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He stared at her, absorbing what she had said. “Gambled?” he repeated.
“Yes. It became so she couldn’t help it, no matter how much she lost. In fact, if she weren’t risking more than she could afford, it didn’t have any excitement for her.”
He looked very pale, his face tight. He did not say anything of how he understood all that that meant, but he did not need to. It stood like a third entity, a darkness in the room with them.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monk was profoundly disturbed by what Hester had told him. He set out early, walking head down, through the still-shrouded streets. If it were true, then Kristian had a far deeper and more urgent motive for killing Elissa than any of them had realized before.
If she were driving him beyond poverty into ruin, the loss of his home, his reputation, his honor, even a time when debts could not be met, with the prospect of debtors’ prison, then Monk could very easily imagine panic and desperation prompting anyone in Kristian’s position to think of murder.
The Queen’s Prison was still kept exclusively for debtors, but all too often they were thrown in with everyone else: thieves, forgers, embezzlers, arsonists, cutthroats. They might remain there until their debts were discharged, dependent upon outside help even for food, and upon the grace of God for any kind of protection from cold, lice, disease, and the violence of their fellows, never mind the inner torments of despair.
Kristian was a man who in the past had faced injustice and fought it with violence, but then he had not stood alone. Half of Europe had risen in revolution against oppression, but perhaps the memory of it lay so deep in him that he would believe it was the answer again. Violence could have been instinctive rather than reasoned, and then, when it was too late, understanding and remorse returned.
It was too easily believable to discard. If he were honest, Monk could even understand it. Were anyone to threaten all he had spent his life building-his career, his reputation, the core of his own integrity and independence, his power to follow the profession he chose, to exercise his skills and feel of value to the things he believed in-he would fight to survive. He was not prepared to swear what weapons he would use, or decline, however bitter the price, or the shame afterwards.
There was an icy wind that morning, and he bent his head against it, feeling it sting his face. A newsboy was calling out something about a dispatch bearer for President Davis of the Confederacy in America who had been arrested in New Orleans, about to embark for England. It barely touched the periphery of Monk’s mind. He still had to know the truth, all of it, and he had to be aware of what Runcorn knew. If Kristian were not guilty, he would defend him to the last stand.
But if he were guilty, then such defense as there might be was different. Except there was no moral defense. Had it been only Elissa, some plea of mitigation might have been possible. He was certainly not the only man to have a wife who had driven him to the edge of madness, and violence lurks in many, if they are frightened or hurt enough. But whoever it was had then killed Sarah Mackeson also, simply because she was there. Nothing could justify that.
He would not yet tell Runcorn anything about what he had learned. It was still reasonable to assume that Sarah Mackeson was the intended victim, and even that Argo Allardyce was lying when he said he had not been back to Acton Street all night. They should begin by finding the woman companion that Elissa Beck had undoubtedly taken with her to her portrait sittings. She could have valuable testimony as to what had happened that night, at least up to the point when she and Elissa had parted. Where had she left Elissa, and for what reason? No doubt Runcorn had thought of that, too.
He stopped abruptly, causing the man behind him on the footpath to collide with him and nearly lose his balance. The other man swore under his breath and moved on, leaving Monk staring into the distance where one of the new horse-drawn trams loomed out of the thinning mist.
Runcorn would naturally begin with the assumption that Elissa had taken her maid, and he would go to Haverstock Hill to find her. And of course there was no lady’s maid there. A man who had sold all his furniture except the sort of thing a bailiff would leave could not afford such a thing. The scrubwoman who had answered the door the first time was probably the only servant they had, and she might come only two or three times a week.
Would Elissa have taken someone from her father’s house? Or a woman friend? Or might she actually have gone alone?
But the question beating in his mind was how to keep Runcorn from finding out about her gambling, or at least the ruinous extent of it. Perhaps he was only delaying the inevitable, but asking Allardyce himself about Elissa’s companion would be as logical as beginning at Elissa’s home. He quickened his pace. He must find Runcorn and suggest that to him, persuade him to agree.
He glanced both ways at the crossroads, then sprinted across between a dray and a vegetable cart. He reached the police station at twenty minutes past eight and went straight up to Runcorn’s office.
Runcorn looked up, his face carefully devoid of expression. He was waiting for Monk to make the first move.
“Good morning.” Monk hid his smile and looked back straight into Runcorn’s bland eyes. “I thought you’d probably be going to Allardyce again to see who the woman was who went with Mrs. Beck. I’d like to come with you.” He thought of adding a request, but that would be rather too polite for Runcorn to believe of him. He would suspect sarcasm.
Runcorn’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Yes, if you want,” he said casually. There was only the slightest flicker to betray that he had not thought of it. “In fact, it would be a good idea,” he added, standing up. “I suppose Mrs. Beck would take someone, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t be proper alone with an artist in his studio, especially not when there’s living quarters there as well. Who’d it be, a maid?”
“Or a friend,” Monk replied. “Which could be anyone. Easier to start by asking Allardyce himself.”
Runcorn frowned, taking his coat and hat from the stand near the door. “I suppose the fog’s still like pea soup, and it’ll be just as fast to walk.” It was not really a question because he did not wait for an answer.
Monk followed him down the stairs and fell into step beside him in the street. Actually, the weather was improving all the time and he could now see almost thirty yards in any direction. All the same, they decided to walk rather than try to flag down a hansom from the steady stream of traffic.
“How many sittings do you have to have for a portrait, anyhow?” Runcorn asked after several minutes.
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Maybe it depends on the style and the artist. Perhaps the model sits in for you some of the time?”
“They didn’t look much alike.” Runcorn darted a sideways look at Monk. “Still, I suppose for a dress or something it wouldn’t matter.” He frowned. “What did she do the rest of the time? I mean, every day. A doctor’s wife. . not quite a lady, but certainly gentry. . at least.” He had exposed an ignorance without intending to. Puzzlement was written plainly in his face. “There isn’t anything she would actually have to do, is there?”
“I doubt it,” Monk lied. Surely without any resident servants she would have to do most of the housework, cooking and laundry herself. Or perhaps with so little of the house occupied, there was far less to attend to. Only sufficient food for Kristian when he was home, and herself if she was not out with friends or at the gambling tables. Maybe Kristian had his shirts laundered at the hospital.
“Then what?” Runcorn asked. They crossed the Gray’s Inn Road and walked north. “I was ill once with bronchitis. Took me ages to get back to regular duty. Enjoyed the rest for the first two or three days. Thought I’d get a lot out of a fortnight. Nearly drove me mad! Never been so bored in my life. Came back before the doctor said I should because I couldn’t stand it.”
Monk could picture it in his mind. Runcorn relaxing with a good book was almost a contradiction in ideas. Again he suppressed a smile with difficulty.
