Funeral in Blue

by Anne Perry

  Monk put his hands in his pockets and relaxed. However, he did not yet take the liberty of sitting down uninvited, which irked him. He would once have sat as a matter of course. “That’s unfortunate,” he observed mildly.

  Runcorn looked at him with suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “Be easier to conduct an investigation without newspaper writers trampling all over the place or the commissioner expecting results before you begin,” Monk replied.

  Runcorn paled. “I know that, Monk! I don’t need you to tell me! Either say something helpful or go back to finding lost dogs, or whatever it is you do these days.” Then instantly his eyes were hot with regret, but he could not take back the words, and Monk was the last man to whom he would admit error, let alone ask for help.

  At another time Monk might have relished Runcorn’s discomfort, but now he needed his cooperation. However much they both disliked it, neither could see how to achieve what he wished without the other.

  Runcorn was the first to yield. He picked up a pen, although he had no paper in front of him. His fingers gripped it hard. “Well, do you know anything useful, or not?” he demanded.

  Monk was caught out by the directness of the question. He saw the recognition of it in Runcorn’s eyes. He had to allow him to taste the small victory. It was the only way he could take the next step. “Not yet,” he admitted. “Tell me what you have so far, and if I can help, then I will.” Now he sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and waiting.

  Runcorn swallowed his temper and began. “Number twelve, Acton Street. Cleaning woman found two bodies this morning when she went in around half past eight. Both roughly in their late thirties, the sergeant guessed, and both killed by having their necks broken. Looks like there was a struggle. Carpet rumpled up, chair on its side.”

  “Do you know which woman was killed first?” Monk cut in.

  “No way to tell.” There was resentment in Runcorn’s voice but none in his face. He wanted Monk’s help, whatever the emotions between them; he knew he needed it, and at the moment that overrode all past history. “The other woman was apparently Allardyce’s model, and she sort of half lived there.” He let the sentence hang with all its ugly judgments.

  Monk did not skirt around it. “So it’s going to look like jealousy of some sort.”

  Runcorn pulled the corners of his mouth down. “The model was half undressed,” he conceded. “And Allardyce was nowhere to be found this morning. He turned up about ten and said he’d been out all night. Haven’t had time yet to check if that’s true.” He put the pen down again.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Monk observed. “If he wasn’t there, why did Mrs. Beck go for a sitting? If she arrived and found him gone, is she the sort of woman to have sat around talking to the model?”

  “Not if that’s all she went for.” Runcorn bit his lip, his face full of misery. He did not need to explain the pitfalls for a policeman faced with proving that the daughter of an eminent figure was having an affair, one so sordid in its nature that it had ended in a double murder, with an artist.

  There would also be no way whatever of avoiding dragging Kristian into it. No man would take lightly his wife’s betraying him in such a way. In spite of himself, Monk felt a twinge of pity for Runcorn, the more so knowing his pretensions to social acceptability and the long, hard journey he had made towards being respected, rather than merely tolerated, by those he admired. He would never achieve what he wished, and it would continue to hurt him. Monk had the polish in his manner, the elegance of dress to pass for a gentleman, partly because he did not care if he succeeded or not. Runcorn cared intensely, and it betrayed him every time.

  “Would it help if I were to see what I can learn in a round-about way?” Monk offered casually. “Through friends, rather than by direct questioning?” He watched Runcorn struggle with his pride, his dislike of Monk, and his appreciation of just how awkward the situation could become and his own inadequacy to deal with it. He was trying to gauge what help Monk would be and how willing he was to try. What did he want out of it, and how far could he be trusted?

  Monk waited.

  “I suppose if you know the family it might avoid embarrassment,” Runcorn said at last. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his hands were clenched on the desk. “Be careful,” he added warningly, looking up at Monk directly at last. “It may not be anything like it seems, and we don’t want to make fools of ourselves. And you’re not official!”

