Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

“Do you know Dr. Beck, Bohemian gentleman, who tends patients all around this area? He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, dark hair, remarkable dark eyes. Probably always in a hurry.”

“Yeah, I know the gent you mean. Foreign. Out all hours. Friend o’ yours?”

“Yes. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”

“Lorst ’im, ’ave yer?” He grinned again.

Monk maintained his self-control with an effort. “It was his wife who was murdered in Acton Street. When did you see him?”

The gingerbread man whistled between his teeth, and all the humor died out of his face. “I saw ’im that night, but it were about ten-ish. Bought a piece o’ gingerbread an’ took a cab up north. Goin’ ’ome, I reckoned, but maybe not. I went ’ome meself just arter that. ’E were me last customer.”

“How was he?”

“Fit ter drop, if yer ask me. That tired ’e could ’ardly stand up. Terrible thing to lose yer wife like that.” He shook his head and sighed.

Monk thanked him and moved on. He was not sure if the man’s news was good or bad. It tallied roughly with what Kristian had said, but it also placed him within a few hundred yards of Acton Street.

Perhaps rather than trying to follow Kristian he should learn more about Elissa? Obviously, she had been in Allardyce’s studio at the time of the murder, but what about before that? Both he and Runcorn had assumed she had gone from her home straight to Allardyce’s studio. Maybe she had gone to Swinton Street to gamble? Regardless of that, he should know more of her gambling. He had accepted Kristian’s word, given to Hester. If he believed Kristian capable of killing his wife, why did he assume that his account was true in every other particular, simply because it was humiliating and gave him a motive in her death? There might be things he was ignorant of, or mistaken in. He could be lying to conceal something else.

It was not difficult to find the gambling house. The most simple questions, asked with an assured eagerness and a certain glint in the eye, determined that it was the fifth house along from the Gray’s Inn Road, in the north side of the street, well concealed behind a butcher’s shop.

He walked briskly and went up the shallow step and through the interior, stacked only with a few miserable-looking sausages, and knocked on the door beyond. It was opened by a large-shouldered man with a badly broken nose and a soft, slightly lisping voice. “Yes?” he said guardedly.

“I’m told a man with a little money to spend can find rather better amusement here than in music halls or the local tavern,” Monk replied. “Something with a chance to win. . or lose. . a bit of involvement.”

“Well now? And who told you that, then?” The man still looked dubious, but there was a flicker of interest in his face.

“A lady I know who enjoys some excitement in her life now and then. Gentlemen don’t mention names.”

The man smiled, showing a chipped front tooth, and asked to see the color of his money.

“Gold-same color as everyone else’s! What’s the matter? Only cater for silver here, do you? Or copper, maybe?”

“No call to be rude,” the man said patiently. “Just a few ladies and gentlemen spending a pleasant afternoon. Causing nobody no fuss. But I think as I’d like ter know your friend’s name, gentleman or no gentleman.”

“Unfortunately, my friend met with a. . misfortune,” Monk replied.

“A financial one, like?” the man asked with a sigh.

“She met with a few of those, but that’s life,” Monk replied laconically. “This one was worse. She was murdered.”

The man’s face tightened around the lips and jaw. “Very sad. But isn’t nothing to do with us ’ere.”

The fact that he denied it gave Monk a sudden sense of chill, but he knew that a murder which would draw such intense police attention was the last thing a house like this would wish. They would have to close down and set up somewhere else. That would take time and cost money. They would lose business, and while they were closed their custom would go to their rivals, possibly not to return.

It would be such an easy answer if he could think they were guilty of Elissa’s murder, but it made no sense.

The man was waiting for him to reply.

He shrugged deliberately. It cost him an effort of will, and the faces of the two dead women stayed in front of his eyes. “Not my business,” he said carelessly. “If you can’t pay your debts, you shouldn’t play. Pity about her, but life doesn’t stop. . at least not for us.”

The man laughed heartily, but his eyes remained cold. “You got the idea right,” he said with a nod.

“So how long do I stand here debating the philosophy of debt?” Monk asked, matching him stare for stare.

“Until I decide you can go in!”

“And what would make you decide against it?” Monk enquired. He wondered if Kristian had ever been there. Perhaps Runcorn should ask, with the weight of police authority behind him. Except that there was nothing to make this man tell the truth. It would be instinctive to lie, to keep himself out of a murder.

“Maybe you’re another bad debtor,” the man said sanctimoniously.

“And on the other hand, maybe I’m a big winner,” Monk pointed out. “You afraid of that? Watch others, but no stomach to take a chance yourself?”

“You got a vicious tongue in you, sir,” the man said with something that sounded like reluctant admiration. He eyed Monk up and down, judging his balance, his physical strength and agility. A spark of interest lit in his eyes. “But I don’t see why you shouldn’t come in and spend a little time here in pleasant company for the afternoon. Seeing as how you understand the ways o’ life rather the same as we do.”

The idea that had been lurking at the back of Monk’s mind suddenly took form. He was being weighed up as a potential tool for discipline in the future. He would play into that. He smiled at the man, looking straight at him. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Very civil of you.”

Inside was a large room, probably originally two and now knocked into one. There were half a dozen tables set up, some surrounded by chairs, some with room only for standing. There were already at least twenty people there. No one noticed his arrival. Every eye was undeviating from the roll of the dice or the turn of a card. No one spoke. In fact, there was no sound but the soft flick of cards on the baize cloth, or the very faint thump of the dice falling. There was barely even the rustle of silk or taffeta skirts or the creaking of the bones of a bodice as someone leaned a little farther forward.

Then there was a win, and cheers. Losers turned away, faces filled with chagrin. It was impossible to guess how much they had lost, whether they could afford it, or were ruined.

The game resumed, and again the tension mounted.

Monk looked around at the faces, eyes on the play, some with jaws clenched. He saw one man with a slight tic in his temple and noticed his hands white-knuckled as the cards turned. Another fidgeted silently, stopping his fingers from drumming on the table edge but holding them just short of the surface. His shoulders seemed to be locked in position, a little higher than natural and totally unmoving.

Monk directed his attention to a woman, perhaps thirty-five, with a sharp, pretty face, blond hair pulled a little too tightly back from her brow. She scarcely breathed as the dice rolled and stopped. She won, and glee lit her eyes, a brilliance that was more like a fever. Immediately she played again, moving the dice from one hand to the other four times before blowing on them and rolling them.

Monk became aware of the man from the door watching him. He must play. Please heaven he could win enough to stay an hour or two. He moved over to the dice. He could not remember if he had ever played cards. He could not afford to make a fool of himself by displaying ignorance. This was not a place where any leeway was given. One glance at faces told anyone that each person in the room was obsessed with the game, win or lose. The money represented victory; they hardly saw it for itself or what it could buy, beyond another chance to play.