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“Yes. Apart from their wish to draw the attention of the police as little as possible, and to not frighten away their custom, Mrs. Beck did not owe them any significant amount of money. They say all her debts were paid to date. People like her are the main source of their profit. It would make no sense to harm her.”
Pendreigh’s face tightened. “Then we must look further. We may not be able to prove anyone else’s guilt.” His voice was strained, and he did not quite meet Monk’s eyes. “But we must raise a very believable possibility. We must create so much doubt that they cannot convict Kristian.”
Monk wondered how much that was spoken from the desire to protect not only Kristian, but Elissa’s reputation as well, which was going to be almost impossible. He felt an intense pity for the man, and a grave respect for his strength that he could even contemplate going into court and keeping his composure sufficiently to fight the case when his only child was the victim. But Fuller Pendreigh had not risen to the position he held without great resources of inner power and remarkable self-discipline. Perhaps his very appearance in court would be the best chance that Kristian had.
They discussed details and ideas for another thirty minutes or so, then left Pendreigh to think over the plans that were already forming in his mind, people he should contact, witnesses who might be called, eventualities to follow or to guard against.
Callandra took her own carriage home, and Monk and Hester called a hansom.
“What do you really believe, William?” Hester asked when they were alone.
He hesitated. Should he try to protect her? Was it what she wanted? He knew there were emotions inside her he could not reach, or understand, because they were to do with old loyalties to Charles, memories of family grief and loss, the passion to shield the weaker. He had only an empty space in his own life where those feelings should ha
ve been. His childhood held a few sharp moments, mostly physical memories, of the sea, bright and choppy, of sitting in a boat and the consuming need to be one of the men, to equal their courage and their ability to know what to do in any eventuality-how to tie ropes so they did not undo, how to balance when it was rough, how not to be sick or show fear. He realized with shame that there was no concern for anyone else. Every fear or need was for his own pride, his passion to be respected, to succeed. He was profoundly glad Hester could not see that as he did.
“William?”
“I don’t know what I think,” he answered. “It would be more comfortable for us to think it had something to do with Max Niemann, but there’s very little to suggest it. He said at the funeral that he had come from Paris because he read of her death there, and he’s in Vienna anyway, so far as we know.”
“I could believe that Kristian could have panicked and lashed out in despair,” she said quietly, staring ahead into the darkness. “But not that he killed Sarah Mackeson. I’ll never believe that!” They were brave words, said with a tremor in her voice and the edge of tears too close to hide.
He did not argue. He reached across and took her hand, and felt her fingers curl around his, cold in the chill of the hansom and the weariness of her heart, but gripping him with strength.
CHAPTER NINE
Keeping her appointment with Fuller Pendreigh had been difficult for Callandra because of the element of self-control necessary to hide the depth of her emotions. As far as he was concerned, she was no more than a good friend and colleague who wished to help and was quite naturally grieved by the whole matter. For everyone’s sake, his perception must remain exactly that.
Now, as she left Lincoln’s Inn, she was startled to find herself shaking with release from the tension. Her head was pounding and her hands felt clammy, in spite of the cold.
She had not seen Kristian alone since the death of Elissa, except for moments in the hospital, standing in the corridor with the certain knowledge that someone else might pass at any moment. They had spoken of trivia. She had been thinking a hundred other things that she longed to be able to say, and the frustration of silence was almost unbearable. She was sorry for his pain and his loss. She wanted him to fight back with more passion, to defend himself, at least to speak openly, to share his grief rather than to close it away.
She had said none of it. She had allowed him all the time and the privacy he had wanted, simply watching and grieving for him. She had set aside her own hurt at being excluded, her confusion as to what he had felt for Elissa that he had deceived by silence as to what she was like.
Then she had begun to doubt herself. She had to remember more clearly the long hours they had spent together in the fever hospital in Limehouse, working all day and so often all night with the one passionate aim of saving lives, containing the infection. Had she deluded herself that their bond was personal, when it was only the shared understanding of suffering? Was it compassion for the sick which had warmed his eyes, and the knowledge that she felt it, devoted herself to it as he did, that had made him reach out to her?
He had never betrayed his marriage even by a word. Was that honor that had bound him, and for which she had so profoundly admired him? Or was there nothing in his silence that concerned her? Not unspoken loneliness at all?
She looked in the glass and saw herself as she had always been, a little short, definitely too broad, a face which her friends would have said was intelligent and full of character. Those indifferent to her would have described it with condescension as agreeable but plain. She had good skin, and good teeth even now, but she lacked prettiness, and the blemishes of age were all too apparent. How could she have been vain enough or silly enough to imagine any man married to Elissa would have felt anything but professional regard for her, a shared desire to heal some small portion of the world’s pain?
At least she had not ever spoken aloud. Although that was decency, not lack of emotion. But Kristian would never know that.
Today personal pride and emotions of any sort must be set aside. There was practical work to do, and the truth to be faced. She would go to the prison and visit Kristian, inform him of Fuller Pendreigh’s offer and Monk’s willingness to continue searching for some alternative theory to suggest to the jury. She already had a plan in mind, but for it to have even the faintest chance of success, she needed Kristian’s cooperation. She might have been useless at the arts of romance, but she was an excellent practical organizer, and she had never lacked courage.
By the time she reached the police station, she had decided to speak to Runcorn first, if he was in and would see her, although she intended to insist.
As it happened, no pressure was necessary, and she was conducted with some awe up the narrow stairs to a room rather obviously tidied up for her. Piles of papers with no connection to each other rested on the corner of the shelf, and pencils and quills had been gathered together and pushed into a cup to keep them from rolling. A clean sheet of blotting paper lay over the scratches and marks in the desk. On any other occasion she might have been gently amused.
Runcorn himself was standing up, almost to attention. “Good morning, Lady Callandra,” he said self-consciously. “What can I do for you? Please. . please sit down.” He indicated the rather worn chair opposite his desk, and waited carefully until she was seated before he sat down himself. He looked uncomfortable, as if he wished to say something but had no idea how to begin.
“Good morning, Mr. Runcorn,” she replied. “Thank you for sparing me your time. I appreciate that you must be very busy, so I shall come to the point immediately. Mr. Monk told me that you were enquiring into Mr. Max Niemann’s visits to London, whether he was here at the time of Mrs. Beck’s death, and if he had come here on any other occasion recently. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is, ma’am.” Runcorn was not quite certain how to address her, and it showed in his hesitation.
“And was he here?” There was no purpose in prevaricating. She found her heart was knocking in her chest as the seconds hung before he answered. She had no right to know. Please God, Niemann had been here! There had to be someone else to suspect, some other answer. A week ago she needed to find someone else guilty, now she would be grateful simply for the possibility, any belief to cling to.
“Yes,” Runcorn replied. “He has been here three times this last year that we know of.” He looked deeply unhappy. “But nobody saw him quarrel with Mrs. Beck, ma’am. They were old friends from her time in Vienna. It makes no difference to the case. It would be very nice for us all if we could blame a foreign gentleman, but there isn’t any sense in it.”
She could not bring herself to argue with him. The hope was too slender, and she was frightened of trying to keep control of herself without it. She stood up very straight. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Runcorn. I am obliged to you. I believe I am permitted to visit Dr. Beck, since he is not yet proven guilty.” It was a statement.
