“Did he fall in love with Elissa von Leibnitz?” Pendreigh asked. His voice was thick with his own emotion.
“Yes,” Niemann replied. “Very much.”
“And she with him?”
“Yes.” This time the word was simple, painful.
“And they married?”
“After the uprising, yes.”
“Did you ever doubt his love for her?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“And you all three remained friends?” Pendreigh asked.
Neimann’s hesitation was palpable.
“You didn’t?” Pendreigh asked.
“We lost touch for some time,” Niemann answered. “One of our number was killed, very violently. It distressed us all profoundly. Kristian seemed to feel it most.”
“Was he at fault?”
“No. It was just the fortune of war.”
“I see. But he was the leader. Did he feel perhaps he should somehow have prevented it?”
Mills half rose to his feet, then changed his mind. Niemann was painting a darker picture of Kristian than the dedicated doctor that had been shown so far. It was hardly in his interest to stop Niemann, or to question his veracity.
“I don’t know,” Niemann answered. It was probably the truth, but it sounded evasive.
Pendreigh retracted. “Thank you. Now may we come to the present, and your recent visit to London? Did you see Mrs. Beck?”
“Yes.”
“Several times?”
“Yes.”
“At her home, or elsewhere?”
“At the studio of Argo Allardyce, where she was having a portrait painted.” Niemann looked uncomfortable.
“I see. And were you in that vicinity on the night of her death?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Where, precisely?”
“I was walking along Swinton Street.”
“At what time?”
“Shortly after nine o’clock.”
“Did you see anyone you knew?”
“Yes. I saw the artist, Argo Allardyce.” Niemann drew in a deep breath. “I also saw a woman who has since conceded that she was there, but unfortunately she does not remember seeing me.”
“Argo Allardyce?” Pendreigh affected surprise. “What was he doing?”
“Striding along the pavement with an artist’s case under his arm. He looked very angry. The woman was following him and spoke to him while I was there.”
“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Mills.”
Mills bowed and rose. He did not ask more, but with a few skillful questions he drew from Niemann a picture of Kristian as a leader in the uprising which was even more self-controlled than before, a man who never lost sight of the goal, who could make sacrifices of all kinds, even of people, in the good of the greater cause.
Hester sat cringing with every new addition, and felt Callandra stiffen beside her. She could only imagine what she must be feeling.
“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.”
