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“What is it?” she asked, looking straight at Hester. “What’s happened?”
It was Charles who answered. It was clear he was torn between swift honesty and trying to soften the blow for her to shield her from embarrassment. He should have known it was impossible. Perhaps he did, but still could not break the habit of a lifetime. “Allardyce was seen near his studio on the night Mrs. Beck was killed,” he began. “That means he could be guilty after all. The person who saw him also saw you. .” He flushed as her body stiffened. “And if you saw him, then that would be additional proof that he was there.”
“Why should anyone doubt it?” she said quickly. “If this other person says he saw him, isn’t that enough?”
Charles looked at Monk questioningly.
“He is a friend of Kristian Beck’s,” Monk answered. “They may believe he is saying it simply to defend him. He needs corroboration.”
Imogen looked at Charles, her eyes wide. Hester tried to read her expression. It was more than fear alone. Was it shame, even some kind of apology for having to admit publicly where she was and that she had gone without him? It would humiliate him publicly. Had she any idea what else had happened to him at the club that night?
Charles was standing close to her, as if in some way he could physically protect her. She looked at him, but the angle of his shoulders kept a distance between them, a separation.
“It is the only honorable thing to do,” Charles said quietly. He looked at Monk. “Describe this man, exactly where he was, and when. Perhaps Imogen should see him in person?”
“No,” Monk responded hastily. “If we bring him here we shall be prejudicing her testimony. The prosecution will very quickly point out that we, too, are friends of Kristian’s and could have arranged it. It is best the first time she sees him is in court. Pendreigh can call him, and then call Imogen to testify.”
Imogen turned to him. She was shivering, her eyes fever-bright. “But I can’t help! I have no idea who else was in the street that evening. I wouldn’t be able to point to the right man. I think I might only make things worse. I. . I’m sorry.”
Charles stared at her. “Are you sure? Think back. Try to put yourself there again. Think of leaving the. . the house, stepping-”
“I can’t remember!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry. I was simply staring ahead of myself. I could have passed anyone, for all I noticed
!” She turned away and smiled apology at Monk, then at Hester, but the refusal in her face was final.
Monk put Hester into the hansom to send her back home to Grafton Street, and he took another to Lamb’s Conduit Street, where Runcorn lived. It was after midnight when he woke Runcorn by banging on the door. As he had expected, it was several minutes before Runcorn appeared, rumpled and half asleep, but as soon as he recognized Monk in the eerie glow of the streetlights, his hair plastered to his face in the rain, he opened the door wider to invite him in.
“Well?” he said as soon as they were in the small hallway. “What did you find in Vienna? Anything?”
“Yes.” Somehow being with Runcorn in this close, ordinary hallway took Monk back to the facets of police procedure, of the law, of what the realities were, separated from the emotions of love and need. As Runcorn went into the kitchen ahead of him, Monk pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.
Runcorn turned up the gas and went to riddle the ashes out of the black stove and try to get it burning hot again. “Well?” he said with his back to the room.
“I brought Niemann back,” Monk replied. “He’s more than willing to testify, both to Kristian’s good character. .”
Runcorn swiveled around on his haunches and glared at Monk.
Monk rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. For all the years of rivalry and dislike, the petty quarrels between them, they shared more beliefs than he had thought even a month ago, and they knew each other too well to hedge around with half-truths. He looked up at Runcorn, who had risen to his feet. The stove was beginning to draw again, and the heart of the fire burned red.
“Niemann says he was in Swinton Street near the gambling house just before the murders, and saw Allardyce leaving.” Of course, Runcorn knew Allardyce had been there, from Hester. He must also know that she had stolen the picture, although she had returned it.
Runcorn stared at him unblinkingly, only the barest, momentary reflection of that in his eyes. “Go on,” he prompted. Absentmindedly, he moved the kettle over onto the hot surface. “There’s more to it, or you wouldn’t be looking like a wet weekend in Margate. Maybe Allardyce is lying, but maybe he isn’t. Is Niemann Dr. Beck’s friend, or his enemy? Was he Elissa’s lover?”
“Friend. And no, I don’t think so.”
Runcorn leaned forward over the table. “But you don’t know! Have you got time to sit here half the night while I pull out of you whatever it is?”
Monk looked up at him. It was extraordinary how familiar he was, every line of his face, each intonation of his voice. Evidence said that they had known each other since early manhood, over twenty years. And yet there were vast areas of emotion, belief, inner realities Monk was seeing only now. Perhaps he had never cared before?
“There’s quite a lot of feeling against Jews in Vienna, in Austria,” he said slowly. “They’ve been persecuted for generations. I suppose centuries would be more accurate.”
Runcorn waited patiently, his eyes steady on Monk’s face.
“In order to survive, to escape discrimination, even persecution,” Monk went on, “some Jews denied their race and their faith and changed their names to German ones. They even became Roman Catholic.”
“This must be going to mean something, or you wouldn’t be telling me,” Runcorn observed.
“Yes. The kettle’s boiling.”
