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“Time was short, but I learned all I was able to,” Monk agreed.
“Short?” Mills raised his eyebrows. “I estimate you were gone seventeen days. Am I incorrect?”
Monk was startled that Mills should have cared to be so exact. “No. I think that’s about right.”
“I imagine that what you learned is broadly the same as what Mr. Niemann has told us,” Mills continued. “Nevertheless, it would help us to hear it directly from you, and know the sources from whom you obtained it. Where did you begin, Mr. Monk?”
“With listening to stories of the uprising from those who fought in it,” Monk answered. “And you are quite correct, they confirm what Mr. Niemann told you. Kristian Beck fought with courage, intelligence and dedication to the cause of greater freedom for his people.” He chose his words carefully. “He cared deeply for those he led, but he was not sentimental, nor did he favor those who were his friends above those who were less close to him.”
“He was impartial?” Mills asked.
Monk would not be moved. “I meant what I said, sir. He did not favor one above another because of his own feelings.”
Mills smiled. “Of course. I apologize. No doubt you heard many tales of great courage and self-sacrifice, of heroism and tragedy?”
“Yes.” Why did he ask that? What had he heard? What did he suspect?
“And did you follow them up, pursue them to be certain what degrees of truth they held?” Mills shrugged very slightly. “We all know that terrible conflicts where there are profound losses can give rise to legends that we. . embellish. . afterwards.”
“Of course I followed them up!” Monk said tartly. “One-sided, they are of little use.”
“Naturally.” Mills nodded. “I would not have expected less of you. With whom did you follow them, specifically?” The question was gently put, almost casually, and yet the silence in the room invested it with unavoidable importance.
“With Dr. Beck’s family still living in Vienna, and with a priest who had helped the fighters with comfort and the offices of the church,” Monk replied.
“Offices of the church? Perhaps you would explain?”
“The sacraments: confession, absolution.”
“A Roman Catholic priest?”
“Yes.”
“A number of the revolutionaries were Roman Catholic?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
Monk suddenly felt guarded, uncomfortable. “No.”
“The others were Protestant?”
“I didn’t ask.” That was an evasion of the truth. Would Mills see it in his face?
“And yet you know they were not Catholic?” Mills persisted.
Pendreigh rose to his feet, frowning. “My lord, can this possibly be relevant? My learned friend seems to be fishing without knowing what it is he seeks to catch!” He spread his hands wide. “What has the religion of the revolutionaries to do with anything? They fight side by side, loyal to each other, united by a common cause. We have already heard that Kristian Beck played no favorites!”
The judge looked at Mills. “Since you did not apparently know of this priest before Mr. Monk spoke of him, Mr. Mills, what are you seeking to show?”
“Merely confirmation, my lord.” Mills bowed and turned, raising his face to Monk, in the stand. “Is that also what you learned, Mr. Monk, that all were treated alike, Catholic, Protestant, atheist and Jew? Kristian Beck treated all with exact equality?”
Could Mills possibly know about Hanna Jakob? Or was he so sensitive to nuance, skilled to judge, that he had perceived something, even though he could not know what it was? What had he learned from Max Niemann in that short conversation before court this morning? Runcorn’s face kept coming back to Monk, his quiet, almost accusatory insistence on the truth.
Dare he lie? Did he want to? If he looked at Hester now, or Callandra, Mills would see it. The jury would see it.
r /> “You hesitate, Mr. Monk,” Mills observed. “Are you uncertain?”
