Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

“I’ll do all I can,” he said to Kristian. “We all will.”

Kristian nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Monk left London on the last train to Dover, so he could catch the first boat of the morning across to Calais and on through Paris to Vienna. It was a journey which would take him three days and eight hours, assuming all went well and he at no time got lost or met with any delays or mechanical faults. A second-class ticket cost eight pounds, five shillings, six pence.

At any other time the journey would have fascinated him. He would have been absorbed by the countryside, the towns he passed, the architecture of the buildings, and the dress and manners of the people. His fellow passengers would have interested him particularly, even though he did not understand their conversation and could deduce only what observation and knowledge of human nature told him. But his mind was intent upon what he would find in Vienna, and upon trying to formulate the questions he should ask in order to learn some truth through the mist of heroic memory.

The journey seemed endless, and he lost the sense of time and place. He was imprisoned with strangers in a padded iron room which swayed and jolted through alternate gray daylight and intense darkness as the late autumn evenings closed in. Sometimes it was clear, sometimes rain pattered against the windows, blurring the view of farmland, villages, bare forests.

He slept fitfully. He found it difficult because there was no space to lie, and after the first night and day his muscles protested against the constant inactivity. He could speak to no one because it seemed all the other passengers in his coach understood only French or German. He exchanged polite nods and smiles, but it did little to break the monotony.

His mind raced over possibilities of success and failure, all the difficulties that might arise to prevent his learning anything of use, above all that he was ignorant not only of the language but of the culture of the people.

And what would success be? That he could prove Niemann guilty? That he could find and take back to London something at least to raise a reasonable doubt? What, for example? No one was going to confess, not in any form that could be used. Sworn testimony of a quarrel, money, or revenge? Would that be sufficient, along with the evidence that Niemann had been in London?

And was Monk taking the chance of accusing and perhaps slandering a man who was innocent?

All that turned over and over in his mind during the long days and interrupted nights as the train crossed France and made its way over the border into Austria, and finally through the city outskirts into the heart of Vienna.

Monk climbed to his feet and retrieved his luggage. His back and legs ached, his mouth was dry and his head pounded with weariness. He longed to smell fresh air and to be able to walk more than a few swaying steps without bumping into everything and having to stand aside as someone passed him.

He alighted onto the platform amid clouds of steam and the rattle and clang of doors, shouted orders, greetings, demands for porters and assistance, little of which he could understand. He grasped his single case and, feeling profoundly lost, he started to walk along the platform, patting his inside pocket again to assure himself his money and letters from Callandra and Pendreigh were still there. He looked for the way out to the street, to begin the struggle to find a cab of some sort with a driver who would understand his request to be taken to the British Embassy.

He was crumpled and dirty, which he loathed, and tired beyond the point of thinking clearly, when at last he was deposited on the steps of Her Britannic Majesty’s Embassy to the Court of the Emperor Franz Josef of Austro-Hungaria. He paid the driver in Austrian shillings; from the startled look on his face, Monk gave him far more than he deserved. He climbed up the steps, his case in his hand, knowing he looked like some desperate Englishman fallen on hard times and begging for assistance. It galled his pride.

It was another hour and a half before his letters gained him an audience with a senior aide to the ambassador, who explained that His Excellency was heavily engaged in matters of state for the next two days at the least. However, if a guide and interpreter were all Monk required, no doubt something could be done. He looked down at Pendreigh’s letter, spread open on the desk in front of him, and Monk thought he saw more respect in the man’s face than affection. It did not surprise him. Pendreigh was a formidable man, a good friend perhaps, but a bad enemy for certain. But then, no doubt the same would have been said of Monk himself. He recognized the impatience, the ambition to assess and to judge.

“Thank you,” he accepted stiffly.

“I will send someone in the morning,” the aide replied. “Where are you staying?”

Monk glanced down at his suitcase and then at the man, his eyebrows raised very slightly. The question had been intended as patronizing, and they both knew it.

The aide blushed very slightly. “The Hotel Bristol is very good. It is not inspiring from the outside, but it is beautiful inside, especially if you like marble. The food is excellent. It is first in the Karntner Ring. They speak excellent English, and will be delighted to help you.”

“Thank you,” Monk said graciously, relieved to have Callandra’s money, and Pendreigh’s, so that the charge was immaterial to him. “I shall be obliged if whoever is good enough to assist me would present themselves there at nine o’clock at the latest, so I can begin this extremely urgent matter as soon as possible. You are no doubt aware of the tragic death of Mr. Pendreigh’s daughter, Elissa von Leibnitz, who was something of a heroine in this city.” He was highly satisfied to see from the man’s blush that he was not.

“Of course,” the aide said soberly. “Please convey my condolences to the family.”

“Of course,” Monk muttered, picking up his case and going out into the distinctly chilly night air, aware of the sharp east wind like a slap on his skin.

He was up and breakfasted early the next morning, and was waiting, his temper already raw, when a fair-haired youth of no more than fourteen or fifteen approached him in the magnificent marble lobby of the hotel. He was slender, and his face had a freshly scrubbed look, probably occasioned by the weather outside. He looked more like a schoolboy than a servant on an errand.

“Mr. Monk?” he asked with a certain eagerness which instantly confirmed Monk’s impression. He had probably come from the embassy to say that his father, or brother, could assist Monk in the afternoon, or worse still, tomorrow.

Monk answered him rather curtly. “Yes? Have you a message for me?”

“Not exactly, sir.” His blue eyes were bright but he maintained his self-possession. “My name is Ferdinand Gerhardt, sir. The British ambassador is my uncle. I believe you would like someone to guide you around Vienna and interpret for you on occasion. I should be glad to offer my services.” He stood to attention, polite, eager, a curious mixture of English schoolboy and young Austrian aristocrat. He did not quite click his heels.

Monk was furious. They had sent him a child, as if he wished to while away a week or so seeing the sights. It would be inexcusable to be rude, but he could not waste either time or Callandra’s money in evasion.

“I am not sure what you were told,” he said with as much good grace as he could manage. “But I am not here on holiday. A woman has been murdered in London, and I am seeking information about her past here in Vienna, and friends of hers who may be able to lead me to the truth of what happened. If I fail, an innocent man may be hanged, and soon.”