Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

So, Fermin Thorpe stood in the high witness box, smiling, a tight, narrow little grimace, staring down at Pendreigh in the middle of the floor, and the judge and jury waited for them to begin; impatiently, it was time-wasting.

Pendreigh smiled. He understood vanity and he knew his own power.

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said cautiously. “So the court can understand the value of your testimony, the years of experience you have had upon which to base any judgment, both of men and of medicine, perhaps you would tell me the details of your career?”

There was a sigh of impatience from the judge, and Mills half rose to his feet, but it would be pointless to object, and he knew it. Pendreigh had every right to establish his witness, to give every ounce of weight to his testimony that he could.

Thorpe was grateful. It showed in the easing of his body, the way he relaxed his shoulders and began to speak, at some length, of his achievements.

Pendreigh nodded without once interrupting him or hastening him on. Finally, when they came to the point of his offering an opinion on Kristian’s character, Hester found herself aching with the tension in her body. Her shoulders were stiff, her hands knotted so tightly her nails hurt her palms. There had been no alternative, but still she was sick with fear. This was Thorpe’s chance to savor revenge. Had Pendreigh the skill to control him? She dared not look at Callandra.

“So you have worked with many physicians and surgeons and had the responsibility for their behavior, their skill, ultimately even their employment by the hospital?” Pendreigh said graciously.

“Yes. Yes, I have,” Thorpe answered with satisfaction. “I suppose you could say that in the end it was all my responsibility.”

“An extraordinary burden for one man,” Pendreigh agreed deferentially. “And yet you never flinched from it.”

Mills stood up. “My lord, I think we are all agreed that Mr. Thorpe has a great responsibility, and that he has discharged it with skill and conscience. I feel we are now wasting the court’s time by going over that which is already established.”

“I have to agree, Mr. Pendreigh,” the judge said a trifle sharply. “Please ask your questions regarding Mr. Thorpe’s estimate of Dr. Beck’s character, not his medical skills. We have no doubt of them. You have given them to us abundantly over the last few days.” His impatience and lack of sympathy were only too apparent.

“Yes, my lord, of course,” Pendreigh conceded. He turned to Thorpe. “You have always selected your staff with the utmost care, not only for their medical skill but for their moral character as well, as is your charge. May the court assume that in keeping Dr. Beck you did not alter those high standards, or make any exception?”

Thorpe was caught. He had been planning to damn Kristian, to taste a very public revenge for past defeats, but he could not do so now without ruining himself. The anger of it, the momentary indecision even at this date, as he saw his victory sliding away, was all so clear in his face Hester could have spoken his thoughts aloud for him.

“Mr. Thorpe?” Pendreigh frowned. “It is surely an easy question. Did you maintain the same high standards as you always have in keeping Dr. Beck in your employ and allowing him to operate on the sick and vulnerable men and women who came to your hospital for help. . or did you, for some personal reason, allow a man you did not trust to keep such a position?”

“No! Of course I didn’t!” Thorpe said, then instantly realized he had been forced into committing himself. He flushed dark red.

“Thank you,” Pendreigh accepted, moving backwards and indicating that Mills might now question the witness.

Mills stood up, dapper and confident. He opened his mouth to speak to Thorpe.

Hester froze. Thorpe was bursting to undo what he had said, his eyes pleading with Mills somehow to create the chance for him.

The entire room was silent. If only it mattered as much as it seemed to. Whatever Thorpe said would make little real difference. It was emotional; the facts were not touched.

“Mr. Thorpe,” Mills began.

“Yes?” Thorpe leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box, staring down at Mills below him.

“Thank you for sparing us your time,” Mills said flatly. “I don’t think I can ask you to add to what you have said. Your loyalty does you credit.”

It was sarcastic. It was also a tactical error.

“It is not loyalty!” Thorpe said furiously. “I loathe the man! But personal feelings did not alter my judgment that he is an excellent and dedicated surgeon, and a man of high moral character. Otherwise I would not have kept him in the hospital.” He did not have to add that if he could have found an excuse to dismiss him he would have taken it; it was only too unpleasantly evident in his furious bright eyes and snarling mouth.

“Thank you,” Mills murmured, returning to his seat. “I have no further questions, my lord.”

“What did you learn from the Father?” Ferdi asked Monk eagerly on the following morning as they sat over coffee in one of the numerous cafes. Vienna served more kinds of coffee than Monk knew existed, with or without chocolate added, with or without cream, sometimes whipped cream, or hot milk, or laced with rum. This morning the wind scythed in from the Hungarian plains, touching his skin like a knife, and Monk felt an even deeper coldness inside him. He had ordered coffee with chocolate and thick cream for both of them.

Ferdi was waiting for an answer. Monk had wrestled long into the night, much of it when he should have been asleep, worrying how much to tell the boy of the truth he was now certain of, even though he had no proof and no one who would testify. Did it really have anything to do with Elissa’s death?

“Mr. Monk?” Ferdi prompted, putting down his coffee and staring across the table.

He needed Ferdi’s help. “He didn’t exactly tell me,” Monk answered slowly. “He knew many things about the time, the people, but some of them were told to him under the seal of the confessional.”

“So you learned nothing?” Ferdi said, his young face filling with disappointment. “I. . I was sure you had discovered something terrible. You seem. . different, as if all kinds of things had changed. . feelings. .” He stopped, confused and a little embarrassed that he had intruded on inner pain without thinking.

Monk smiled very slightly and stared at the cream slowly melting into his coffee. “You can guess this much from my face, and my manner?”

Ferdi hesitated. “Well. . I thought I could.”

“You can,” Monk agreed. “And if I did not deny it, and you asked me questions, made good guesses as to what it was I know, would you say that I had told you anything?” He looked up and met Ferdi’s eyes.

“Oh!” Ferdi’s face filled with understanding. “You mean the Father couldn’t tell you, but you know from his manner, his feelings, that you were right. I see.” His eyes clouded. “And what was it? It was hard, wasn’t it? Something terrible about your friend, Dr. Beck?”

“No, only slightly shabby, and he knew it and was ashamed. What was tragic and destructive”-he could not find a word powerful enough for the darkness he felt-“was about Elissa von Leibnitz. We didn’t live here in those days, we haven’t stood in her place, so we shouldn’t judge easily, and God knows, I have done many things of which I am ashamed. .”

“What?” Ferdi sounded almost frightened. “What did she do?”

Monk looked at him very steadily. “She was in love with Dr. Beck, and she knew that the Jewish girl Hanna Jakob was in love with him also, and she too was brave and generous. . and perhaps she was funny or kind. . I don’t know. Elissa betrayed her to the authorities, who tortured her to death.” He saw the color drain from Ferdi’s skin, leaving his face ashen and his eyes hollow. “She expected Hanna to break, to tell them where the others were, and she saw to it that they escaped long before they could have been caught,” he went on. “She believed Hanna would crack, and only be hurt, not killed. I don’t think she wanted anyone killed. . just broken. . shamed.”