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“He already has. I took his clothes and razor to him.”
“He’s in. . prison?” Her eyes were wide.
“Yes, Hester.”
“What?” She shuddered. “Don’t you dare tell me you think he could have done it!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t dare!”
“Why would you think I might?” he asked. He wished passionately that he could say anything other. She looked so frightened and vulnerable, so willing to take on the battle whatever the odds, and be hurt. . horribly. And yet he could not have loved her so deeply had she been ready to give in, been wiser, more realistic, even more able to cast aside her emotions and arm herself against the loss.
She was furious because the tears slid down her cheeks. “Because you think he could be guilty,” she whispered.
“He could be,” he said. “Everyone has a breaking point, you know that as well as I do. We all reach a degree where we can’t bear it any longer, and either we crumple up and surrender, or we run away, or else we fight back. Sometimes we lose our balance and we do something we thought was outside even our imagination. I’ve been there. Haven’t you?”
She leaned against him again, her voice muffled because her face was buried in his shoulder. “Yes. .”
It was several moments later before she spoke clearly. She sniffed hard and pulled away from him. “What are we going to do?” Her voice, her face, the angle of her body, all asserted passionately that they were going to do something.
“I don’t know.” He hated admitting it, but he had already exhausted every possibility he knew, or he would have argued with Runcorn and delayed the arrest even a day.
“Well, if it isn’t Kristian, it has to be someone else!” she protested with desperation. “We’ve got to find out who it is. I’ve done nothing so far. I don’t know how I can have been so stupid! So complacent! I took it for granted since I. .” She looked away. “Since I refused to believe it could be Kristian. Where can I begin?”
“I don’t know,” he said again. “Runcorn’s sent men to check if Max Niemann came to London more often than the times we know of, but we know of no reason why he would kill her.”
“Perhaps they were lovers?” She said the words with difficulty. “And they quarreled? You said Allardyce told you she met Niemann there. That makes sense. . doesn’t it?” There was no conviction in her voice. Maybe she was remembering Niemann clasping Kristian’s hands at the funeral. The feeling between them that had looked intensely real. Yet it seemed as if one of them had killed the woman they had both loved, and with whom they had shared a noble and turbulent past. Which of them was lying so superbly, and what agony of emotions was pouring through him?
“Hester. .” He drew in a deep breath. “Of course it could be someone else, but Kristian’s been arrested. He’ll stand trial. He’ll need a better defense than your belief that it could be Niemann, or someone else we don’t know.”
“Have you told Callandra?” She shivered.
“No.”
“Then I’d better go and do it.” She pulled away from him.
“Tonight?” He was startled.
“Yes. It won’t hurt any less in the morning.”
“I’ll come with you.” He bent down and picked up his boots again.
Callandra refused to accept it. She had received them in her sitting room with the gas jets blazing, throwing the dark walls into a radiance of warmth, the flames from the fire dancing red and yellow. Suddenly the familiar comfort of it vanished and even the beauty of the paintings seemed no more than a trick of light.
“No,” she said, looking at neither of them, her face white, her body rigid. “He might have been tempted to kill his wife, but he could not have killed the artists’ model as well. There is another answer. We must find it.”
“I’ll go on looking,” Monk promised. He said it because he could not deny her, but he had no idea where to begin, and no belief that he could succeed. “But we must think how to defend Kristian as well.”
“Oliver?” she said immediately. “I’ll pay.” She did not bother to add how highly Sir Oliver Rathbone had regarded Kristian. Rathbone was more than a colleague or a friend, he was an ally in battles they had fought before, and his passion for justice was equal to their own.
“He is away in Italy,” Monk said grimly. “He might be gone another two or three weeks. We can’t afford to wait that long before beginning. Even when he returns, he might be committed.”
She looked at him with misery and rising panic. “Who else is as good?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. They had always turned to Rathbone, whatever the case, or the difficulty. “We’ll have to make enquiries-I’ll start in the morning, as soon as there’s anyone to ask. We’ll need every moment we have.” They would need far more than that, but he did not say so.
“I must come with you,” she insisted.
He thought of the rejections, those who would point out what a futile struggle it would be, how slight the chance of winning.
“Callandra. .” he began.