  “Of course not,” Monk agreed, keeping the amusement out of his expression, bitter as it was. He knew why Runcorn did not trust him. Given the circumstances, he would have despised him if he had. It was a large enough admission of his vulnerability that he had confided in Monk at all. “I suppose you’re looking for witnesses? Anyone seen near the place? Where does Allardyce claim to have been?”

  Runcorn’s face reflected his contempt for the unorthodox and bohemian life. “He says he was out drinking with friends in Southwark all night, looking for some kind of . . . of new light, he said. Whatever that may mean. Bit odd, in the middle of the night, if you ask me.”

  “And do these friends agree?” Monk enquired.

  “Too busy looking for new light themselves to know,” Runcorn replied with a twist of his mouth. “But I’ve got men following it up, and we’ll find something sooner or later. Acton Street’s busy enough—evenings, anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’d like to see the bodies? Not that the surgeon has much yet.”

  “Yes,” Monk agreed, trying not to sound eager. His affection for Callandra and his regard for Kristian made it imperative he do what he could to help, but it also made it a personal tragedy too close to his own emotions.

  Runcorn stood up, hesitated a moment as if still undecided exactly how to proceed, then went to the door. Monk followed him down the stairs and out past the desk. It was less than half a mile to the morgue, and in the density of traffic, easier to walk than try to find a hansom.

  The pavements were crowded and the noises of hooves and wheels, the shouts of drivers and street hawkers, the creak and rattle of harnesses filled the air. Sweat and horse manure were sharp in the nostrils, and they could go only a few yards before having to alter course to avoid bumping into people.

  They walked in silence, excused from trying to converse by the conditions, and both glad of it. They passed a seller of peppermint water on the first corner, and had to wait several moments for a lull in traffic before they could cross, dodging between carts, carriages and drays, and a costermonger’s barrow being pushed, oblivious of pedestrians. Runcorn swore under his breath and leaped for the curb.

  A newsboy was shouting the headlines about Garibaldi’s campaign in Naples and the fact that there had been no further major battles in America since the bloody encounter at Bull Run two and a half months ago. No one was paying him the slightest attention. The few bystanders who had no urgent business were listening to the running patterer whose entertainment value was far higher.

  “Double murder in Acton Street!” he called in his singsong voice. “Two ’alf-naked women found broken-necked in artist’s rooms! Stop a few minutes an’ I’ll tell yer all abaht it!”

  Half a dozen people accepted his invitation, and coins chinked in his cup.

  Runcorn swore again and plunged on, pushing his way between a large City gentleman in pinstriped trousers who blushed at being caught listening to the gossip, and a thin clerk clutching a briefcase who only wanted to attract the attention of the ham sandwich seller.

  “See what I mean?” Runcorn said furiously as they reached the morgue and went up the steps. “Story’s got arms and legs even before we’ve said a word to anyone. I don’t know who tells them these things! Seem to breathe it in the air.” He pushed the door open and Monk followed behind him, tasting the sweet-and-sour odor of death, which was always made worse by carbolic and wet stone. He saw from the tightness in Runcorn’s face that it affected him the same way.

  The police surgeon was a d
ark, stocky man with a voice like velvet. He shook his head as soon as he saw Runcorn. “Too soon,” he said, waving a hand. “Can’t tell you any more than I did this morning. Think I’m a magician?”

  “Just want to look,” Runcorn replied, walking past him towards the door at the other end of the room.

  The surgeon regarded Monk curiously, raising one eyebrow so high it made his face lopsided.

  Runcorn ignored him. He chose not to explain himself. “Come on,” he said to Monk abruptly.

  Monk caught up with him and went into the room where bodies were kept until they could be released to the undertaker. He must have been in places like this all his professional life, although he could remember only the last five years of it. It always knotted his stomach. He would not like to think he could ever have come to such a place with indifference.

