Funeral in Blue

by Anne Perry

  The old man was frowning at him. He spoke to Ferdi, and Ferdi smiled at Monk. “He says I’m to tell you that if you don’t believe him, you should go and ask others. Shall I tell him you’d like to do that?”

  “Yes,” Monk agreed quickly. “Ask him about Niemann and Beck, but don’t sound too keen.” He must find something relevant to the personal passions and envies, more than a history lesson, however ardent.

  Ferdi ignored the warning with great dignity. He turned to the old man, and Monk was obliged to listen to a quarter of an hour of animated conversation, mostly from the old man, but with Ferdi putting in increasingly excited questions. Ferdi kept glancing at Monk, willing him not to interrupt.

  As soon as they were outside again in the rain and the shifting pattern of gas lamps, the wind sharp-edged and cold in their faces, Ferdi began. “Max Niemann was one of the heroes,” he said excitedly. “He came out for the reforms straightaway, not like some people, who waited to see the chances of success or what their friends or family would think of them.”

  They came to the corner of the street and a carriage swished by, spraying mud and water. Monk leaped backwards but Ferdi was too absorbed in his story to notice. He was wet up to the knees, and oblivious of it. As soon as the street was clear, he set out across the roadway and Monk hastened to keep up with him.

  “He was brave as well,” Ferdi went on. “He was right out there on the barricades when the real fighting began. So was Elissa von Leibnitz. He told me one story of how when the fighting was really awful in October, after they’d hanged the minister and the army just charged in, several young men were shot and fell in the street. She took a gun herself and went out, shouting and waving, firing the gun at the soldiers. She knew how to and she wasn’t scared. All by herself, she drove them back until others could crawl out and get the wounded men back behind the barricades.”

  “Where was Kristian?” Monk asked. “Or Max?”

  “Max was one of the ones hurt,” Ferdi replied, glancing sideways to make sure Monk was keeping up with him in the dark. “Kristian was trying to stop a man from bleeding to death from a terrible wound. He had one hand holding a pad on the man’s shoulder, and he was shouting to Elissa to stop, or someone to help her, and waving his other arm.”

  “But Elissa wasn’t hurt?”

  “Apparently not. There was one woman called Hanna who was with them. She went right out in front, too. She was one of those who dragged the wounded men back. And she used to carry messages, too, right through where the army had taken the city back, to where their own revolutionaries were cut off at the far side. And carry messages to their allies in the government as well.”

  “Can we speak to her?” Monk asked eagerly. It would be a firsthand account from another person who knew them well. She might have noticed more of relationships, the undercurrents of envy or passion between Kristian and Max.

  “I asked,” Ferdi agreed, his face suddenly very sober. “But he thinks she is one of those killed in the uprising. He told me roughly where Max Niemann still lives. He’s very respectable now. The government hasn’t forgotten which side he was on when it mattered, and they just can’t afford to punish everybody, or it would all get out of hand again. Too many people think highly of Herr Niemann.” He waved his hands excitedly. “But that’s not all. It seems that your friend Herr Beck was a pretty good hero too, a real fighter. Not only brave, but pretty clever, a sort of natural leader. He had the courage to face the enemy down. Could read people rather well, and knew when to call a bluff, and just how far to go. He was tougher than Niemann, and prepared to take the risks.”

  “Are you sure?” It did not sound like the man Monk had seen. Surely Ferdi had it the wrong way around. “Beck is a doctor.”

  “Well, he could have it wrong, I suppose, but he seemed absolutely sure.”

  Monk did not argue. His feet ached and he was exhausted. He felt cold through to the bone, and it was still more than a mile back to his room in the Josefstadt. Before he could even think of that he must make certain he found a carriage to take Ferdi safely home. This was the boy’s city, but Monk still felt responsible for him. “We’ll start again tomorrow,” he said decisively. “Speak to some more of the people on the list.”

  “Right!” Ferdi agreed. “We’re not finding anything very helpful . . . are we?” He looked anxiously at Monk.

  Monk had his own feelings. “Not yet. But we will. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Ferdi was prompt in the morning, and with renewed zeal they planned where to continue their search. This time they found a charming woman who must have been in her twenties thirteen years ago, and now was comfortably plump and prosperous.

