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“No,” Kristian said quickly. “They’d have found someone. I. . I had no wish to sit around and. . think. Work can be a blessing. .”
“Yes.” Runcorn was embarrassed by grief, especially when he could understand but not share it. His discomfort was clear in his face, his eyes studiously avoiding the array of instruments laid out on the table near the wall, and in the way he stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Did you know Mrs. Beck was having her portrait painted by Argo Allardyce, Doctor?”
“Yes, of course. Her father commissioned it,” Kristian replied.
“Have you ever been to the studio or met Allardyce?”
“No.”
“Not interested in a portrait of your wife?”
“I have very little time, Superintendent. Medicine, like police work, is very demanding. I would have been interested to see it when it was completed.”
“Never met Allardyce?” Runcorn insisted.
“Not so far as I know.”
“He painted several pictures of her, did you know that?”
Kristian’s face was unreadable. “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. She was beautiful.”
“Would it surprise you if he was in love with her?”
“No.” A faint smile flickered around Kristian’s mouth.
“And that doesn’t anger you?”
“Unless he harassed her, Superintendent, why should it?”
“Are you sure he didn’t?”
The conversation was leading nowhere, and Runcorn was as aware of it as Monk. There was a note of desperation in his voice and his body was tense and awkward, as if the room oppressed him, the pain and the fear in it remaining after the events were over. He still kept his eyes fixed on Kristian, to avoid the other things he might unintentionally see, the blades and clamps and forceps.
“Did you know she was going to Acton Street that evening?” Monk asked.
Kristian hesitated. The question seemed to cause him some embarrassment. Monk saw Runcorn perceive it also.
“No,” Kristian said, glancing from one to the other of them. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.
“Where did you think she was going?” Monk hated pressing the issue, but the fact that it caused discomfort was an additional reason why he had to.
“We did not discuss it,” Kristian said, avoiding Monk’s eye. “I was visiting a patient.”
“The patient’s name?”
Kristian’s eyes flicked up; only momentarily was he startled. “Of course. It was Maude Oldenby, of Clarendon Square, just north of the Euston Road. I suppose you have to consider that I might have done this.” His body was tense, the muscles standing out in his neck and jaw. His face was ashen pale, but he did not protest. “Do I need to say that I did not?”
For the first time, Monk was embarrassed also. He spoke uncharacteristically. “There are regions in all of us unknown not only to others, but even to ourselves. Tell us something about her.”
There was absolute silence. The distant noises from beyond the door intruded, footsteps, the clink of a pail handle falling, indistinguishable voices.
“How do you describe anyone?” Kristian said helplessly. “She was. .” He stopped again.
Thoughts raced through Monk’s mind about love and obsession, boredom, betrayal, confusion. “Where did you meet her?” he asked, hoping to give Kristian a place to begin.
Kristian looked up. “Vienna,” he said, his voice taking on a sudden vibrancy. “She was a widow. She had married very young, an Austrian diplomat in London. When he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafes, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”
“To fight for?” Monk said curiously. It was an odd word to use.
