Kristian hesitated. The question seemed to cause him some embarrassment. Monk saw Runcorn perceive it also.
“No,” Kristian said, glancing from one to the other of them. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.
“Where did you think she was going?” Monk hated pressing the issue, but the fact that it caused discomfort was an additional reason why he had to.
“We did not discuss it,” Kristian said, avoiding Monk’s eye. “I was visiting a patient.”
“The patient’s name?”
Kristian’s eyes flicked up; only momentarily was he startled. “Of course. It was Maude Oldenby, of Clarendon Square, just north of the Euston Road. I suppose you have to consider that I might have done this.” His body was tense, the muscles standing out in his neck and jaw. His face was ashen pale, but he did not protest. “Do I need to say that I did not?”
For the first time, Monk was embarrassed also. He spoke uncharacteristically. “There are regions in all of us unknown not only to others, but even to ourselves. Tell us something about her.”
There was absolute silence. The distant noises from beyond the door intruded, footsteps, the clink of a pail handle falling, indistinguishable voices.
“How do you describe anyone?” Kristian said helplessly. “She was. .” He stopped again.
Thoughts raced through Monk’s mind about love and obsession, boredom, betrayal, confusion. “Where did you meet her?” he asked, hoping to give Kristian a place to begin.
Kristian looked up. “Vienna,” he said, his voice taking on a sudden vibrancy. “She was a widow. She had married very young, an Austrian diplomat in London. When he returned home, naturally she went with him. He died in 1846, and she remained in Vienna. She loved the city. It is like no other in the world.” He smiled very slightly, and there was a warmth in his face, his eyes soft. “The opera, the concerts, the fashion, the cafes, and of course the waltz! But I think most of all, the people. They have a wit, a gaiety, a unique sophistication, a mixture of east and west. She cared about them. She had dozens of friends. There was always something happening, something to fight for.”
“To fight for?” Monk said curiously. It was an odd word to use.
Kristian met his eyes. “I met her in 1848,” he said softly. “We were all caught up in the revolution.”
“Is that where you lived then?”
“Yes. I was born in Bohemia, but my father was Viennese, and we had returned there. I was working in one of the hospitals and I knew students of all sorts, not just medical. All over Europe-Paris, Berlin, Rome, Milan, Venice, even in Hungary-there was a great hope of new freedoms, a spirit of courage in the air. But of course, to us Vienna seemed to be the heart of it.”
“And Mrs. . ”
“Elissa von Leibnitz,” Kristian supplied. “Yes, she was passionate for the cause of liberty. I knew no one with more courage, more daring to risk everything for victory.” He stopped. Monk could see in his face that he was reliving those days, sharp and fresh as if they were only just past. There was softness in his eyes, and pain. “She had a brighter spirit than anyone else. She could make us laugh. . and hope. .” He stopped again, and this time he turned away from them, hiding his face.
Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw an instant of pity so naked it stunned him. It did not belong to the man he thought he knew. It felt intrusive for him to have seen it. Then it was gone and nothing but embarrassment remained, and an anger for being forced to feel something he did not wish to, a confusion because things were not as he had supposed, and not easy. He rushed into speech to cover the silence and his own awkwardness. “Were you both involved in the revolutions in Europe then, Dr. Beck?”
“Yes.” Kristian straightened up, lifting his head a little, then turned around slowly to face Runcorn. “We fought against those who led the tyranny. We tried to overthrow it and win some freedom for ordinary people, a right to read and write as they believed. As you know, we failed.”
Runcorn cleared his throat. The politics of foreigners were not his concern. His business was crime there in London, and he wanted to remain on ground he understood. “So you came home. . at least you came here, and Mrs. Beck. . Mrs. . what did you say?”
“Frau von Leibnitz, but she was my wife by then,” Kristian replied.
“Yes. . yes, of course. You came to London?” Runcorn said hastily.
“In 1849, yes.” A shadow passed over Kristian’s face.
“And practiced medicine here?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Beck, what did she do? Did she make friends here again?” Runcorn asked, although Monk knew from the tone of his voice that he had no purpose in mind, he was foundering. What he wanted to know was were they happy, had Elissa taken lovers, but he did not know how to say it so the answer was of value.
“Yes, of course,” Kristian answered. “She was always interested in the arts, music and painting.”
“Was she interested in your work?” Monk interrupted.
Kristian was startled. “Medicine? No. . no she wasn’t. It. .” He changed his mind and remained silent.
“When did she first meet Allardyce?” Runcorn went on.
“I don’t know. About four or five months ago, I think.”
“She didn’t say?”
“Not that I remember.”
Runcorn questioned him for several more minutes but knew he was achieving nothing. When there was a sharp knock on the door and a medical student asked if Kristian was ready to see patients again, both Monk and Runcorn were happy to leave.
“Was Maude Oldenby the only patient you visited?” Runcorn asked as Kristian stood at the door.
The ghost of a smile touched Kristian’s lips. “No. I also saw Mrs. Mary Ann Jackson, of 21 Argyle Street.” He went out and closed the door quietly. They heard his footsteps down the corridor.
Neither of them remarked that Argyle Street was rather a long way from Haverstock Hill, but only a few hundred yards from Acton Street.
“He’s lying,” Runcorn said when they were outside on the pavement again.
“What about?” Monk said curiously.
“I don’t know,” Runcorn said, beginning to walk rapidly and avoiding Monk’s gaze. “But he is. Don’t you know what your wife is doing and who her friends are?”
“Yes. . but. .”
“But what? But nothing. He knows. He’s lying. Let’s take the omnibus back.”
They did, and Monk was glad of it; it made conversation impossible, and he was able to concentrate on his own thoughts. He would have defended Kristian to Runcorn, out of loyalty to Callandra, but he also was convinced that Kristian was lying. Without saying as much, he had affected to know almost nothing of Elissa’s daily life. Certainly he was dedicated to medicine, but he was also a warm and emotional man. He was deeply moved by his wife’s death, and when he had spoken of their days in Vienna the passion of it was still there in him, taking him back to it whether he wished or not.
What had happened since then? It was thirteen years. How much did people change in that time? What did they learn of each other that became unbearable? Infatuation died, but did love? What was the difference? Did one learn that too late? Was it Elissa that Kristian still so obviously cared for, or the memory of the time when they had fought for liberty and high idealism on the barricades of Vienna?
Did Callandra know anything of this? Had she ever even met Elissa? Or, like Monk, had she imagined some tedious woman with whom Kristian was imprisoned in an honorable but intolerably lonely marriage of convenience? He had a cold, gripping fear that it was the latter.
What if she had then discovered this woman Argo Allardyce had seen, the woman whose beauty haunted him and stared out of the canvas to capture the imagination of the onlooker?
What did one love in a woman? Love was surely for honor and gentleness, courage, laughter and wisdom, and a hundred thoughts shared. But infatuation was for what the heart thought it saw, for what the vision believed. A woman with a face like Elissa Beck’s could have provoked anything!
Hester went to the hospital early, in part to see how Mary Ellsworth was progressing. She found her weak and a little nauseous, but with no fever, and no swelling or suppuration around the wound. However, even if the
