smile of someone caught in a moment of enjoyment. It was excellently done, and Monk immediately saw Allardyce in a different light. He was a man with acute perception and the gift to capture it with his hand and eye. He was an artist, not merely a craftsman.
The second, a far more formal portrait of a woman very obviously posing, was unfinished. She wore a gown of rich plum color which faded into the warm, dark tones of the background, throwing her face and shoulders into prominence as the light gleamed on her skin. She looked delicate, almost fragile, and yet there was extraordinary strength of passion in her features. Now M
onk knew what she had been like when she was alive. He almost imagined he could hear her voice.
But the last picture was the one which affected him the most. It was painted with a limited palette, mostly blues and grays with barely a touch of green in the foreground. It was a city street in the evening in the rain. The shop signs were suggested rather than depicted in detail, but there was enough of the writing to show it was German. In the foreground was Beck’s wife, younger than now, and the haunting quality of her beauty and the strength of her passion and sorrow were enhanced by the misty half-light from the street lamps. Horses with black plumes-again, suggested more than painted in full-made it plain that she was watching a funeral; and the shadows of other mourners-almost the ghosts, as if they, too, were dead-ringed the cortege. But all the emphasis was upon her and her feelings, everything else was merely to enhance the power and mystery of her face.
Monk stared at it. It was unforgettable. From what he had seen of her in the morgue, it was an excellent likeness, but far more than that, it had caught the spirit of an extraordinary personality. To have painted such a portrait the artist must have felt for her deeply and understood far more of her nature than mere observation could have taught him. Unless, of course, he was investing in her some passionate experience of his own?
But Monk had seen Beck’s wife; the former was easy to believe. “Why this?” he asked Allardyce, indicating the painting.
“What?” Allardyce forced his attention back. “Funeral in Blue?”
“Yes. Why did you paint it? Did her father ask for this, too?” He would not have believed Allardyce if he had said he had. No man could create a picture like this on the request of someone else.
Allardyce blinked. “No, I did it for myself. I won’t sell it.”
“Why Germany?”
“What?” He looked at the painting, his face filled with grief. “It’s Vienna,” he corrected flatly. “The Austrians speak German.”
“Why Vienna?”
“Things she told me, in her past.” He looked up at Monk. “What has that got to do with whoever killed her?”
“I don’t know. Why were you so long painting the portrait her father commissioned?”
“He was in no hurry.”
“Apparently neither were you. No need to get paid?” Monk allowed his voice a slight edge of sarcasm.
Allardyce’s eyes blazed for a moment. “I’m an artist, not a journeyman,” he retorted. “As long as I can buy paints and canvas, money is unimportant.”
“Really,” Monk said without expression. “But I assume you would take Pendreigh’s money when the picture was completed?”
“Of course! I need to eat. . and pay the rent.”
“And Funeral in Blue, would you sell that?”
“No! I told you I wouldn’t.” His face pinched and the aggression in him melted away. “I won’t sell that.” He did not feel any need to justify himself. His grief was his own, and he did not care whether Monk understood it or not.
“How many pictures of her did you paint?” Monk asked, watching the anger and misery in his face.
“Elissa? Five or six. Some of them were just sketches.” He looked back at Monk, narrowing his eyes. “Why? What does it matter now? If you think I killed her, you’re a fool. No artist destroys his inspiration.” He did not bother to explain, either because he thought Monk incapable of understanding or because he simply did not care.
Monk looked across at Runcorn and saw the struggle for comprehension in his face. He was foundering in an unfamiliar world, afraid even to try to find his way. Everything about it was different from what he was accustomed to. It offended his rigid upbringing and the rules he had been taught to believe. The immorality of it confused him, and yet he was beginning to realize that it also had standards of a sort, passions, vulnerabilities and dreams.
The moment he was aware of Monk’s scrutiny he froze, wiping his expression blank. “Learned anything?” he said curtly.
“Possibly,” Monk answered. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was nearly seven o’clock.
“In a hurry?” Runcorn asked.