  “Of course I knew Kristian,” she said with a smile as she admitted them to her sitting room and offered them a choice of three kinds of coffee, and melting, delicious cake, even though it was barely half past ten in the morning. “And Max. What a lovely man!”

  “Kristian?” Monk asked quickly, by now catching from Ferdi a large part of the sense of the conversation. “Is she speaking of Kristian?”

  But apparently it was Max she considered lovely.

  “Not Kristian?” Monk persisted.

  Little by little, Ferdi drew from her a picture of Max as quieter than Kristian, with a wry sense of humor and an intense loyalty. Yes, of course he was in love with Elissa, anyone could see that! But she fell in love with Kristian, and that was the end of the matter.

  Was there jealousy? She shrugged her shoulders and smiled across at Monk with a little laugh, sad and rueful. Of course there was, but only a fool fights the inevitable. Kristian was the leader, the man with the courage of his dreams and the nerve to make the decisions and pay the price. But it was all a long time ago now. She was married with four children. Kristian and Elissa had gone to England. Max lived very well, somewhere in the Neubau District, she thought. Was Monk staying long in Vienna? Did he know that Herr Strauss the younger had been appointed Keppelmeister to the National Guard during the uprising? No? Well, he had. Mr. Monk could not visit Vienna and not listen to Herr Strauss. It would be like being a fish and not swimming. It was to deny nature and insult the good God who created happiness.

  Monk promised that he would, thanked her for her hospitality, and urged Ferdi to leave.

  They saw two more people on Kristian’s list, and they confirmed all that they had heard so far. According to them both, the revolutionaries had worked largely in groups, and the group of which Kristian Beck had been the leader consisted of seven or eight people. Max Niemann, Elissa, and Hanna Jakob had been in it from the beginning. Another half dozen or so had come and gone. Four had been killed, two at the barricades, one in prison, and Hanna Jakob tortured and shot in one of the back streets when she would not betray her fellows.

  Monk felt sick, forced to listen to a shocked and white-faced Ferdi recounting the story in the comfortable surroundings of Monk’s guest house, where they had returned, hands frozen from a hard wind out of a clear sky smelling like snow.

  They sat in front of the fire with the remains of cakes and beer on the table between them and the last of the fading sunlight high in the windows as the early evening closed in. He tried to imagine how Kristian had felt when he heard it sharp with the shock of immediacy thirteen years ago. Hanna had been one of them, alive only hours ago, her pain barely over, her life as precious and urgent as their own. Had he sat in a quiet room somewhere, about this time of year, with the wind cold outside, and thought of Hanna dying in an alley among enemies, silent to save the rest of them? What guilt did he feel simply because he was alive? What had they done to try to rescue her? Or had they known nothing about it until it was too late?

  “It seems Dr. Beck was a real firebrand,” Ferdi said, blinking hard and swallowing. “They respected him like mad, because he never told anybody else to do things he wasn’t prepared to do himself. And he saw several steps ahead, thinking what his decisions would do, what they might cost.” He looked down at the table, his voice
soft. “He really hated the commander of one of the divisions of police, Count von Waldmuller. There was sort of . . . a feud between them, because this Count von Waldmuller was a great believer in military discipline, and certain people being fit to rule, and others not. He was pretty rigid, and he and Dr. Beck got across each other, and every new thing made it worse.”

  “What happened to him?” Monk asked.

  “He got shot during the fighting in October,” Ferdi replied with satisfaction. “In the streets, actually. He led the army against the barricades and Dr. Beck led the resistance.” He pulled a rueful face. “The revolutionaries lost, of course, but at least they got Count Waldmuller. I’d love to have been there to see that! It was one of the count’s lieutenants who found out where that group were all going to be, and brought the troops up behind them.” He shivered and reached for another cake. “But he did it too late. Elissa von Leibnitz had taken a message to one of the other groups, and reinforcements came. Dr. Beck led them out to fight and they were so brave, and acted as if they knew they’d win, that Count Waldmuller fell back, and got shot. Lost his leg, apparently.” He grinned suddenly. “Has a wooden one now. They said it was Dr. Beck who shot him! I know where Max Niemann lives. Shall we go to see tomorrow?”

