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But Monk had told her that Allardyce could account for his time. He had spent the evening at the Bull and Half Moon in Southwark, miles from Acton Street, on the other side of the Thames.
“It was not he,” she told Pendreigh. “The police can prove that.”
A sharp frown creased his forehead, making two deep lines like cuts between his brows. “Then we are back to the only answer which makes sense. . Sarah Mackeson was the intended victim. If the police do not pursue that to the very end, then we must employ Monk to do so. There is something in her life, in her past, which has driven a past lover, a rival, a creditor, to quarrel with her in a way which ended in murder. The reason is there! We must find it!”
“I will speak to William, of course,” she agreed with a fervor which was meant to convince herself as much as Pendreigh. “He said that apparently she was a very handsome woman, and her life was a little. . haphazard.” That was a euphemism she hoped he would understand. She did not wish to speak ill of her, and yet she hoped profoundly that the answer was as simple as that.
Pendreigh sighed. There was an unhappiness in him so profound it filled the room with grief more effectively than hanging every picture with crepe had done, or turning all the mirrors face to the wall and stopping the clocks.
“Rejection can make people behave irrationally,” she went on quietly. “Even far against anything they really wish for or believe. But remorse afterwards does not undo the act, nor bring back that which has been destroyed.”
He dropped his head into his hands, hiding his emotion. “No, of course not,” he said, his voice muffled. “We must save what we can from the tragedy.”
She was uncertain whether to rise to her feet now and excuse herself, or if it would be kinder to wait a few moments rather than force him to stand, as courtesy demanded, before he had had time to compose himself. She was actually hungry, and would like to have eaten more of the cucumber sandwiches, but it seemed an oddly heartless thing to do, and she left them. Instead she sat straight-backed, upright on the edge of the chair, waiting until he should be ready to bid her good-bye with the kind of dignity he could afterwards remember without embarrassment.
Monk and Runcorn were together in Runcorn’s office the following day. They were both tired and irritable after spending a morning and early afternoon plowing through steady rain from one gambling establishment to another in the path of Elissa Beck, and people like her, both men and women. The addiction to the excitement of chance and the small element of skill involved made no discrimination for age or wealth, man or woman. There was something in certain characters that, once they had tasted the thrill of winning, could not let it go, even when part of them was perfectly aware of the destruction it was causing. They saw their winnings as larger than they were, their losses as smaller, and always there was the hope that the next turn of the card would redeem it all.
“I don’t understand it,” Runcorn said desperately, staring at his sodden boots. He had been obliged to step in the gutter to pass a group of women talking to each other and oblivious of passersby. “It’s like a kind of madness. Why do people do it?”
Monk could understand it, at least in part, enough to feel a brush of fear at how easily he might have become one of them if his path in life had been a little different.
“A need to feel alive,” he said, and then, seeing the disgust and incomprehension in Runcorn’s face, wished he had held his tongue.
“Vermin!” Runcorn said savagely, yanking his boot off and massaging his cold, wet foot.
Monk looked up sharply, then realized Runcorn was referring to the debt collectors, not the gamblers.
“Wish we could catch a few of them and make a charge stick,” Runcorn went on. “I’d like to see ’em in the Coldbath Fields, on the treadmill, or passing the shot.” He was referring to the worst prison in London and the habitual punishments of walking inside a turning machine, where in order to remain upright a man had constantly to keep putting one foot in front of the other on a step which gave beneath his weight, spinning the wheel and pitching him forward again. Passing the shot was a useless exercise of bending to pick up a cannonball, straightening the back, and passing the ball to the next man, who put it down again. One could be forced to do it for hours until every muscle ached and movement was pain. It was all utterly purposeless, except to break the spirit.
“Yes,” Monk agreed with feeling. “So would I. But we haven’t found a jot of evidence to suggest any debt collector went after her. In fact, we can’t even find anyone who’ll admit she owed him. She got the money from somewhere. . or someone.”
Runcorn looked up from the drawer where he was searching for dry socks. “You believe them?” he asked.
Monk did not need to think about it; he already had. “Yes. Not their words, their lack of fear or anger. The emotion isn’t there. If anything, they’re disappointed to lose a good customer. They thought she was worth more.”
Runcorn pursed his lips and pulled out one thick woollen sock, then another. “That’s what I thought, too. What about Sarah Mackeson?”
Monk tried to read Runcorn’s face, the doubt, the hope, the anger in it, until Runcorn turned away, pulling on his socks one by one. “We’ve found nothing to suggest anyone cared enough to kill her,” he said miserably. He would rather have said there was passion, envy, fear, anything better than indifference. The most feeling she awoke seemed to have been in Allardyce, because she was beautiful to paint. The only other person who cared was Mrs. Clark.
“I wish we knew which of them was killed first,” Runcorn said, slamming the drawer shut. “But the surgeon can’t tell us a damn thing.”
Monk sat on the edge of the desk with his hands in his pockets. He turned over in his mind what possible evidence there could be which would tell them which woman had died first. It would be no use at all going back to the doctor. All he could say was that they had died in the same manner, and common sense said they had been killed by the same person. Only physical facts would make a difference.
Runcorn was watching him. “We never found the earring,” he said, as if following Monk’s thoughts. It was disconcerting to have him so perceptive.
“Well, if it got caught in his clothing, whoever it was, he’d have thrown it away,” Monk replied. “It wasn’t on the floor.”
Runcorn said nothing, and silence filled the room again.
“The ear bled,” Monk said after a while. “It must have. You can’t tear flesh like that without leaving marks on something.”
Runcorn climbed to his feet, looking beyond Monk to the rain streaming down the window. “Do you want to go to Acton Street again?” he asked. “We didn’t see anything on the carpet before, but we can try again. If we could prove Sarah Mackeson died first it would change everything.”
Monk stood up also. “It’s worth trying. A
nd we could ask Allardyce how often he saw Max Niemann, and when.”
“Think he could be involved?” Runcorn said hopefully. “Lovers’ quarrel? Nothing to do with the doctor?” His voice sank at the end. If Elissa and Max Niemann had been lovers, that was more motive for Kristian than ever. And Kristian had lied about where he was, even if unintentionally.
