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Why was he having such difficulty being honest? Because he liked Kristian; he admired him as a doctor and as a man. He could understand how he could have been driven into a corner by a beautiful wife whose brilliant courage and passion he remembered, but who had now taken him to the brink of ruin, robbing him of everything he had built, not only for himself but for the cause of healing.
And because Monk had a vivid imagination of how deeply it would wound Callandra, whom he cared for perhaps more than anyone else, apart from Hester, and to whom he owed a debt he could never repay because he had nothing she would want-except the power to help Kristian Beck.
And it would hurt Hester for them all. What would she want him to do? What had she believed he would do when she told him about the empty house?
But the bitter and inexcusable thing was the murder of Sarah Mackeson. No understanding mitigated that.
And what about Charles and Imogen?
Would Runcorn find out anyway? Possibly, but also possibly not. Hester had no obligation to tell him. Kristian would not. So far Runcorn had no cause to go to the gambling house on Swinton Street.
All of which was irrelevant. The question was, did Monk tell the truth or did he lie? To achieve what? A concealment of the truth that Kristian had killed the two women? And if he hid it, then what?
The murder went unsolved? Someone else was blamed, perhaps the Austrian, Max Niemann, who had been meeting Elissa secretly? Or some debt collector?
He was almost at the police station. He hesitated, then went on, one more time right around the block. That was what decided him. If he lied now, even by omission, he would spend the rest of his life walking around the long way to evade the truth. It was false to his nature, to the few certain standards he held unviolated. He was not a coward, whatever faced him. Lies built more lies. He would fight to save Kristian, or have the nerve to watch him face trial, even be found guilty. He would not make the decision who was guilty or innocent before he knew the facts. He would find the evidence, all of it, whatever it proved, and then live with the results, regardless of the cost to any of them.
He went up the steps of the police station and in at the door.
“Is Mr. Runcorn in?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Monk. Up the stairs, sir.”
Damn! Pity he could not have been out, just this once. He gritted his teeth, thanked the sergeant, and went up. He knocked on the door and, as soon as there was an answer, opened it and went in.
Runcorn was sitting behind his tidy table. He looked almost pleased to see Monk. “Where’ve you been all day?” he demanded. “I thought you were eager to get this case solved!” He made no reference to having seen him at the funeral of Sarah Mackeson. He was watching to see if Monk was going to mention it. He was pretending they had not seen each other, and yet their eyes had met. Monk realized with a sharp savor of satisfaction that Runcorn was embarrassed at having been caught in an act of uncharacteristic compassion. After all, Sarah Mackeson was a loose woman, the kind he despised. He could hardly say he had gone in order to see who else was there, and expect Monk to believe him. He had stayed far longer than was necessary for that. He had been a mourner. He was looking at Monk now to see if he would deny it.
Monk would like him to have. He wanted to speak of it, to force Runcorn to admit his change of heart. But he could see in his eyes that he was not going to.
It was the perfect time to tell the truth. He hated it. It was like having a tooth extracted. All the long history of resentment and misunderstanding between them rose like a wall. He knew his face reflected his anger. Runcorn was staring at him and already hunching his shoulders as if getting ready to ward off a blow. His jaw was clenched. His fingers tightened on the pen he was holding.
“I know it’s already been done, but I went to check Dr. Beck’s movements on the day of the murder,” Monk said quickly.
Runcorn was surprised. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. He looked up at Monk standing in front of him. He was forced to lift his head.
Monk remained steady. He swallowed. “He was on the way back from seeing his patient when he passed the peddler, not on the way out,” he said before Runcorn could prompt him.
Recognition of what that meant flashed in Runcorn’s eyes, and surprise that Monk should have told him. “Why did you do that?” he said quietly. “Did it take you all afternoon? Or were you debating whether to tell me?”
Monk ground his teeth. Every word of this was as hard as he had expected. Silence was no longer a choice. He must either tell Runcorn the truth or deliberately lie. Perhaps he was deceiving himself if he thought the choice had ever been otherwise. Plunge in!
“Hester went to see Dr. Beck after the funeral meal, which was at Pendreigh’s house.” He saw the quick flash of incomprehension in Runcorn’s eyes. Pendreigh was of a social class Runcorn aspired to and would never understand. The fact infuriated him, and that Monk knew it angered him even more. He waited, and they stared intently at each other.
“Beck’s house is a facade,” Monk said painfully. “Only the front room and one bedroom are furnished; the rest is empty. Through her gambling Elissa Beck lost him almost everything he had.” He saw incredulity in Runcorn’s eyes, then pity, instantly masked, but not soon enough. It had been there, real and sharp. Monk was not sure if he felt better or worse for seeing it. How does a man like Runcorn pity someone like Kristian, who gave his life to compassion, who worked all the hours he was awake to relieve the suffering of strangers?
And yet the feeling made them for a moment equal, and how dare he deny that to Runcorn, even if he could have? A tumult of emotions awoke inside him. “I went to a gambling house on Swinton Street,” he continued. “Behind the butcher’s. That was where Elissa Beck went when she was early or late to Allardyce’s studio. When she lost badly she took refuge with him. That’s probably what a lot of her ’sittings’ were.”
Runcorn said nothing. He seemed to be undecided, searching for the right words and not finding them. The respect he felt embarrassed him. Why? Because he had to realize that Kristian had every reason and opportunity to have killed his wife? Monk felt exactly the same, but it was pain, not respect. Kristian’s virtues were not newly discovered.
Runcorn climbed to his feet, almost as if he were stiff. “Thank you,” he said, looking away from Monk. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again quickly. “Thank you.” And he walked past Monk and out of the door, leaving Monk standing alone in the office, realizing with anger and confusion that the respect was not for Kristian but for him, because he had told Runcorn the truth, and Runcorn hated the feeling as much as Monk hated his being capable of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monk went home, knowing he had to face breaking news which would be even more painful. He had not told Runcorn about Imogen, or that Charles had followed her. Part of Runcorn’s admiration for him was misplaced, and it stung like a blister on the heel, catching with every step. But he had no intention of rectifying it.
However, he must tell Hester. If it could have remained se
cret and she would never have had to know, he would have protected her from it. In spite of her courage, almost willingness to battle, she was capable of deep and terrible pain. In fact, perhaps the two things went together; she fought for others precisely because she understood the cost of losing, the physical and emotional wounds.