  “Not yet,” Monk said thoughtfully. He was aware of Ferdi’s acute disappointment, and also rather surprised that his father had not curtailed his time spent assisting someone of whom they had no personal knowledge whatever. Were Pendreigh’s and Callandra’s letters really of such force as to allay all anxieties?

  “But you know everything about him,” Ferdi urged, leaning forward and demanding Monk’s attention. “What else can I find out? Dr. Beck lives in England now. He and Elissa von Leibnitz fell in love and married.” His face was bleak for a moment. “The others are dead. What’s wrong, Mr. Monk? Isn’t it what you needed?”

  “I don’t know. It certainly isn’t what I expected.” It had given him nothing to indicate that Max Niemann had gone to London seeking to rebuild an old love affair, and when rejected had lost control of himself and murdered two women. Every one of the stories Ferdi had told him only emphasized the bonds of loyalty among them all, and it seemed very clear that Elissa had chosen Kristian from the beginning, and married him before they left Vienna. If Niemann had come imagining a change in love or loyalty, then Monk would have to find irrefutable proof of it before it would be of any use to Pendreigh in court.

  “What about Beck’s friends who weren’t revolutionaries?” he asked. “He must have known other people. What about his family?”

  Ferdi sat up. “I’ll find them! That should be very easy. I know just where to ask. My mother’s brother knows everyone, or if he doesn’t, he can find out. He is in the government.”

  Monk winced, but he had already been away from London for almost a week. He could not afford the luxury of being careful. He accepted.

  It took another exhausting, precious two days to engineer the meeting, and since they apparently spoke excellent English, to his chagrin, Ferdi was not required. Monk promised to report to him anything that was of interest, wording his pledge carefully so that it allowed him to exclude bits at his own judgment, and saw Ferdi’s face light up with belief. Then he felt a sharp and totally unexpected stab of guilt. Ferdi was not listening to his precisely chosen words, but to the honest intent he believed in. Monk realized with surprise that he would fulfill the boy’s expectation. Ferdi’s opinion mattered to him more than the guarding of the case, or the trouble it would take him to explain to anybody . . . except Hester. She had earned that right, and it was also comfortable and often very productive to share his thoughts, even when they were half formed or mistaken, with her. It clarified his own mind, and she frequently added to his perception. He realized with sudden misery how much he missed her now.

  Fifteen-year-old Ferdi, whom he barely knew, was a totally different matter. Nevertheless, he would do it.

  Kristian’s elder brother and his wife lived in Margareten, a discreet but obviously well-to-do residential area to the south of the city. Monk had the address, and had picked up enough German from experience with Ferdi to acquire a cab and arrive there at five o’clock in the darkening afternoon, as had been arranged.

  He was admitted by a footman, much as he might have been in England, and then to a beautiful, rather ornate withdrawing room, although he hesitated to think of it by that term. It was far too formal to give the feeling of a place where one withdrew for comfort and privacy after a meal, to talk to guests or one’s family, and to relax at the end of the day.

  Within minutes he was joined by Josef and Magda Beck. Monk was intrigued by how like Kristian his brother was. He had the same build—the average height, slender but strong body, good breadth of chest, neat well-manicured hands which he moved very slightly when he spoke. His hair was also very dark, and good, but his eyes had not the extraordinary, luminous beauty of Kristian’s. Nor had his features the passion or the sensuality of the mouth.

  His wife, Magda, was fairer, although her skin had an olive warmth to it, and her eyes were golden brown. She was not so much pretty as pleasing.

  “How do you do, Mr. Monk,” Josef said stiffly. “I understand from your letter that you have some serious news about my brother.” He did not sound startled or afraid, but perhaps those were private emotions he would not have betrayed in front of a stranger. If Magda felt differently within herself, she was too dutiful not to follow his example.

  Monk had already decided that directness, up to a point, was the tactic most likely to be productive, and therefore to help Kristian, if that were possible. His hope for that was dwindling day by day.

