As it happened, no pressure was necessary, and she was conducted with some awe up the narrow stairs to a room rather obviously tidied up for her. Piles of papers with no connection to each other rested on the corner of the shelf, and pencils and quills had been gathered together and pushed into a cup to keep them from rolling. A clean sheet of blotting paper lay over the scratches and marks in the desk. On any other occasion she might have been gently amused.
Runcorn himself was standing up, almost to attention. “Good morning, Lady Callandra,” he said self- consciously. “What can I do for you? Please . . . please sit down.” He indicated the rather worn chair opposite his desk, and waited carefully until she was seated before he sat down himself. He looked uncomfortable, as if he wished to say something but had no idea how to begin.
“Good morning, Mr. Runcorn,” she replied. “Thank you for sparing me your time. I appreciate that you must be very busy, so I shall come to the point immediately. Mr. Monk told me that you were enquiring into Mr. Max Niemann’s visits to London, whether he was here at the time of Mrs. Beck’s death, and if he had come here on any other occasion recently. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is, ma’am.” Runcorn was not quite certain how to address her, and it showed in his hesitation.
“And was he here?” There was no purpose in prevaricating. She found her heart was knocking in her chest as the seconds hung before he answered. She had no right to know. Please God, Niemann had been here! There had to be someone else to suspect, some other answer. A week ago she needed to find someone else guilty, now she would be grateful simply for the possibility, any belief to cling to.
“Yes,” Runcorn replied. “He has been here three times this last year that we know of.” He looked deeply unhappy. “But nobody saw him quarrel with Mrs. Beck, ma’am. They were old friends from her time in Vienna. It makes no difference to the case. It would be very nice for us all if we could blame a foreign gentleman, but there isn’t any sense in it.”
She could not bring herself to argue with him. The hope was too slender, and she was frightened of trying to keep control of herself without it. She stood up very straight. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Runcorn. I am obliged to you. I believe I am permitted to visit Dr. Beck, since he is not yet proven guilty.” It was a statement.
“Yes, ma’am. Of course. Shall I . . .”
“No, thank you. I have taken up enough of your time. I can find my own way downstairs again, and no doubt the sergeant at the desk will direct me where to go after that. Good day, Mr. Runcorn.”
He scrambled to open the door for her, only just reaching it before she did. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, jerking the door open and banging it against his feet without making the slightest sign that it had caught the corn in his little toe, except a quick intake of breath and the slow letting out of it again.
Downstairs, Callandra spoke to the desk sergeant, and was conducted to the cells. She had composed in her mind what she was going to say, but nothing could prepare her emotions. She stood on the stone floor in the closed-in space, the smell of iron and dust, the strange mixture of coldness and human sweat clogging her throat. This was a time for courage. It was not the place which frightened her, it was meeting Kristian’s eyes, and what she might see in them. In the night, she had always found that to name the fear made it more manageable. Was it rejection, her own foolishness exposed and the ensuing embarrassment, that she was afraid of? Or the struggle to keep up the charade that it was all going to be all right—he was not guilty, and even if it took a while, they would prove it. Or was it the acknowledgment at last that perhaps they would not?
Could she cope with that, survive it and go on? She was not sure.
The constable had already spoken to her twice, and she had not responded. He was beginning to fear that she was unwell.
“Of course,” she said briskly, swallowing hard. She did not know what he had said, but that seemed a satisfactory response. He led the way down a narrow, echoing passage, her footsteps sounding as if she were shod with iron. He produced a huge key and let her into a cell where Kristian was standing in the middle. He was wearing a collarless shirt and plain, dark trousers. He looked exhausted, and there was a grayish tinge to his skin, even though he appeared to have shaved very recently.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, pleasure, and then a guardedness. He had had too many shocks, and he looked at nothing without suspicion. He smiled very slightly. It did not touch his eyes.
She realized with a jolt, as if she had missed a step, that he did not know what to expect from her. Somehow that surprised her, even though it was totally reasonable. After all, she had not known what to expect of herself.
Was the constable going to stand there forever? She turned to him. “You may go now,” she said briskly. “Lock me in, if it pleases you, or your instructions require it. I shall be perfectly safe. You may take my reticule, if you fear I have some weapon in it. I shall be ready to leave again in an hour.”
“Sorry, Miss, you can’t stay that long,” the sergeant replied. “ ’Alf an hour.”
“I am not ’Miss,’ I am Lady Callandra Daviot,” she corrected him firmly. “Then be so good as to return in half an hour—not twenty-five minutes. And don’t waste the little time I have by standing there eavesdropping. I have nothing secret to say, but it is private, and not your concern.”
He looked taken aback, but decided he could not afford to be offended. “Yes, my lady,” he said, locking the door sharply behind him as he retreated.
There was a flash of humor in Kristian’s face, but it died immediately. He struggled to find something to say that was not absurd, and discarded each idea as it came to him.
“Stop it!” she said sharply. “Stop trying to be polite. We have to talk about what matters. Half an hour will go by far too quickly as it is.” She saw relief in his eyes, and then fear, real and deep, gouging into the heart of her. It shocked her more than anything physical could have. But before she could respond to it, it was masked, gone again by an effort of will.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.
There was nowhere to sit down but the cot, and she was not going to sit side by side with him on that. It was low and awkward.
“Oliver Rathbone is in Italy, so Pendreigh has offered to conduct your defense,” she said abruptly.
He breathed in, surprised, not certain if he had heard correctly, if he should believe it.
