Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

She should hurry. They could bring in the verdict at any time, and then it might be too late. She turned and began to climb back up the steps.

She did not know if he would even wish to see her, but she must try. Whatever happened, and she refused to think it through to the end, he must know now, before the verdict, that she believed in his innocence.

She had feared he could have killed Elissa. The provocation was so great it was too easy to understand a moment of fear overcoming a lifetime’s morality and restraint. The act could be over and irretrievable in moments, before the brain had caught up with the action of the hands.

But she did not believe he could then have gone on and deliberately killed Sarah Mackeson. No fear whatever would have driven the man she knew to do that. She must look him in the face and he must see in her eyes that it was so.

“Can’t give you long, ma’am,” the guard said reluctantly, his voice tense, his eyes glancing back to be sure he was not observed by any higher authority. He was doing this as an act of compassion, and it made him nervous.

“Thank you,” she accepted sincerely.

“I can give you ten minutes, that’s all,” he warned.

“Thank you,” she said again. Ten minutes seemed desperately short, but then ten hours would have been, too. Whatever the time, there was always an end to it, a parting which might be the last. If that was what she had, then she must make every second of value.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open with a scrape of iron on stone. “Visitor for yer!” he said, and allowed her to go in.

Kristian was standing, staring up towards the high window where a square of gray daylight was visible. He turned in surprise, but when he saw Callandra his expression was closed, unreadable. He had no idea what to expect from her, and he was exhausted in mind and spirit. He had no reserves with which to face her needs or doubts. Every certainty had been torn from him, even his own identity was no longer what he had believed. His heritage had been an illusion, and the reality was alien, worse than alien, because it was known and faintly, subconsciously, held to be inferior. He was no longer one of “us.” Without his having changed or done anything, he was inexplicably one of “them.”

The wife he had admired for her courage and honor had committed a fearful act of betrayal, and kept it secret from everyone, seeing him, talking to him every day, and hiding it.

Callandra knew he was not able to discuss any of it. As happens to someone who is desperately ill, everything in the world had changed and he was no longer supple or strong enough to react to it.

She smiled at him, as if it were a normal day. Should she say anything that mattered, say that she believed in him? That it made no difference whatever to her whether he was a Jew or a Christian? That she was not outraged by Elissa’s acts, nor did she hold him accountable for how he reacted now?

He met her eyes, his own hollow, skin blue around the sockets as if he were physically ill. He was searching her, and not able to find the words to ask, perhaps not knowing whether it was unfair, expecting of her something she could not give. Perhaps he was even afraid of the answer. Was she here from pity, loyalty, anything that was half a lie, and entirely a hurt?

She made herself smile at him fully, without reservation, and felt the tears brim her eyes. “I cannot imagine what you must be suffering,” she heard herself say without thinking first. “Or how you can absorb what you have heard. But families are not who you are, good or bad. You cannot judge why they did what they did. We were not there to see the passions or know for whom the sacrifice was made. What you believe, how you behave towards others, and within your own truth, is who you are. No one can alter that except you. And you should not try, because who you are is good.”

He bent his head to hide the well of emotion in his eyes.

“Is it?” he said, his voice choked.

“Yes,” she answered with certainty. “Maybe you were not always wise with Elissa, or even fair to her boredom or lack of purpose. But you cannot have known the guilt within her, because it sprang from an act beyond your imagination.”

He looked up suddenly. “I did not kill her!”

“I know,” she answered, and he saw in her face that she did know. She smiled very slightly. “I never imagined that you could have killed the artists’ model, no matter what provocation there was to hurt Elissa, or to stop her destruction of both of you.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His skin was only just warm. She ached to do something more, to reach him in an infinitely comforting way and take some of his pain and tiredness to herself, and bear it for him, but she could already hear the guard’s footsteps and she knew time was up.

She stepped back so their intimacy should not be intruded upon. She would not say good-bye; she would not use those words. She just looked at Kristian for a moment, then as the door opened, she faced the guard and thanked him for his courtesy. She left without looking back or speaking again. Her throat was aching too much and she was blind with tears anyway.

Hester and Monk also left the courtroom and went outside into the hallway.

“Where is Callandra?” Monk asked, looking around and failing to see her. He took a step forward as if to search, and Hester put her hand on his arm to stop him.

“No,” she said quietly. “She’ll find us if she needs us. I think she may prefer to be alone.”

He stopped, turning to meet her eyes. For a moment he seemed about to question her, then he saw her certainty and changed his mind.

People were milling all around them, trying to decide whether to leave and find supper, or even to go home. Would the jury return tonight? Surely not. It was too late, after six already.

Hester looked at Monk. “Could they still come in tonight?” she asked, not knowing if she wanted the verdict sooner or if it would be even worse to wait all night. “Is it better if. .”

“I don’t know,” he answered gently. “Nobody does.”

She closed her eyes. “No, of course not. I’m sorry.” She started to push her way towards a clearer space a few yards from the door and was just short of the entrance when Charles came striding towards her. His hair was falling forward and his cheeks were flushed.

“Have you seen Imogen?” he demanded, urgency making his voice rough-edged. “Is she with you?”

“No,” she answered, trying to ignore the fear she felt in him. “Did she say she was looking for me?”

“No. . I thought. .” Charles stared around, searching for sight of Imogen.

“Perhaps she has gone to the cloakroom,” Hester suggested. “Is she all right? Was she a little faint, or distressed? It was very close in there. Shall I go and look?”

“Please!” Charles accepted instantly. “She was. .” He swore under his breath, his jaw clenched.

“What?” Monk demanded. “What is it? Charles?”

Hester saw in her mind’s eye Imogen’s white face and staring eyes. “Why did you come?” She caught Charles’s sleeve. “Not for me!”

“No.” Charles looked wretched. “I thought if she heard what had happened to Elissa Beck, the tragedy and the waste of it, the terrible way she died, she might be shocked enough never to gamble again. I thought if I brought her today. . just at the end. . the summing up. .”

“It was a good idea,” Monk agreed vehemently.

“Was it?” Charles seemed almost to be pleading for assurance. “I’m afraid I might have frightened her too much. She excused herself when the judge adjourned, and I thought she had just gone to. . but that was fifteen minutes ago, and I haven’t seen her since.” Again, as if he could not help himself, he craned around to search for her.