“And you were in London and saw Elissa Beck several times, is that correct?” Mills enquired.
“Yes.” Was it defiance or embarrassment in Niemann’s face?
Mills smiled. “Indeed,” he observed. “Always at some place other than her home? Was Dr. Beck ever present, Mr. Niemann?”
The implication was obvious. Niemann blushed. “I came because Elissa was in some financial trouble,” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in a position to help her. Kristian was not. In deference to his feelings, I did not wish him to know what I had done.”
Mills smiled. “I see,” he said with only a whisper of disbelief in his voice. “I commend your loyalty to an old ally, and a woman with whom you were in love. I am afraid there is nothing you can do now to help either of them.” Mills thanked Niemann, and withdrew. He had caused the damage, and he needed do no more.
The luncheon adjournment was brief. Hester saw Charles and Imogen only as they disappeared through the farther doorway. She, Monk and Callandra ate in a noisy public house, where they took refuge in the difficulty of hearing amid the clamor to avoid speaking of the trial.
It was on the way back, on the steps going up to the court, that Runcorn caught up with them, his coat flying, his hair damp from the clinging fog.
“What is it?” Monk demanded, turning to him.
Runcorn looked at him, then at Hester. Callandra had gone ahead and he did not recognize her at this distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the weight of it was heavy in his voice. “We found the cabbie who picked up Allardyce outside the gambling house. He remembers it pretty clearly. There was a nasty scene. A woman snatched some drawings from Allardyce and tore them up there on the side of the footpath. He says Allardyce seemed glad to get away from her before she drew everyone’s attention to the fact that he had been drawing people without them knowing. He was into the cab like a fugitive, he said, and he took him all the way to Canning Town.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “There’s no possibility he went ’round to his studio and killed those women. I’m sorry.” It was an apology, as if he felt somehow at fault that he could not have given the answer they all wanted.
Monk put his hand on Runcorn’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said thickly. “Better to know that now than later.” Too wretched to find any more words, he put his arm around Hester and went on up the steps and inside.
Pendreigh did not call Monk to the stand. He realized that there was nothing he could usefully ask him, but to his amazement Mills called him in order to confirm or rebuff Niemann’s evidence. The request seemed reasonable, even helpful to the defense. Pendreigh had no cause to object, and no grounds. If he had tried to prevent it, it would have served against him. Why would he wish to? Monk was in his employ. Pendreigh had no possible choice but to concede. He did so graciously and seemingly at ease. After all, Monk would confirm what Niemann had said.
Monk climbed up the tight, curling steps of the witness box and stood facing Mills, a neat, diminutive, unthreatening figure. Monk swore to his name, residence, occupation, and why he had gone to Vienna at Pendreigh’s request. He did not correct Mills that it had actually been Callandra’s and that Pendreigh had concurred. It was close enough.
“Presumably, you made all the enquiries you could regarding both Mr. and Mrs. Beck during their time in that city?” Mills said politely. “I say that because you have the reputation of a man who seeks not only the truth that serves his interests, but all of it that he can find.”
It was a compliment. It was also a reminder, like the twist of a knife, of exactly what Runcorn had said.
“Time was short, but I learned all I was able to,” Monk agreed.
“Short?” Mills raised his eyebrows. “I estimate you were gone seventeen days. Am I incorrect?”
Monk was startled that Mills should have cared to be so exact. “No. I think that’s about right.”
“I imagine that what you learned is broadly the same as what Mr. Niemann has told us,” Mills continued. “Nevertheless, it would help us to hear it directly from you, and know the sources from whom you obtained it. Where did you begin, Mr. Monk?”
“With listening to stories of the uprising from those who fought in it,” Monk answered. “And you are quite correct, they confirm what Mr. Niemann told you. Kristian Beck fought with courage, intelligence and dedication to the cause of greater freedom for his people.” He chose his words carefully. “He cared deeply for those he led, but he was not sentimental, nor did he favor those who were his friends above those who were less close to him.”
“He was impartial?” Mills asked.
Monk would not be moved. “I meant what I said, sir. He did not favor one above another because of his own feelings.”
Mills smiled. “Of course. I apologize. No doubt you heard many tales of great courage and self-sacrifice, of heroism and tragedy?”
“Yes.” Why did he ask that? What had he heard? What did he suspect?
“And did you follow them up, pursue them to be certain what degrees of truth they held?” Mills shrugged very slightly. “We all know that terrible conflicts where there are profound losses can give rise to legends that we . . . embellish . . . afterwards.”
“Of course I followed them up!” Monk said tartly. “One-sided, they are of little use.”
“Naturally.” Mills nodded. “I would not have expected less of you. With whom did you follow them, specifically?” The question was gently put, almost casually, and yet the silence in the room invested it with unavoidable importance.
“With Dr. Beck’s family still living in Vienna, and with a priest who had helped the fighters with comfort and the offices of the church,” Monk replied.
“Offices of the church? Perhaps you would explain?”
“The sacraments: confession, absolution.”
“A Roman Catholic priest?”
“Yes.”