  “Yes,” he said gravely. “I am not sure if you are aware that his wife was killed about three weeks ago . . .” He saw from the horror in their faces that they were not. “I’m sorry to have to tell you such tragic news.”

  Magda was clearly distressed. “That’s terrible.” Her voice was charged with emotion. “How is Kristian? I know he loved her very deeply.”

  He searched her face to read what her own emotions were. How well had she known Elissa? Was her sorrow only for Kristian, or for her sister-in-law as well? He decided to keep back the rest of the story until he was more certain of their reactions. “He is very shocked, of course,” he replied. “It was sudden and profoundly distressing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Josef said rather formally. “I must write to him. It is good of you to have told us.” He made no remark of surprise that Kristian had not told them himself. The omission gave Monk a feeling of unease. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hester’s turmoil of distress over Charles’s pain, and it gave him a sharp sense of loneliness for Hester. He thought of his own sister, Beth, in Northumberland, and how seldom he wrote to her. He was the one who had broken the bond, first by leaving the north, then by answering her letters only perfunctorily, giving nothing of himself but bare facts, no feelings, no sharing of laughter or pain, none of the details that make a picture of life. He had done it for so long that Beth wrote only at Christmas and birthdays now, like someone who has had the door closed in her face too often.

  The conversation seemed to have died. They assumed he had called merely to inform them of Elissa’s death. In a moment they would politely wish him good-bye. He must say more, just to jolt them into reaction. “It is not so simple as that,” he said a trifle abruptly. “Mrs. Beck was murdered, and the police have arrested Kristian.”

  That certainly provoked all the emotional reaction he could have wished. Magda buckled at the knees and sank onto the sofa behind her, gasping for breath. Josef went absolutely white and swayed on his feet, ignoring his wife.

  “God in heaven!” he said sharply. “This is terrible!”

  “Poor Kristian,” Magda whispered, pressing her hands up to her face. “Do you know what happened?”

  “No,” Monk replied with less than the truth. “I think the beginning of it, and perhaps even the end, may be here in Vienna.”

&
nbsp; Josef jerked up his head. “Here? But Elissa was English, and they both lived there since ’49. Why should it be here? That makes no sense at all.”

  Magda looked at Monk. “But Kristian didn’t do it, did he!” It was an exclamation, almost a challenge. “I know he is very passionate about things, but fighting at the barricades, even killing people—strangers . . . for the cause of greater freedom . . . is quite different from murdering someone you know. I can’t say we ever understood Kristian. He was always . . .” She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not sure how to explain it without giving a false impression. He made quick decisions, he knew his own mind; he was a natural leader, and other men looked to him because he never never showed his fear.”

  “He was hotheaded,” Josef said simply, looking at Monk, not at Magda. “He didn’t always listen to reason, and he had no patience. But what my wife is trying to say is that he was a good man. The things he did which were violent were for ideals, not out of anger or desire for himself. If he killed Elissa, then there was a cause for it, one which would surely act as mitigation. I assume that is what you are looking for, although I doubt it is actually here in Vienna. It is all too long ago. Whatever occurred here is long since resolved, or forgotten.” He was looking at Monk and did not notice the shadow pass across Magda’s face.

  “Did you know a man named Max Niemann?” Monk asked them both.

  “I’ve heard of him, of course,” Josef replied. “He was very active in the uprisings, but I believe he has made a good life for himself since then. There were reprisals, naturally, but not long, drawn-out reprisals. Niemann survived quite well. It was wise of Kristian to have left Austria, and certainly for his wife to have. She became . . .” He hesitated. “She was quite famous among a certain group. But all the same, I don’t find it easy to imagine that someone held on to a hunger for revenge for her part in the uprisings all those years, and went all the way to England to kill her.” He frowned. “I wish I could be of assistance to you, but I assure you, that really is too unlikely to waste your time with.” He made a slight gesture with his hands. “But, of course, we will do anything we can. Do you have names, anyone you wish to meet or to make enquiries about? I know several people in government and in the police who would assist, if I asked them. It might be wiser not to mention that Kristian himself is suspected.”