“I suppose you want to see the studio?” Runcorn pursed his lips.
“What do you make of Allardyce?” Monk asked, following him out, thanking the surgeon and going into the street. This time Runcorn stopped a hansom and gave the Acton Street address.
“Hard to say,” Runcorn replied at last, as they jolted along and joined the traffic. “Bit of a mess, actually.”
Monk let it go until they arrived in Acton Street, as the light was beginning to fade. It was a reasonable-sized house. The ground floor was let to a jeweler who was presently away on business, the second floor to a milliner, who repeated to Monk exactly what he had told Runcorn. There had been a loud cry, a woman’s voice, at about half past nine.
“Was it a scream?” Monk asked. “A cry? Fear? Or pain?”
The man’s face puckered. “To be honest, it sounded like laughter,” he replied. “That’s why I thought nothing of it.”
“Can’t shake him from that,” Runcorn said in disgust. “Got men out in the street. Might turn up something.”
There was a constable on duty on the landing outside the door. Runcorn greeted him perfunctorily and then went in, Monk on his heels.
“This is it,” Runcorn told him, stopping in the middle of the room and gazing around. There were three large woven rugs of different colors on the floor, their edges touching. Windows faced out over the rooftops, but even this late, most of the illumination came from skylights to both north and south. It was immediately obvious why an artist appreciated the studio’s almost shadowless clarity. An easel was set up in one corner, a couch on the far side, and a selection of chairs and other props were huddled in the third corner. A second doorway led to the rest of the rooms beyond.
“Mrs. Beck was found lying there.” Runcorn pointed to the floor just in front of where Monk was standing. “And Sarah Mackeson was there, at the join of those two carpets. They were scuffed up a bit where she must have fallen.” He indicated another place a couple of yards away, closer to the main door.
“Looks as if someone had just killed Sarah Mackeson as Mrs. Beck came in from the street and saw him, and he killed her before she could escape,” Monk observed. “Or else someone killed Mrs. Beck, not realizing the model was here, and she disturbed him and got killed for her pains.”
“Something like that,” Runcorn agreed. “But nothing so far to say which. Or a three-cornered quarrel between Allardyce and the two women which got out of hand, and then he had to kill the second woman because of the first.”
“And you found nothing?” Monk assumed.
“Searched the place, of course,” Runcorn said unhappily. “But nothing of any meaning. No one was obliging enough to leave bloodstains, except a few drops on the carpet where Mrs. Beck was, from her torn ear. Hunted everywhere for the earring, but never found it. No footprints or bits of cloth, or anything so convenient.” He pursed his lips. “No weapon needed. Whoever it was came in through the door, like anyone else. Allardyce said it wasn’t often locked.”
“And we presume Mrs. Beck was here and alive at half past nine, because the milliner heard women’s voices, possibly laughing. Did anyone see her outside in the street?”
“Not so far, but we’re still looking.”
“Did she come by cab? For that matter, where does she live?”
“Thought you knew Dr. Beck.” Runcorn was sharp.
“I do. I’ve never been to his home.”
“Haverstock Hill.”
“Three miles at least, so she must have come by cab, or in a carriage, and Beck doesn’t have a carriage.”
“We’re looking. It might help for time, if nothing else.”
The far door opened and a disheveled man in his late thirties stood leaning against the frame. He was tall and lanky with very dark hair which flopped forward over his brow. His eyes were startlingly blue, and at the moment he was badly in need of a shave, giving his face a look both humorous and faintly sinister. He ignored Monk and regarded Runcorn with dislike. “What do you want now?” he demanded. “I’ve already told you everything I know. For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone? I feel terrible.”
“Perhaps you should wash and shave and sober up, sir?” Runcorn suggested with ill-concealed distaste.
“I’m not drunk!” Allardyce replied, his blue eyes hard. “I’ve just had two friends murdered in my home.” He took a deep breath and shivered convulsively. He turned to Monk, regarding his jacket with its perfectly tailored shoulders and his polished boots. “Who the devil are you?” He had obviously dismissed the possibility of his being police.
“He’s assisting me,” Runcorn said before Monk could reply. “Now that you’ve had time to gather yourself a bit, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
Allardyce slumped into the only chair and sat with his head in his hands. “What?” he asked without looking up at either of them.
“How long did you know Mrs. Beck?” Monk said before Runcorn did.
Allardyce took no notice of the fact that it was Monk who spoke. He seemed still deeply shocked and in a kind of despair. “A few months,” he answered. “I’m not sure. What does it matter? What is time anyway, except what we put into it? It’s like space. Who can measure nothingness?”
Was the man being deliberately contentious, or were his words a reflection of how deeply he had cared for Kristian’s wife? From the wretchedness of his body, the sagging shoulders, the feet sticking out, the bowed head, Monk could easily believe it was the latter. “So you knew her well?” he said aloud.
“Infinitely,” Allardyce answered, looking up at Monk now as if he perceived some glimmer of understanding where he had not expected it.
