Runcorn drew in his breath to be reasonable, then changed his mind. Perhaps he was conscious of Monk a step behind him, watching, listening. He would be patient. “Of course we will, but we need his help. .”
“Up the ’orspital.” She waved her arm, indicating the direction. “I can’t do nothin’ for yer ’ere. An’ yer’d best ’urry, afore ’e starts operatin’, ’cos ’e won’t stop fer nothin’ then, not you ner me, ner Gawd ’isself.”
Runcorn thanked her and went back to the street to look for a hansom, Monk a couple of steps behind him, finding it difficult to follow graciously, but if he wanted to be included he had no choice but to comply. He was certain Runcorn was conscious of it, and enjoying it.
“Better get a cab, Monk,” Runcorn said after a moment or two.
Monk knew why he did that. Hansom drivers could spot the self-assurance of a gentleman fifty yards away. A man with breeding would have more money, more appearance of position to keep up and therefore more generosity. Whatever Runcorn wore, whatever rank he attained, he would never have that air, the unconscious arrogance that Monk was born with. That was the core of his loathing all the years they had known each other: the fact that they were both aware of the differences between them, and Monk had never yielded a word of honest praise, or stayed his tongue. He was not proud of that now, but the pattern of years was too deep to erase.
Again they rode in silence, this time as a matter of necessity. They alighted at the hospital some half an hour later, and Monk led the way, being familiar with the place from the times he had been there to see Hester.
As soon as he was inside he smelled the familiar odors of carbolic and lye and another odor, sweeter and different, which might have been blood. His imagination raced to the morning he had woken up after his own accident, and to the battlefield in America where he had seen for the first time what it was that Hester had really done in the Crimea, not the English imagination of the horror and the helplessness but the reality of flesh and pain.
Runcorn was a step behind him. The difference in experience was a gulf between them that could never be crossed. All the telling in the world, even supposing Runcorn were to listen, could not convey things for which there were no words.
They passed a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy slop buckets, her shoulders dragged down by the weight. Her eyes did not meet theirs. She was a nurse, a hospital skivvy to fetch and clean, stoke fires, launder, roll bandages and generally do as she was told.
Three medical students stood in earnest conversation, shirts spattered in blood. One had a neat incision in the side of his black frock coat, as if it had somehow got caught up in the speed of a surgical procedure. There was blood around that also, but dried dark, so not today’s events.
“We’re looking for Dr. Beck,” Monk said, stopping beside them.
They regarded him with slight disdain. “The waiting room’s over there.” One of them pointed, and then returned his attention to his colleagues.
“Police!” Monk snapped, stung by the attitude, as much for the patients treated with such cavalier manner as for himself. “And we have no intention of waiting.”
The student’s expression barely changed. He was a professional man, and he considered police to be on a level both of skill and in society equal to that of a bailiff, dealing with the detritus of the world. “You’ll have to wait,” he said dryly.
Runcorn looked at the student, then at Monk, his hope that Monk’s razor tongue had not lost its edge plain in his face.
“If the operating room is still where it was, I shall find it for myself,” Monk replied. He surveyed the young man’s coat. “I see you have something yet to learn regarding accuracy with the knife. Unless, of course, you were intending to remove your own appendix? If so, I believe it is on the other side.”
The student flushed with anger, and his colleagues hid a smile. Monk strode on with Runcorn at his heels.
“How did you know that?” Runcorn asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“I’ve been here before,” Monk answered, trying to remember exactly where the operating rooms were.
“About the. . appendix!” Runcorn corrected.
“Man called Gray published a book on anatomy about three years ago,” Monk answered. “Hester has a copy. Here.” He reached the door he thought was the correct one, and went in.
It was empty but for Kristian Beck standing beside a table. He was in shirtsleeves, and there was blood on his rolled-up cuffs, but his hands were clean. It had been a long time since Monk had seen him, and he had forgotten the impact of the doctor’s appearance. He was in his early forties, of average height, with hair receding a little, but it was his eyes which commanded the attention. They were dark and of such remarkable intelligence as to be truly beautiful. His mouth suggested passion, but there was a sense of inner control, as if the intense emotions there were seldom unguarded.
He drew in his breath to protest the intrusion; then he recognized Monk and his face relaxed, but nothing could take from it the marks of shock.
“I’m sorry,” Monk said, and the sincerity with which he felt it was clear in his voice.
Kristian did not answer, and a glance at his face showed that for a moment loss overwhelmed him and he was incapable of speech.
It was Runcorn who salvaged the situation. “Dr. Beck, I’m Superintendent Runcorn. Unfortunately, we need to ask you several questions that can’t wait for a better day. Have you time now? I expect it’ll take an hour or so.”
Kristian composed himself. Perhaps it was a relief to be practical. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know what I can tell you that will help.” He spoke with difficulty. “You did not tell me how she was killed. I saw her, of course. . in the morgue. She looked. . unhurt. .”
Runcorn swallowed as if there were something blocking his throat. “Her neck was broken. It would have been very quick. I daresay she would have felt very little.”
“And the other woman?” Kristian said softly.
“The same.” Runcorn glanced around as if to find a more suitable place to speak.
“We won’t be interrupted here,” Kristian said wryly. “There’s no one else operating today.”
“Is that why you came?” Runcorn asked. “Surely, in the circumstances. .”
“No,” Kristian said quickly. “They’d have found someone. I. . I had no wish to sit around and. . think. Work can be a blessing. .”
“Yes.” Runcorn was embarrassed by grief, especially when he could understand but not share it. His discomfort was clear in his face, his eyes studiously avoiding the array of instruments laid out on the table near the wall, and in the way he stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Did you know Mrs. Beck was having her portrait painted by Argo Allardyce, Doctor?”
“Yes, of course. Her father commissioned it,” Kristian replied.
“Have you ever been to the studio or met Allardyce?”
“No.”
“Not interested in a portrait of your wife?”
“I have very little time, Superintendent. Medicine, like police work, is very demanding. I would have been interested to see it when it was completed.”
“Never met Allardyce?” Runcorn insisted.
“Not so far as I know.”
“He painted several pictures of her, did you know that?”
Kristian’s face was unreadable. “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. She was beautiful.”
“Would it surprise you if he was in love with her?”
“No.” A faint smile flickered around Kristian’s mouth.
“And that doesn’t anger you?”
“Unless he harassed her, Superintendent, why should it?”
“Are you sure he didn’t?”
The conversation was leading nowhere, and Runcorn was as aware of it as Monk. There was a note of desperation in his voice and his body was tense and awkward, as if the room oppressed him, the pain and the fear in it remaining after the events were over. He still kept his eyes fixed on Kristian, to avoid the other things he might unintentionally see, the blades and clamps and forceps.
“Did you know she was going to Acton Street that evening?” Monk asked.
