by Anne Perry
“I could have . . .” Pendreigh began. He did not finish. He let out his breath in a long sigh and his eyes ceased to focus.
Absolute silence filled the room, and Hester leaned over and passed her hand over his face, closing the lids gently.
“God help us,” Runcorn said in a whisper. He swallowed hard and turned to Monk. “I’ll go and tell them . . . and . . . and get a constable.”
“Thank you,” Monk said. He reached across and touched Hester’s arm. He felt an ease inside that resolution always brought, but no victory yet. Kristian would be freed, of course, but he still had shattering truths to accept. He himself was not who he had believed he was. His heritage, his very blood, was different. He was one of the people he had been brought up to think of as outsiders, somehow inferior, and yet a people who had given the Western world the core of its soul, and so of its culture also. The thought was almost too big to grasp, but he would have to.
As he turned it over in his mind, Monk became aware of an intense need within himself to know his own roots, the meaning of his identity that hung only in shadows and pieces in his own mind. Who were his people? Where did they fit in the history of his land? What had they believed, lived for or died for? What had they given anyone?
It was not enough to ask; he must begin to look for the answers. The truth about everyone else was important. It was his job. What of the truth about himself? Who were the people he should have felt the bond with that Hester felt for Charles? Where was his blood tie to the past?
Runcorn came back, closing the door behind him. He looked first at Hester, then at Monk.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Monk replied, tightening his grip on Hester’s arm.
“Good,” Runcorn replied. “I’ve got a constable with me, and another coming.” He glanced at the silent figure on the bed. “What a terrible waste,” he said, shaking his head a little. “He could have done so much.” He turned back to Monk. “Cook’s got up and made us a pot of tea,” he added. “Look like you could take a cup.”
Monk saw kindness in his face, even a flash of the old friendship.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling, although he had not meant to. “That’s a very good idea. Let’s do that.” And guiding Hester in front of him, he went out of the room and along the passage side by side with Runcorn.
By Anne Perry
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Featuring William Monk
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Funeral in Blue
Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Highgate Rise
Belgrave Square
Farriers’ Lane
The Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Slaves of Obsession
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2001 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously
in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine is a registered trademark and
the Ballantine colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Perry, Anne.
Funeral in blue / Anne Perry.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-345-44001-3 (alk. paper)
1. Monk, William (Fictitious character)— Fiction. 2. Private
investigators—England—London—Fiction. 3. London (England)—
Fiction. 4. Nurses—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6066.E693 F86 2001
823′.914—dc21
2001037481
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: October 2001
v3.0
To Meg MacDonald, for her wonderful ideas,
her work, and her belief in me
Read on for an excerpt from Anne Perry’s
Treason at Lisson Grove
A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel
CHAPTER
1
“THAT’S HIM!” GOWER YELLED above the sound of the traffic. Pitt turned on his heel just in time to see a figure dart between the rear end of a hansom and the oncoming horses of a brewer’s dray. Gower disappeared after him, missing a trampling by no more than inches.
Pitt plunged into the street, swerving to avoid a brougham and stopping abruptly to let another hansom pass. By the time he reached the far pavement Gower was twenty yards ahead and Pitt could make out only his flying hair. The man he was pursuing was out of sight. Weaving between clerks in pinstripes, leisurely strollers, and the occasional early woman shopper with her long skirts getting in the way, Pitt closed the gap until he was less than a dozen yards behind Gower. He caught a glimpse of the man ahead: bright ginger hair and a green jacket. Then he was gone, and Gower turned, his right hand raised for a moment in signal, before disappearing into an alley.
Pitt followed after him into the shadows, his eyes taking a moment or two to adjust. The alley was long and narrow, bending in a dogleg a hundred yards beyond. The gloom was caused by the overhanging eaves and the water-soaked darkness of the brick, long streams of grime running down from the broken guttering. People were huddled in doorways; others made their way slowly, limping, or staggering beneath heavy bolts of cloth, barrels, and bulging sacks.
Gower was still ahead, seeming to find his way with ease. Pitt veered around a fat woman with a tray of matches to sell, and tried to catch up. Gower was at least ten years younger, even if his legs were not quite so long, and he was more used to this kind of thing. But it was Pitt’s experience in the Metropolitan Police before he joined Special Branch that had led them to finding West, the man they were now chasing.
Pitt bumped into an old woman and apologized before regaining his stride. They were around the dogleg now, and he could see West’s ginger head making for the opening into the wide thoroughfare forty yards away. Pitt knew that they must catch him before he was swallowed up in the crowds.
Gower was almost there. He reached out an arm to grab at West, but just then West ducked sideways and Gower tripped, hurtling into the wall and momentarily winding himself. He bent over double, gasping to catch his breath.
