lieutenants who found out where that group were all going to be, and brought the troops up behind them.” He shivered and reached for another cake. “But he did it too late. Elissa von Leibnitz had taken a message to one of the other groups, and reinforcements came. Dr. Beck led them out to fight and they were so brave, and acted as if they knew they’d win, that Count Waldmuller fell back, and got shot. Lost his leg, apparently.” He grinned suddenly. “Has a wooden one now. They said it was Dr. Beck who shot him! I know where Max Niemann lives. Shall we go to see tomorrow?”
“Not yet,” Monk said thoughtfully. He was aware of Ferdi’s acute disappointment, and also rather surprised that his father had not curtailed his time spent assisting someone of whom they had no personal knowledge whatever. Were Pendreigh’s and Callandra’s letters really of such force as to allay all anxieties?
“But you know everything about him,” Ferdi urged, leaning forward and demanding Monk’s attention. “What else can I find out? Dr. Beck lives in England now. He and Elissa von Leibnitz fell in love and married.” His face was bleak for a moment. “The others are dead. What’s wrong, Mr. Monk? Isn’t it what you needed?”
“I don’t know. It certainly isn’t what I expected.” It had given him nothing to indicate that Max Niemann had gone to London seeking to rebuild an old love affair, and when rejected had lost control of himself and murdered two women. Every one of the stories Ferdi had told him only emphasized the bonds of loyalty among them all, and it seemed very clear that Elissa had chosen Kristian from the beginning, and married him before they left Vienna. If Niemann had come imagining a change in love or loyalty, then Monk would have to find irrefutable proof of it before it would be of any use to Pendreigh in court.
“What about Beck’s friends who weren’t revolutionaries?” he asked. “He must have known other people. What about his family?”
Ferdi sat up. “I’ll find them! That should be very easy. I know just where to ask. My mother’s brother knows everyone, or if he doesn’t, he can find out. He is in the government.”
Monk winced, but he had already been away from London for almost a week. He could not afford the luxury of being careful. He accepted.
It took another exhausting, precious two days to engineer the meeting, and since they apparently spoke excellent English, to his chagrin, Ferdi was not required. Monk promised to report to him anything that was of interest, wording his pledge carefully so that it allowed him to exclude bits at his own judgment, and saw Ferdi’s face light up with belief. Then he felt a sharp and totally unexpected stab of guilt. Ferdi was not listening to his precisely chosen words, but to the honest intent he believed in. Monk realized with surprise that he would fulfill the boy’s expectation. Ferdi’s opinion mattered to him more than the guarding of the case, or the trouble it would take him to explain to anybody . . . except Hester. She had earned that right, and it was also comfortable and often very productive to share his thoughts, even when they were half formed or mistaken, with her. It clarified his own mind, and she frequently added to his perception. He realized with sudden misery how much he missed her now.
Fifteen-year-old Ferdi, whom he barely knew, was a totally different matter. Nevertheless, he would do it.
Kristian’s elder brother and his wife lived in Margareten, a discreet but obviously well-to-do residential area to the south of the city. Monk had the address, and had picked up enough German from experience with Ferdi to acquire a cab and arrive there at five o’clock in the darkening afternoon, as had been arranged.
He was admitted by a footman, much as he might have been in England, and then to a beautiful, rather ornate withdrawing room, although he hesitated to think of it by that term. It was far too formal to give the feeling of a place where one withdrew for comfort and privacy after a meal, to talk to guests or one’s family, and to relax at the end of the day.
Within minutes he was joined by Josef and Magda Beck. Monk was intrigued by how like Kristian his brother was. He had the same build—the average height, slender but strong body, good breadth of chest, neat well- manicured hands which he moved very slightly when he spoke. His hair was also very dark, and good, but his eyes had not the extraordinary, luminous beauty of Kristian’s. Nor had his features the passion or the sensuality of the mouth.
His wife, Magda, was fairer, although her skin had an olive warmth to it, and her eyes were golden brown. She was not so much pretty as pleasing.
“How do you do, Mr. Monk,” Josef said stiffly. “I understand from your letter that you have some serious news about my brother.” He did not sound startled or afraid, but perhaps those were private emotions he would not have betrayed in front of a stranger. If Magda felt differently within herself, she was too dutiful not to follow his example.
Monk had already decided that directness, up to a point, was the tactic most likely to be productive, and therefore to help Kristian, if that were possible. His hope for that was dwindling day by day.
“Yes,” he said gravely. “I am not sure if you are aware that his wife was killed about three weeks ago . . .” He saw from the horror in their faces that they were not. “I’m sorry to have to tell you such tragic news.”
Magda was clearly distressed. “That’s terrible.” Her voice was charged with emotion. “How is Kristian? I know he loved her very deeply.”
He searched her face to read what her own emotions were. How well had she known Elissa? Was her sorrow only for Kristian, or for her sister-in-law as well? He decided to keep back the rest of the story until he was more certain of their reactions. “He is very shocked, of course,” he replied. “It was sudden and profoundly distressing.”
“I’m sorry,” Josef said rather formally. “I must write to him. It is good of you to have told us.” He made no remark of surprise that Kristian had not told them himself. The omission gave Monk a feeling of unease. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hester’s turmoil of distress over Charles’s pain, and it gave him a sharp sense of loneliness for Hester. He thought of his own sister, Beth, in Northumberland, and how seldom he wrote to her. He was the one who had broken the bond, first by leaving the north, then by answering her letters only perfunctorily, giving nothing of himself but bare facts, no feelings, no sharing of laughter or pain, none of the details that make a picture of life. He had done it for so long that Beth wrote only at Christmas and birthdays now, like someone who has had the door closed in her face too often.
The conversation seemed to have died. They assumed he had called merely to inform them of Elissa’s death. In a moment they would politely wish him good-bye. He must say more, just to jolt them into reaction. “It is not so simple as that,” he said a trifle abruptly. “Mrs. Beck was murdered, and the police have arrested Kristian.”
That certainly provoked all the emotional reaction he could have wished. Magda buckled at the knees and sank onto the sofa behind her, gasping for breath. Josef went absolutely white and swayed on his feet, ignoring his wife.
“God in heaven!” he said sharply. “This is terrible!”
