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“Of course I’m uncertain. I wasn’t there. I’m only working on what others tell me.”
“Exactly. And what did this priest tell you? Has he a name one may call him by?”
“Father Geissner.”
“What did Father Geissner tell you, Mr. Monk? It cannot be secret under the bonds of the confessional, or he would not have repeated it to you. I assume you were honest with him as to who you were and what your purpose was in enquiring?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Then tell the court what he told you, if you please.”
Pendreigh rose to protest, and sat down again without having said anything. The fact that he was unhappy, but had no legal cause to object, did more harm than good. Monk saw it in the jurors’ faces.
“Mr. Monk, you must answer the question,” the judge ordered, although there was courtesy in his voice, even some sympathy.
Monk was the last witness. There was no one else to call, no other suspect to suggest. They were all but beaten. And yet he still could not bring himself to believe that Kristian would have killed Sarah Mackeson, even to save himself. It was the act of a coward, an innately selfish man, and every evidence there was, whether from friend or stranger, said Kristian had never been that.
“Mr. Monk!” the judge prompted again. “I do not wish to place you in contempt of the court, nor to allow the jury to assume that whatever it is you learned is to the discredit of the accused, so much so that you, his friend, and employed by his defense, would rather suffer the penalties of defying the court than to tell us.”
Monk made the decision with the same wild sense of despair that he might have felt while overbalancing off the ledge of a cliff. It was almost a physical dizziness, a knowledge of disaster rushing up towards him. And yet they had nothing to lose-except loyalties, dreams, illusions of what had been good.
The judge was about to speak again.
Monk dared not look at Kristian, or at Pendreigh. He would face Hester later.
The court was in stiff, scarcely breathing silence, every face staring up at him.
“He told me about Hanna Jakob, who was a member of Dr. Beck’s group in the uprising.” Monk’s voice fell into the waiting room like a stone into dead water. It was as if no one understood the meaning of his words. Even Pendreigh’s pale face was completely blank.
Mills frowned. “And what meaning has that for us, Mr. Monk? What caused you to hesitate so long before committing yourself to an answer?”
“It is a tragedy I would rather not have disclosed,” Monk replied, staring straight ahead of him at the carving on the wall below the dock.
The waiting prickled in the air like tiny needles in the mind.
It was too late to turn back. Maybe it was reasonable doubt. It was all there was left, no matter how many dreams it shattered. “She was in love with Kristian Beck,” Monk said softly. “As was Elissa von Leibnitz. They were both brave, generous and young. Elissa was English, and one of the most beautiful of women. Hanna was Austrian. . and Jewish.”
No one moved. There was no sound, and yet the emotion in the room seemed almost to burst at the walls.
“They were both fighters for the revolution,” Monk went on. “Because of her Jewish background, Hanna knew that many families, before the emancipation of the Jews, when they were still forbidden many occupations, excluded from society, denied opportunities and living in constant fear, had changed their Jewish names to German ones. They had taken the Catholic faith, not from conviction but in order to give their children a better life. The Baruch family was one such.” He breathed in deeply. “They changed their name to Beck. Three generations later, the great-grandchildren had no idea they had ever been anything but good Austrian Catholics.”
At last he looked up at Kristian, and saw him start forward, disbelief blank in his face, his eyes wide, aghast, as if the world he knew was disintegrating in his grasp.
“No one knows the conversation between the two women,” Monk went on. “But Elissa was made aware that the man she loved, and had presumed to be of her own people, was actually of her rival’s, although he himself did not know it.” He was aware of faces in the room below him craning around and upward, staring.
“It was necessary to carry dangerous messages to warn other groups of revolutionaries,” Monk said, continuing the story, “in different parts of the city. Hanna was chosen to do it, for her knowledge of the streets of the Jewish quarter and her courage, and perhaps because she was not so closely one of the group, being a Jew. Father Geissner told me that Dr. Beck afterwards felt guilty, even that the ease with which they chose her for the task troubled him. Apparently, he spoke of it outside the confessional as well as within it.”
Mills’s eyes were fixed on him. Not once did he glance away at Pendreigh, or at the judge. “Continue,” he prompted. “What happened to Hanna Jakob?”
“The other group was warned by someone else,” Monk said quietly, aware of how strained his voice was. “And Hanna was betrayed to the authorities. They caught her and tortured her to death. She died alone in an alley, without giving away her compatriots. . ”
There were gasps in the room. The upturned face of one woman was wet with tears. A voice muttered a prayer.
“By whom was she betrayed?” Mills asked hoarsely.
“Elissa von Leibnitz,” Monk answered. At last he looked at Kristian and saw nightmare in his face. He had not known. No one could look at him and believe that he had.
“No!” Max Niemann struggled to his feet. “No! Not Elissa!” he cried. “It’s not possible!”
