Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

He watched the turn of the cards for another twenty minutes, and then he was invited to play, and without thinking he accepted. He had won the first hand before he realized with a cold ripple through his body how easily he had done it. An old, familiar needle of excitement pricked inside him. There was a thrill to winning; the danger of loss sharpened it. It was like galloping a little too fast along the white surf where the sea joins the land, feeling the wind and the spray in your face, and knowing that if you fell you could break bones, perhaps even be killed.

He played another hand, and another, and won. He was now ten guineas better off, police pay for over a month. He stood up and made an excuse to leave. He had more than established himself. He was there to find out about Elissa Beck, not to increase his own wealth. Kristian might have murdered her, and be hanged for it. Someone had killed her! And poor Sarah Mackeson as well. This was life and death. Money was a distraction, winning or losing at the turn of a piece of colored cardboard was idiotic!

But it was remarkably difficult to get any sensible conversation from any of the players. The game was everything. They barely glanced at each other. One could have stood next to a brother or sister and been unaware of it while the next play was awaited.

That was how he was so slow in noticing the woman at the table to his left. Her soft dark hair and slender body, bent forward in eagerness, jolted him back to his reason for being here. She was consumed in the game, her eyes fixed on the dice, her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. For an instant it could have been Elissa Beck. There was something familiar about her that clutched at his emotions and turned his heart. He could not help staring at her, sharing the moment’s exhilaration when she won. Her face was flushed with excitement. She seemed to vibrate life as if her energy could fill the room. She was beautiful with an inner fire.

He watched as she played again, and won again.

“Go play against her!” a voice said at his elbow. He turned to see the man who had let him in. “Go on!” he was urged with a broken-toothed smile. “Do the house good. You can’t both win.”

“Does she come often?” Monk said quickly.

The man grimaced. “Too damn often. I’d make it worth your while to beat her. I’ve watched you. You’re good. You could do it. Send her somewhere else for a month or two.”

Monk decided to play the part. “How much worth my while? I can pick an easier opponent, if she’s really so lucky.”

The man regarded him with contempt. “Is that what you came for? An easy opponent?”

Monk smiled back at him, showing his teeth wolfishly. “It doesn’t hurt, now and again.” But his expression conceded that what mattered was the game. This conversation might be his only opportunity to find out anything useful. “She reminds me of Elissa,” he said to the man.

The man gave a sharp bark of amusement. “Except this one wins. Elissa lost. Oh, she won occasionally; you have to see to it that they do, or they don’t come back. But this one wins too often. I could do without her. She was good for a while. People liked watching her, pretty thing, and she encouraged others. Time to get rid of her, though. Some bloke hanging around after her. Could be her husband. Don’t want any more trouble. Not good for business.”

“Husband?” Then suddenly, like a rush of ice, Monk realized why she looked so familiar. Certainly there was a resemblance to Elissa Beck, the same slender body, the same soft dark hair, but this woman’s face was gentler, prettier, just without the passionate, haunting beauty he had seen in Funeral in Blue . She was less marked by the triumphs and tragedies of life. She was his sister-in-law, Imogen Latterly.

He found his mouth too dry to answer. Did Hester know? Was this what she was afraid of?

There was another game, and this time Imogen lost, and instantly played again.

He turned away quickly, suddenly realizing that if she looked up she would recognize him, too. He found his voice at last. “Her husband plays?” he said in amazement. He could not imagine Charles Latterly playing anything that involved the slightest risk. Surely his father’s death and the circumstances around it had driven every gamble of even the mildest sort from his mind?

“No, he was following her,” the man said tartly. His respect for Monk’s perspicacity had taken a sharp turn downward.

Monk cursed his emotions for getting in the way of his professionalism. He must make up the lost ground. “Not in here?” he assumed, forcing himself to smile again. “Jealous sort, is he? Or worried for his pocket?”

The man shrugged. “Could be either. More like jealous, I’d say.”

“Seen him often?” Monk asked as casually as he could. In spite of himself he was aware that his voice had an edge.

“Two or three times.” The man looked at him with more intent. “Why? What’s it to you?”

Monk returned his look with contempt.

The man lifted his shoulders even higher. “Your affair! Go after her if you want. But she’s trouble. Don’t know that she’s clever, but she’s lucky most of the time. And he looked pretty close to the edge, the husband.”

Monk stared ahead of him, masking the dread inside him. “Did he? When was that?” He watched the dice without seeing them. He did not want the answer, but he had to know.

“Couple of times,” the man replied. “Still, it’s your affair. But if you cause any trouble here, I’ll have you thrown out. You can believe that.”

“Get a lot of angry husbands, do you?” Monk asked, turning back to face him but still hiding his face from Imogen. “Like Elissa’s husband, for example?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions? Why do you care? Woman’s dead. I don’t know who did it. Allardyce, probably. Lovers’ quarrel, I expect. He was obsessed with her. Comes in ’ere to draw all sorts, but ’specially her. Couldn’t take his eyes off her when she was playing.”

Monk said nothing. It was more than he wanted to know, and yet there seemed a kind of inevitability about it, once he had realized who Imogen was.

He fingered the money in his pocket. Now it was soiled, and he wanted to escape the greedy, excited faces, the closeness of bodies pressed forward across the tables, eyes watching the cards, the dice, hardly seeing people. It was winners and losers, nothing else. He turned on his heel and pushed past the man, leaving him startled, not understanding. He reached the door and went out through the butcher’s shop into the early-evening street, gulping in the air, heavy and laden with the smells of refuse and manure, but also the decent sounds of people going about their work, making things, carrying them, buying and selling.

He walked as quickly as he could along to the Gray’s Inn Road and, as soon as the traffic allowed him, across it. He saw the gingerbread man in the distance, but ignored him this time.

He was going towards the police station. Even if he slowed his pace he would be there in half an hour. Runcorn might not be alone now, but eventually he would be. Putting off the time would alter nothing. He still had to decide whether to tell him what Hester had discovered about Kristian, or what he had now confirmed for himself. There was no doubt Kristian had both the time and the means to have murdered Elissa, and he had an extremely pressing motive.

Why did Monk hesitate? Did he believe Kristian guilty? The fact that he even asked the question told him the answer. If he could have dismissed it, then he would have. He would not even be thinking about it. He would go straight to Runcorn and tell him that these were the facts, but they meant nothing. They would have to look further.