by Anne Perry
“Did he fall in love with Elissa von Leibnitz?” Pendreigh asked. His voice was thick with his own emotion.
“Yes,” Niemann replied. “Very much.”
“And she with him?”
“Yes.” This time the word was simple, painful.
“And they married?”
“After the uprising, yes.”
“Did you ever doubt his love for her?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“And you all three remained friends?” Pendreigh asked.
Neimann’s hesitation was palpable.
“You didn’t?” Pendreigh asked.
“We lost touch for some time,” Niemann answered. “One of our number was killed, very violently. It distressed us all profoundly. Kristian seemed to feel it most.”
“Was he at fault?”
“No. It was just the fortune of war.”
“I see. But he was the leader. Did he feel perhaps he should somehow have prevented it?”
Mills half rose to his feet, then changed his mind. Niemann was painting a darker picture of Kristian than the dedicated doctor that had been shown so far. It was hardly in his interest to stop Niemann, or to question his veracity.
“I don’t know,” Niemann answered. It was probably the truth, but it sounded evasive.
Pendreigh retracted. “Thank you. Now may we come to the present, and your recent visit to London? Did you see Mrs. Beck?”
“Yes.”
“Several times?”
“Yes.”
“At her home, or elsewhere?”
“At the studio of Argo Allardyce, where she was having a portrait painted.” Niemann looked uncomfortable.
“I see. And were you in that vicinity on the night of her death?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Where, precisely?”
“I was walking along Swinton Street.”
“At what time?”
“Shortly after nine o’clock.”
“Did you see anyone you knew?”
“Yes. I saw the artist, Argo Allardyce.” Niemann drew in a deep breath. “I also saw a woman who has since conceded that she was there, but unfortunately she does not remember seeing me.”
“Argo Allardyce?” Pendreigh affected surprise. “What was he doing?”
“Striding along the pavement with an artist’s case under his arm. He looked very angry. The woman was following him and spoke to him while I was there.”
“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Mills.”
Mills bowed and rose. He did not ask more, but with a few skillful questions he drew from Niemann a picture of Kristian as a leader in the uprising which was even more self-controlled than before, a man who never lost sight of the goal, who could make sacrifices of all kinds, even of people, in the good of the greater cause.
Hester sat cringing with every new addition, and felt Callandra stiffen beside her. She could only imagine what she must be feeling.
“And you were in London and saw Elissa Beck several times, is that correct?” Mills enquired.
“Yes.” Was it defiance or embarrassment in Niemann’s face?
Mills smiled. “Indeed,” he observed. “Always at some place other than her home? Was Dr. Beck ever present, Mr. Niemann?”
The implication was obvious. Niemann blushed. “I came because Elissa was in some financial trouble,” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in a position to help her. Kristian was not. In deference to his feelings, I did not wish him to know what I had done.”
Mills smiled. “I see,” he said with only a whisper of disbelief in his voice. “I commend your loyalty to an old ally, and a woman with whom you were in love. I am afraid there is nothing you can do now to help either of them.” Mills thanked Niemann, and withdrew. He had caused the damage, and he needed do no more.
The luncheon adjournment was brief. Hester saw Charles and Imogen only as they disappeared through the farther doorway. She, Monk and Callandra ate in a noisy public house, where they took refuge in the difficulty of hearing amid the clamor to avoid speaking of the trial.
It was on the way back, on the steps going up to the court, that Runcorn caught up with them, his coat flying, his hair damp from the clinging fog.
“What is it?” Monk demanded, turning to him.
Runcorn looked at him, then at Hester. Callandra had gone ahead and he did not recognize her at this distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the weight of it was heavy in his voice. “We found the cabbie who picked up Allardyce outside the gambling house. He remembers it pretty clearly. There was a nasty scene. A woman snatched some drawings from Allardyce and tore them up there on the side of the footpath. He says Allardyce seemed glad to get away from her before she drew everyone’s attention to the fact that he had been drawing people without them knowing. He was into the cab like a fugitive, he said, and he took him all the way to Canning Town.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “There’s no possibility he went ’round to his studio and killed those women. I’m sorry.” It was an apology, as if he felt somehow at fault that he could not have given the answer they all wanted.
Monk put his hand on Runcorn’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said thickly. “Better to know that now than later.” Too wretched to find any more words, he put his arm around Hester and went on up the steps and inside.