Pitt lengthened his stride and reached West just as he dived out into the High Street, barged his way through a knot of people, and disappeared.
Pitt went after him and a moment later saw the light on his bright hair almost at the next crossroads. He increased his pace, bumping and banging people. He had to catch him. West had information that could be vital. After all, the tide of unrest was rising fast all over Europe, and becoming more violent. Many people, in the name of reform, were actually trying to overthrow government altogether and create an anarchy in which they imagined there would be some kind of equality of justice. Some were content with blood-soaked oratory; others preferred dynamite, or even bull
ets.
Special Branch knew of a current plot, but not yet the leaders behind it, or—more urgently—the target of their violence. West was to provide that, at risk of his own life—if his betrayal were known.
Where the devil was Gower? Pitt swiveled around once to see if he could spot him. He was nowhere visible in the sea of bobbing heads, bowler hats, caps, and bonnets. There was no time to look longer. Surely he wasn’t still in the alley? What was wrong with the man? He was not much more than thirty. Had he been more than just knocked off balance? Was he injured?
West was up ahead, seizing a break in the traffic to cross back to the other side again. Three hansoms came past almost nose-to-tail. A cart and four clattered in the opposite direction. Pitt fumed on the edge of the curb. To go out into the roadway now would only get him killed.
A horse-drawn omnibus passed, then two heavily loaded wagons. More carts and a dray went in the other direction. Pitt had lost sight of West, and Gower had vanished into the air.
There was a brief holdup in traffic and Pitt raced across the road. Weaving in and out of the way of frustrated drivers, he only just missed being caught by a long, curling carriage whip. Someone yelled at him and he took no notice. He reached the opposite side and caught sight of West for an instant as he swung around a corner and made for another alley.
Pitt raced after him, but when he got there West had disappeared.
“Did you see a man with ginger hair?” Pitt demanded of a peddler with a tray of sandwiches. “Where did he go?”
“Want a sandwich?” the man asked with eyes wide. “Very good. Made this morning. Only tuppence.”
Pitt fished frantically in his pocket; found string, sealing wax, a pocketknife, a handkerchief, and several coins. He gave the man a threepenny bit and took a sandwich. It felt soft and fresh, although right now he didn’t care. “Which way?” he said harshly.
“That way.” The man pointed into the deeper shadows of the alley.
Pitt began to run again, weaving a path through the piles of rubbish. A rat skittered from under his feet, and he all but fell over a drunken figure lying half out of a doorway. Somebody swung a punch at him; he lurched to one side, losing his balance for a moment, glimpsing West still ahead of him.
Now West disappeared again and Pitt had no idea which way he had gone. He tried one blind courtyard and alley after another. It seemed like endless, wasted moments before Gower joined him from one of the side alleyways.
“Pitt!” Gower clutched at his arm. “This way! Quickly.” His fingers dug deep into Pitt’s flesh, making him gasp with the sudden pain.
Together they ran forward, Pitt along the broken pavement beside the dark walls, Gower in the gutter, his boots sending up a spray of filthy water. Pace for pace, they went around the corner into the open entrance to a brickyard and saw a man crouching over something on the ground.
Gower let out a cry of fury and darted forward, half crossing in front of Pitt and tripping him up in his eagerness. They both fell heavily. Pitt was on his feet in time to see the crouched figure swing around for an instant, then scramble up and run as if for his life.
“Oh God!” Gower said, aghast, now also on his feet. “After him! I know who it is!”
Pitt stared at the heap on the ground: West’s green jacket and bright hair. Blood streamed from his throat, staining his chest and already pooling dark on the stones underneath him. There was no way he could possibly be alive.
Gower was already pursuing the assassin. Pitt raced after him and this time his long strides caught up before they reached the road. “Who is it?” he demanded, almost choking on his own breath.
“Wrexham!” Gower hissed back. “We’ve been watching him for weeks.”
Pitt knew the man, but only by name. There was a momentary break in the stream of vehicles. They darted across the road to go after Wrexham, who thank heaven was an easy figure to see. He was taller than average, and—despite the good weather—he was wearing a long, pale-colored scarf that swung in the air as he twisted and turned. It flashed through Pitt’s mind that it might be a weapon; it would not be hard to strangle a man with it.
They were on a crowded footpath now, and Wrexham dropped his pace. He almost sauntered, walking easily, swiftly, with loping strides, but perfectly casual. Could he be arrogant enough to imagine he had lost them so quickly? He certainly knew they had seen him, because he had swiveled around at Gower’s cry, and then run as if for his life.
They were now walking at a steady pace, eastward toward Stepney and Limehouse. Soon the crowds would thin as they left the broader streets behind.