  Runcorn moved over to one of the tables and pulled the sheet off the face of the body, holding it carefully to show only as far as the neck and shoulders. She was a tall woman, her flesh smooth and blemishless. Her features were handsome rather than beautiful, and the bones of her cheek and brow suggested her eyes had been remarkable, and now her lashes stood out against the pallor of her skin. Her thick hair was tawny red-brown and lay about her like a russet pillow.

  “Sarah Mackeson,” Runcorn said quietly, keeping his face averted, his voice catching a little as he tried to keep emotion out of it.

  Monk looked up at him.

  Runcorn cleared his throat. He was embarrassed. Monk wondered what thoughts were going through his mind, what imagination as to this woman’s life, the passions that had moved her and made her whatever she was. Artists’ models were by definition disreputable to him, and yet whatever he meant to feel, he was moved by her death. There was no spirit, no consciousness in what was left of her, but Runcorn seemed discomforted by her closeness, the reality of her body.

  A few years ago Monk might have mocked him for that. Now he was annoyed because it made Runcorn also more human, and he wanted to retain his dislike for him. It was what he was used to.

  “Well?” Runcorn demanded. “Seen enough? Her neck was broken. Want to look at the bruises on her arms?”

  “Of course,” Monk replied curtly.

  Runcorn moved the sheet so her arms were shown, but very carefully held it not to reveal her breasts. Without wishing to, Monk liked him the better for that, too. It didn’t occur to him that it could be prudery rather than respect. There was something in the way Runcorn held the cloth, the touch of his fingers on it, that belied the idea.

  Monk bent and looked at the very slight indentations on the smooth flesh, barely discolored.

  “Dead too quickly for it to mark much,” Runcorn explained unnecessarily.

  “I know that,” Monk said. “Looks as if she fought a bit.” He picked up one of the limp hands and looked to see if she might have scratched her killer, but none of the nails were broken, nor was there any skin or blood underneath them. He put it down and looked at the other, finding nothing there either.

  Runcorn watched him silently, and when he had finished, pulled up the sheet again and walked over to the next table. He lifted the sheet from the face and shoulders of the woman there.

  Monk’s first reaction was to be angry that Runcorn had made such a disturbing mistake. Why couldn’t he have been careful enough to have got the right body? This could not be Kristian Beck’s wife. She was very slender, and must have been almost as tall as Kristian. Her cloud of dark hair was untouched by gray, and her face, even without the spark of life in it, was beautiful. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, and yet haunted by an element of passion that remained even now in this soulless place with its damp air and smells of carbolic and death.

  He did not care in the slightest what Runcorn thought of her, yet he had to look up at him to see.

  Runcorn was watching him. Through the trouble and the uncertainty in his eyes there was a sudden spark of triumph. “You didn’t know her, did you? You were expecting someone else. Don’t lie to me, Monk!”

  “I didn’t say I knew her,” Monk replied. “I know her husband.”

  The momentary satisfaction died from Runcorn’s face. “He’s still too shocked to make any sense, but we’ll have to question him again. You know that?”

  “Of course!”

  “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? You’re afraid he did it. Found her with Allardyce and killed her. . . .” His voice was harsh, as if he were angry with his own vulnerability, and deliberately hurting himself by saying something before anyone else could.

  But she had the kind of face that affected people in such a way. It was that of a dreamer, an idealist, someone intensely alive, and it twisted some secret place inside to see her broken. He looked up and met Runcorn’s angry gaze with an equal anger of his own. “Yes, of course I’m afraid he did it! Are you saying you’ve only just realized that?”

  Now Runcorn had to say yes, and look stupid, or no, and leave himself no reason to change his mind about seeking Monk’s help. He chose the latter, and without a struggle, betraying just how worried he was, how far beyond his depth. “She died of a broken neck also,” he said flatly. “And two of her fingernails are torn. She put up more of a fight. I’ll bet someone has a few bruises and maybe a scratch or two . . . and . . .” He indicated her right ear and pulled back the hair to show the torn flesh where an earring must have been ripped from her. “And this.”

  “Did you find it?” Monk asked.

