Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

“With listening to stories of the uprising from those who fought in it,” Monk answered. “And you are quite correct, they confirm what Mr. Niemann told you. Kristian Beck fought with courage, intelligence and dedication to the cause of greater freedom for his people.” He chose his words carefully. “He cared deeply for those he led, but he was not sentimental, nor did he favor those who were his friends above those who were less close to him.”

“He was impartial?” Mills asked.

Monk would not be moved. “I meant what I said, sir. He did not favor one above another because of his own feelings.”

Mills smiled. “Of course. I apologize. No doubt you heard many tales of great courage and self-sacrifice, of heroism and tragedy?”

“Yes.” Why did he ask that? What had he heard? What did he suspect?

“And did you follow them up, pursue them to be certain what degrees of truth they held?” Mills shrugged very slightly. “We all know that terrible conflicts where there are profound losses can give rise to legends that we. . embellish. . afterwards.”

“Of course I followed them up!” Monk said tartly. “One-sided, they are of little use.”

“Naturally.” Mills nodded. “I would not have expected less of you. With whom did you follow them, specifically?” The question was gently put, almost casually, and yet the silence in the room invested it with unavoidable importance.

“With Dr. Beck’s family still living in Vienna, and with a priest who had helped the fighters with comfort and the offices of the church,” Monk replied.

“Offices of the church? Perhaps you would explain?”

“The sacraments: confession, absolution.”

“A Roman Catholic priest?”

“Yes.”

“A number of the revolutionaries were Roman Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

Monk suddenly felt guarded, uncomfortable. “No.”

“The others were Protestant?”

“I didn’t ask.” That was an evasion of the truth. Would Mills see it in his face?

“And yet you know they were not Catholic?” Mills persisted.

Pendreigh rose to his feet, frowning. “My lord, can this possibly be relevant? My learned friend seems to be fishing without knowing what it is he seeks to catch!” He spread his hands wide. “What has the religion of the revolutionaries to do with anything? They fight side by side, loyal to each other, united by a common cause. We have already heard that Kristian Beck played no favorites!”

The judge looked at Mills. “Since you did not apparently know of this priest before Mr. Monk spoke of him, Mr. Mills, what are you seeking to show?”

“Merely confirmation, my lord.” Mills bowed and turned, raising his face to Monk, in the stand. “Is that also what you learned, Mr. Monk, that all were treated alike, Catholic, Protestant, atheist and Jew? Kristian Beck treated all with exact equality?”

Could Mills possibly know about Hanna Jakob? Or was he so sensitive to nuance, skilled to judge, that he had perceived something, even though he could not know what it was? What had he learned from Max Niemann in that short conversation before court this morning? Runcorn’s face kept coming back to Monk, his quiet, almost accusatory insistence on the truth.

Dare he lie? Did he want to? If he looked at Hester now, or Callandra, Mills would see it. The jury would see it.

“You hesitate, Mr. Monk,” Mills observed. “Are you uncertain?”

“Of course I’m uncertain. I wasn’t there. I’m only working on what others tell me.”

“Exactly. And what did this priest tell you? Has he a name one may call him by?”

“Father Geissner.”

“What did Father Geissner tell you, Mr. Monk? It cannot be secret under the bonds of the confessional, or he would not have repeated it to you. I assume you were honest with him as to who you were and what your purpose was in enquiring?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Then tell the court what he told you, if you please.”

Pendreigh rose to protest, and sat down again without having said anything. The fact that he was unhappy, but had no legal cause to object, did more harm than good. Monk saw it in the jurors’ faces.

“Mr. Monk, you must answer the question,” the judge ordered, although there was courtesy in his voice, even some sympathy.

Monk was the last witness. There was no one else to call, no other suspect to suggest. They were all but beaten. And yet he still could not bring himself to believe that Kristian would have killed Sarah Mackeson, even to save himself. It was the act of a coward, an innately selfish man, and every evidence there was, whether from friend or stranger, said Kristian had never been that.

“Mr. Monk!” the judge prompted again. “I do not wish to place you in contempt of the court, nor to allow the jury to assume that whatever it is you learned is to the discredit of the accused, so much so that you, his friend, and employed by his defense, would rather suffer the penalties of defying the court than to tell us.”

Monk made the decision with the same wild sense of despair that he might have felt while overbalancing off the ledge of a cliff. It was almost a physical dizziness, a knowledge of disaster rushing up towards him. And yet they had nothing to lose-except loyalties, dreams, illusions of what had been good.

The judge was about to speak again.

Monk dared not look at Kristian, or at Pendreigh. He would face Hester later.

The court was in stiff, scarcely breathing silence, every face staring up at him.

“He told me about Hanna Jakob, who was a member of Dr. Beck’s group in the uprising.” Monk’s voice fell into the waiting room like a stone into dead water. It was as if no one understood the meaning of his words. Even Pendreigh’s pale face was completely blank.

Mills frowned. “And what meaning has that for us, Mr. Monk? What caused you to hesitate so long before committing yourself to an answer?”

“It is a tragedy I would rather not have disclosed,” Monk replied, staring straight ahead of him at the carving on the wall below the dock.

The waiting prickled in the air like tiny needles in the mind.

It was too late to turn back. Maybe it was reasonable doubt. It was all there was left, no matter how many dreams it shattered. “She was in love with Kristian Beck,” Monk said softly. “As was Elissa von Leibnitz. They were both brave, generous and young. Elissa was English, and one of the most beautiful of women. Hanna was Austrian. . and Jewish.”

No one moved. There was no sound, and yet the emotion in the room seemed almost to burst at the walls.

“They were both fighters for the revolution,” Monk went on. “Because of her Jewish background, Hanna knew that many families, before the emancipation of the Jews, when they were still forbidden many occupations, excluded from society, denied opportunities and living in constant fear, had changed their Jewish names to German ones. They had taken the Catholic faith, not from conviction but in order to give their children a better life. The Baruch family was one such.” He breathed in deeply. “They changed their name to Beck. Three generations later, the great-grandchildren had no idea they had ever been anything but good Austrian Catholics.”

At last he looked up at Kristian, and saw him start forward, disbelief blank in his face, his eyes wide, aghast, as if the world he knew was disintegrating in his grasp.

“No one knows the conversation between the two women,” Monk went on. “But Elissa was made aware that the man she loved, and had presumed to be of her own people, was actually of her rival’s, although he himself did not know it.” He was aware of faces in the room below him craning around and upward, staring.