“If he goes into an alley, be careful,” Pitt warned, now beside Gower, as if they were two tradesmen bound on a common errand. “He has a knife. He’s too comfortable. He must know we’re behind him.”
Gower glanced at him sideways, his eyes wide for an instant. “You think he’ll try and pick us off?”
“We practically saw him cut West’s throat,” Pitt replied, matching Gower stride for stride. “If we get him he’ll hang. He must know that.”
“I reckon he’ll duck and hide suddenly, when he thinks we’re taking it easy,” Gower answered. “We’d better stay fairly close to him. Lose sight of him for a moment and he’ll be gone for good.”
Pitt agreed with a nod, and they closed the distance to Wrexham, who was still strolling ahead of them. Never once did he turn or look back.
Pitt found it chilling that a man could slit another’s throat and see him bleed to death, then a few moments after walk through a crowd with outward unconcern, as if he were just one more pedestrian about some trivial daily business. What passion or inhumanity drove him? In the way he moved, the fluidity—almost grace—of his stride, Pitt could not detect even fear, let alone the conscience of a brutal murderer.
Wrexham wove in and out of the thinning crowd. Twice they lost sight of him.
“That way!” Gower gasped, waving his right hand. “I’ll go left.” He swerved around a window cleaner with a bucket of water, almost knocking the man over.
Pitt went the other way, into the north end of an alley. The sudden shadows momentarily made him blink, half blind. He saw movement and charged forward, but it was only a beggar shuffling out of a doorway. He swore under his breath and sprinted back to the street just in time to see Gower swiveling around frantically, searching for him.
“That way!” Gower called urgently and set off, leaving Pitt behind.
The second time it was Pitt who saw him first, and Gower who had to catch up. Wrexham had crossed the road just in front of a brewer’s dray and was out of sight by the time Pitt and Gower were able to follow. It took them more than ten minutes to close on him without drawing attention. There were fewer people about, and two men running would have been highly noticeable. With fifty yards’ distance between them, Wrexham could have outrun them too easily.
They were in Commercial Road East, now, in Stepney. If Wrexham did not turn they would be in Limehouse, perhaps the West India Dock Road. If they went that far they could lose him among the tangle of wharves with cranes, bales of goods, warehouses, and dock laborers. If he went down to one of the ferries he could be out of sight between the ships at anchor before they could find another ferry to follow him.
Ahead of them, as if he had seen them, Wrexham increased his pace, his long legs striding out, his jacket scarf flying.
Pitt felt a flicker of nervousness. His muscles were aching, his feet sore despite his excellent boots—his one concession to sartorial taste. Even well-cut jackets never looked right on him because he weighted the pockets with too many pieces of rubbish he thought he might need. His ties never managed to stay straight; perhaps he knotted them too tightly, or too loosely. But his boots were beautiful and immaculately cared for. Even though most of his work was of the mind, out-thinking, out-guessing, remembering, and seeing significance where others didn’t, he still knew the importance of a policeman’s feet. Some habits do not die. Before he had been forced
out of the Metropolitan Police and Victor Narraway had taken him into Special Branch, he had walked enough miles to know the price of inattention to physical stamina, and to boots.
Suddenly Wrexham ran across the narrow road and disappeared down Gun Lane.
“He’s going for the Limehouse Station!” Gower shouted, leaping out of the way of a cart full of timber as he dashed after him.
Pitt was on his heels. The Limehouse Station was on the Blackwall Railway, less than a hundred yards away. Wrexham could go in at least three possible directions from there and end up anywhere in the city.
But Wrexham kept moving, rapidly, right, past the way back up to the station. Instead, he turned left onto Three Colts Street, then swerved right onto Ropemaker’s Field, still loping in an easy run.
Pitt was too breathless to shout, and anyway Wrexham was no more than fifteen yards ahead. The few men and one old washerwoman on the path scattered as the three running men passed them. Wrexham was going to the river, as Pitt had feared.
At the end of Ropemaker’s Field they turned right again into Narrow Street, still running. They were only yards from the river’s edge. The breeze was stiff off the water, smelling of salt and mud where the tide was low. Half a dozen gulls soared lazily in circles above a string of barges.
Wrexham was still ahead of them, moving less easily now, tiring. He passed the entrance to Limehouse Cut. Pitt figured that he must be making for Kidney Stairs, the stone steps down to the river, where, if they were lucky, he would find a ferry waiting. There were two more sets of stairs before the road curved twenty yards inland to Broad Street. At the Shadwell Docks there were more stairs again. He could lose his pursuers on any of them.
Gower gestured toward the river. “Steps!” he shouted, bending a moment and gasping to catch his breath. He gestured with a wild swing of his arm. Then he straightened up and began running again, a couple of strides ahead of Pitt.