Pendreigh did not call Monk to the stand. He realized that there was nothing he could usefully ask him, but to his amazement Mills called him in order to confirm or rebuff Niemann’s evidence. The request seemed reasonable, even helpful to the defense. Pendreigh had no cause to object, and no grounds. If he had tried to prevent it, it would have served against him. Why would he wish to? Monk was in his employ. Pendreigh had no possible choice but to concede. He did so graciously and seemingly at ease. After all, Monk would confirm what Niemann had said.
Monk climbed up the tight, curling steps of the witness box and stood facing Mills, a neat, diminutive, unthreatening figure. Monk swore to his name, residence, occupation, and why he had gone to Vienna at Pendreigh’s request. He did not correct Mills that it had actually been Callandra’s and that Pendreigh had concurred. It was close enough.
“Presumably, you made all the enquiries you could regarding both Mr. and Mrs. Beck during their time in that city?” Mills said politely. “I say that because you have the reputation of a man who seeks not only the truth that serves his interests, but all of it that he can find.”
It was a compliment. It was also a reminder, like the twist of a knife, of exactly what Runcorn had said.
“Time was short, but I learned all I was able to,” Monk agreed.
“Short?” Mills raised his eyebrows. “I estimate you were gone seventeen days. Am I incorrect?”
Monk was startled that Mills should have cared to be so exact. “No. I think that’s about right.”
“I imagine that what you learned is broadly the same as what Mr. Niemann has told us,” Mills continued. “Nevertheless, it would help us to hear it directly from you, and know the sources from whom you obtained it. Where did you begin, Mr. Monk?”
“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 degre
es 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.
“It was necessary to carry dangerous messages to warn other groups of revolutionaries,” Monk said, continuing the story, “in different parts of the city. Hanna was chosen to do it, for her knowledge of the streets of the Jewish quarter and her courage, and perhaps because she was not so closely one of the group, being a Jew. Father Geissner told me that Dr. Beck afterwards felt guilty, even that the ease with which they chose her for the task troubled him. Apparently, he spoke of it outside the confessional as well as within it.”
Mills’s eyes were fixed on him. Not once did he glance away at Pendreigh, or at the judge. “Continue,” he prompted. “What happened to Hanna Jakob?”
“The other group was warned by someone else,” Monk said quietly, aware of how strained his voice was. “And Hanna was betrayed to the authorities. They caught her and tortured her to death. She died alone in an alley, without giving away her compatriots. . . .”
There were gasps in the room. The upturned face of one woman was wet with tears. A voice muttered a prayer.
“By whom was she betrayed?” Mills asked hoarsely.
“Elissa von Leibnitz,” Monk answered. At last he looked at Kristian and saw nightmare in his face. He
had not known. No one could look at him and believe that he had.
“No!” Max Niemann struggled to his feet. “No! Not Elissa!” he cried. “It’s not possible!”
Two ushers of the court moved towards him, but he sank back down again before they reached the row of seats where he was. He, too, looked like a man who has seen an abyss open before his feet.
Pendreigh stood with difficulty; only the table in front of him supported his weight. He looked like a pale taper of light with his bloodless face and white wig with thick, golden hair beneath it. His voice came between his teeth hoarsely.
“You lie, sir. I, too, would like to believe that Dr. Beck is innocent, and have done so to this moment. But I will not have you blaspheme the memory of my daughter in order to save him. What you suggest is monstrous, and cannot be true.”
“It is true.” Monk answered him without anger. He could understand the rage, the denial, the unbelievable pain too immense to grasp. “No one thought she meant Hanna to die,” he said softly. “She was certain she would yield up the names long before that point, and would be released, humiliated but uninjured.” He found it difficult to breathe, and to keep control of his face. When he resumed, his voice was harsh with pain. “Perhaps that was the greatest injury of all, the insult. She was betrayed, and yet she died without giving her torturers the names of any of them.”
There was silence, as if every man and woman in the huge room were absorbing the agony into themselves. Even Mills did not move or speak.
Finally, the judge leaned forward. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that this is relevant to Mrs. Beck’s death?”
Monk turned to him. “Yes, my lord. It is obvious to us here that Dr. Beck is as shattered by this terrible story as Herr Niemann, or indeed Mr. Pendreigh, but there are those in Vienna who were aware of it and could piece together the tragedy, as I did. Surely their existence raises more than reasonable doubt that one such person, rather than Dr. Beck, may have been guilty of a fearful revenge?” He found his hands shaking as he held on to the railing of the box, palms wet. “If you convict Dr. Beck you will never lie easily in your beds that you have hanged a man innocent of his wife’s death, and that of poor Sarah Mackeson.”
