Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

Kristian composed himself. Perhaps it was a relief to be practical. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know what I can tell you that will help.” He spoke with difficulty. “You did not tell me how she was killed. I saw her, of course. . in the morgue. She looked. . unhurt. .”

Runcorn swallowed as if there were something blocking his throat. “Her neck was broken. It would have been very quick. I daresay she would have felt very little.”

“And the other woman?” Kristian said softly.

“The same.” Runcorn glanced around as if to find a more suitable place to speak.

“We won’t be interrupted here,” Kristian said wryly. “There’s no one else operating today.”

“Is that why you came?” Runcorn asked. “Surely, in the circumstances. .”

“No,” Kristian said quickly. “They’d have found someone. I. . I had no wish to sit around and. . think. Work can be a blessing. .”

“Yes.” Runcorn was embarrassed by grief, especially when he could understand but not share it. His discomfort was clear in his face, his eyes studiously avoiding the array of instruments laid out on the table near the wall, and in the way he stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Did you know Mrs. Beck was having her portrait painted by Argo Allardyce, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course. Her father commissioned it,” Kristian replied.

“Have you ever been to the studio or met Allardyce?”

“No.”

“Not interested in a portrait of your wife?”

“I have very little time, Superintendent. Medicine, like police work, is very demanding. I would have been interested to see it when it was completed.”

“Never met Allardyce?” Runcorn insisted.

“Not so far as I know.”

“He painted several pictures of her, did you know that?”

Kristian’s face was unreadable. “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. She was beautiful.”

“Would it surprise you if he was in love with her?”

“No.” A faint smile flickered around Kristian’s mouth.

“And that doesn’t anger you?”

“Unless he harassed her, Superintendent, why should it?”

“Are you sure he didn’t?”

The conversation was leading nowhere, and Runcorn was as aware of it as Monk. There was a note of desperation in his voice and his body was tense and awkward, as if the room oppressed him, the pain and the fear in it remaining after the events were over. He still kept his eyes fixed on Kristian, to avoid the other things he might unintentionally see, the blades and clamps and forceps.

“Did you know she was going to Acton Street that evening?” Monk asked.

Kristian hesitated. The question seemed to cause him some embarrassment. Monk saw Runcorn perceive it also.

“No,” Kristian said, glancing from one to the other of them. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.

“Where did you think she was going?” Monk hated pressing the issue, but the fact that it caused discomfort was an additional reason why he had to.

“We did not discuss it,” Kristian said, avoiding Monk’s eye. “I was visiting a patient.”

“The patient’s name?”

Kristian’s eyes flicked up; only momentarily was he startled. “Of course. It was Maude Oldenby, of Clarendon Square, just north of the Euston Road. I suppose you have to consider that I might have done this.” His body was tense, the muscles standing out in his neck and jaw. His face was ashen pale, but he did not protest. “Do I need to say that I did not?”

For the first time, Monk was embarrassed also. He spoke uncharacteristically. “There are regions in all of us unknown not only to others, but even to ourselves. Tell us something about her.”

There was absolute silence. The distant noises from beyond the door intruded, footsteps, the clink of a pail handle falling, indistinguishable voices.

“How do you describe anyone?” Kristian said helplessly. “She was. .” He stopped again.

Thoughts raced through Monk’s mind about love and obsession, boredom, betrayal, confusion. “Where did you meet her?” he asked, hoping to give Kristian a place to begin.

Kristian looked up. “Vienna,” he said, his voice taking on a sudden vibrancy. “She was a widow. She had married very young, an Austrian diplomat in London. When he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafes, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”

“To fight for?” Monk said curiously. It was an odd word to use.

Kristian met his eyes. “I met her in 1848,” he said softly. “We were all caught up in the revolution.”

“Is that where you lived then?”

“Yes. I was born in Bohemia, but my father was Viennese, and we had returned there. I was working in one of the hospitals and I knew students of all sorts, not just medical. All over Europe-Paris, Berlin, Rome, Milan, Venice, even in Hungary-there was a great hope of new freedoms, a spirit of courage in the air. But of course, to us Vienna seemed to be the heart of it.”

“And Mrs. . ”

“Elissa von Leibnitz,” Kristian supplied. “Yes, she was passionate for the cause of liberty. I knew no one with more courage, more daring to risk everything for victory.” He stopped. Monk could see in his face that he was reliving those days, sharp and fresh as if they were only just past. There was softness in his eyes, and pain. “She had a brighter spirit than anyone else. She could make us laugh. . and hope. .” He stopped again, and this time he turned away from them, hiding his face.

Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw an instant of pity so naked it stunned him. It did not belong to the man he thought he knew. It felt intrusive for him to have seen it. Then it was gone and nothing but embarrassment remained, and an anger for being forced to feel something he did not wish to, a confusion because things were not as he had supposed, and not easy. He rushed into speech to cover the silence and his own awkwardness. “Were you both involved in the revolutions in Europe then, Dr. Beck?”

“Yes.” Kristian straightened up, lifting his head a little, then turned around slowly to face Runcorn. “We fought against those who led the tyranny. We tried to overthrow it and win some freedom for ordinary people, a right to read and write as they believed. As you know, we failed.”

Runcorn cleared his throat. The politics of foreigners were not his concern. His business was crime there in London, and he wanted to remain on ground he understood. “So you came home. . at least you came here, and Mrs. Beck. . Mrs. . what did you say?”

“Frau von Leibnitz, but she was my wife by then,” Kristian replied.

“Yes. . yes, of course. You came to London?” Runcorn said hastily.

“In 1849, yes.” A shadow passed over Kristian’s face.

“And practiced medicine here?”

“Yes.”

“And Mrs. Beck, what did she do? Did she make friends here again?” Runcorn asked, although Monk knew from the tone of his voice that he had no purpose in mind, he was foundering. What he wanted to know was were they happy, had Elissa taken lovers, but he did not know how to say it so the answer was of value.

“Yes, of course,” Kristian answered. “She was always interested in the arts, music and painting.”

“Was she interested in your work?” Monk interrupted.

Kristian was startled. “Medicine? No. . no she wasn’t. It. .” He changed his mind and remained silent.