  “No. Searched the place, even the cracks between the floorboards, but no sign of it.”

  “And you’ve searched Allardyce?” Monk said quickly. He found himself shaking with anger that this woman had been destroyed, and confused by how different she was from anything he had imagined.

  “Of course we have. Nothing. At least nothing that counts. He’s got the odd cut and scratch on his hands, but he says he has them all the time, from palette knives, blades to cut canvas, nails and things to stretch them, that kind of thing. He said to ask any artist and they’d say the same. He swears he never even saw her that night, much less killed her. He looks shattered by it, and if he’s acting, then he should be on the stage.”

  The chill of the morgue began to eat into Monk and the smell of it churned his stomach. He reminded himself he had known men before who had killed—in rage, jealousy or wounded pride—and then been as horrified as anyone else afterwards. And a woman as hauntingly beautiful as Kristian’s wife might have woken all kinds of passions in Allardyce, or anyone else, especially Kristian himself.

  “Seen enough now?” Runcorn’s voice cut across his thoughts.

  “Clothes,” Monk said almost absently. “How were they dressed?”

  “The model had on a loose kind of gown, a sort of . . . shift, I suppose you’d call it,” Runcorn said awkwardly. His embarrassment and contempt for her style of life and all he imagined of it were sharp in his voice. His lips tightened and a faint color washed up his cheeks. “And Mrs. Beck wore an ordinary sort of dress, high neck, dark, buttoned down the front. It fitted her very well, but it’s not new.”

  “Boots?” Monk asked curiously.

  “Of course. She didn’t go there barefoot.” Then understanding flashed in his face. “Oh—you mean had she them on? Yes.”

  “Actually, I meant were they old or new?” Monk replied. “I assumed that if she had taken them off you’d have mentioned it.”

  The color deepened in Runcorn’s face, but this time it was irritation. “Oldish—why? Doesn’t Beck make a decent living? Her father’s Fuller Pendreigh. Very important man, and bound to have money.”

  “Doesn’t mean he gave any of it to his daughter,” Monk pointed out. “Now that she’s a married woman, and has been for . . . do you know how long?”

  Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you know?”

  “No idea,” Monk admitted testily. Except that it had to be longer than he had known Callandra, but he would not say that to Runcorn.

>   “I suppose you want to see them. They won’t tell you much. I’ve already looked.” But Runcorn did not argue. He covered the white face again, tucking in the corner of the sheet as if it mattered, then he led the way across the floor, his footsteps echoing, to the small room where property of the dead was kept. It was locked away. He had to get a clerk to open up the drawers for him.

  Monk picked up Sarah Mackeson’s shift. There was still a faint aroma of her clinging to it, almost like a warmth. The sense of her reality came over him like a wave, more powerful than actually seeing her body. His hands were shaking as he put it down. There was no underwear. Had she been so confident in her beauty she was happy to dispense with the privacy more conventional dress would have given her? Or had she been sitting for Allardyce and simply slipped these things on while he took a break, expecting him to resume? Why hadn’t he?

  Or had she gone to bed for the night, either alone or with someone, when Mrs. Beck had arrived? For that matter, did she often spend the night at Allardyce’s studio? There were a lot of questions to be answered about her. The most important in Monk’s mind, and becoming more and more insistent with every moment, was, had she been the intended victim, and Kristian’s wife only an unwilling witness who had been silenced in the most terrible way?

  “Is there really nothing to tell which one died first?” he said, putting the shift back and beginning to go through the next box, which was Mrs. Beck’s. He found it difficult to think of her by that name, she was so different from anything he had envisioned, and yet he knew no other.

  “Nothing so far.” Runcorn was watching him as if every move he made, every shadow across his face, might have meaning. He was desperate. “Surgeon can’t tell me anything, but we know from the tenant on the floor below that he heard women’s voices at about half past nine in the evening.”

  “Presumably Mrs. Beck arriving?” Monk observed. “Or whoever killed her? At least one or both of them were alive then.”