She looked up at him and smiled.
For an instant he thought she was laughing at him, then he read her face more closely and his eyes filled with sudden tears. He turned away and blew his nose.
She gave him a moment, but only one, then she stood up and went to him, putting her arms around him and holding him as tightly as she could. She said nothing. She could not promise that it would be all right, that Imogen was not involved, or even that Imogen would stop gambling now. She did not know any of those things. But she did know that he could not have killed Elissa himself, and she could prove it.
The trip to the hospital was one of the worst journeys Monk could ever recall having made. He and Runcorn took a hansom, intending it to wait outside so they would have no difficulty in obtaining one for the return to the police station with Kristian Beck. Neither of them even mentioned the possibility of taking the police van in which criminals were customarily transported. They sat side by side without speaking, avoiding looking at each other. To do so would have made the silence even more obvious.
Monk thought about how he would tell Callandra that he had failed, and as he tried to work out in his mind what words he would use, each time he discarded them as false and unintentionally condescending, something she deserved least of all from him.
By the time they reached the hospital, and Runcorn had instructed the cabbie to wait, his sense of failure was for having led her to hope so fiercely, rather than warning her more honestly in the beginning, so she might have been better prepared for this.
They went up the steps side by side, and in through the doors to the familiar smells of carbolic, disease, drifting coal smuts, and floors too often wet. The corridors were empty except for three women with mops and buckets, but they did not need to ask their way. They both knew by now where Kristian’s rooms were, and the operating room.
“Are we . . .” Monk began.
“Are we what?” Runcorn said tartly, glaring at him.
“Going to wait until he’s seen his patients?” Monk finished.
“What the hell do you think I’m going to do?” Runcorn snapped. “Take him away with a knife in his hand, and some poor devil’s arm half off?” He drove his fists savagely into his pockets and strode along the corridor ahead of Monk, not looking back at him. He turned the corner and left Monk to follow.
As it happened, Kristian was not operating, but he still had five people in his waiting room, and Runcorn sat down on the bench as if he were the sixth. He gave Monk one glowering look and then ignored him.
The door opened and Kristian came out. He saw Runcorn first, then Monk.
Monk would not lie, even by implication. He wished he could have, because he knew Kristian would see the rest of those waiting for him, and it would have been easier if he had not known why the police were there. But the instant he met Monk’s eyes the question existed, and then the understanding. Something inside him faded, as if he had come to the end of a long test of endurance and reached the point at which he could no longer struggle.
“Mr. Newbury?” he said, turning away and looking at a large man with a pale, flabby face and receding hair. “Will you come in, please?”
Newbury stood up and limped across the floor, watched by everyone else in the room.
Monk sat stiffly in his seat, willing himself not to fidget, not to stand up and pace back and forth. The other people were sick, and probably frightened of whatever pain or debility lay ahead of them. Kristian faced God knew what. All Monk had to deal with was the misery of arresting Kristian, and then of telling Hester and Callandra what had happened. Comparatively, it was nothing.
Still the minutes dragged by, and as one patient went in after another, he alternated between anger with Runcorn simply for being there, for knowing what was in Monk’s mind because he had worked with him and could remember a thousand things Monk could not, and a desire to say something to him to ease the waiting, because he knew Runcorn also loathed this necessity. He, too, admired Kristian, whether he wanted to or not, and would have given a great deal for it to have been anyone else, preferably someone of a class and type he despised. Best of all if it could have been a gambler, but Allardyce would have done. Far better an artist, living a bohemian and essentially alien and dissolute life, than a doctor who spent his time healing the sick, the ordinary poor who came to this particular hospital. But Runcorn did not have the courage or the imagination not to do his duty.
No, that was unfair, and Monk knew it even as the thought filled his mind. Monk, too, would have arrested Kristian, even if it had not been forced upon him by Runcorn’s presence. His own knowledge was enough. He could have forgiven Kristian for killing Elissa. She had provoked him beyond the limits of forbearance. But Sarah had done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong moment. There was no sense to it that he could explain, but the fact that no one else had mourned her except Mrs. Clark—and Runcorn, of all people—made it more of an offense in his eyes.
The last patient came out, and after barely a minute Kristian followed. He stood in the middle of the room, stiff and very straight, his head high. There were marks of sleeplessness like bruises around his eyes, and his skin was bleached of color. “I assume you believe that I murdered Elissa,” he said very quietly, not looking at either of them. “I did not, but I cannot prove it.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Beck,” Runcorn replied. He was acutely miserable, but he would not shirk doing his duty to the letter. “I don’t know whether you killed her or not, but the evidence all points that way, and there’s nothing to say anybody else did. You’ll have to come with me, sir. You are under arrest for the murders of Elissa Beck and Sarah Mackeson.”
Kristian said nothing.
Monk cleared his throat. He was surprised how difficult it was to speak steadily. “Would you like me to collect some clothes for you from your home?”
Kristian blinked and turned to him. “I’d be grateful if you would tell the hospital what has happened, and . . . and Mrs. Talbot, who cleans my house for me.” The ghost of a smile touched his mouth and echoed in his dark eyes. “Fermin Thorpe will be pleased. It will justify his opinion of me at last.” He could not have said anything which would have made Monk feel worse, or more totally inadequate. He saw with a flash of irony that Kristian recognized it, and although possibly he had not intended it, he could not apologize.
“I’ll do both,” Monk replied, looking at Runcorn.
Runcorn nodded.
