Funeral In Blue Part 26

"Visitor for yer!" he said, and allowed her to go in.

Kristian was standing staring up towards the high window where a square of grey daylight was visible. He turned in surprise, but when he saw Callandra his expression was closed, unreadable. He had no idea what to expect from her, and he was exhausted in mind and spirit. He had no reserves with which to face her needs or doubts.

Every certainty had been torn from him, even his own ident.i.ty was no longer what he had believed of it. His race and his heritage had been an illusion and the reality was alien, worse than alien because it was known and faintly, subconsciously, held to be inferior. He was no longer one of 'us'; without his having changed or done anything he was inexplicably one of 'them'.

The wife he had admired for her courage and honour had committed a fearful act of betrayal, and kept it secret from everyone, seeing him, talking to him every day, and hiding it.

Callandra knew he was not able to discuss any of it. As for someone who is desperately ill, everything in the world had changed and he was no longer supple or strong enough to react to it.

She smiled at him, as if it were a normal day. Should she say anything that mattered, that she believed in him? That it made no difference whatever to her whether he was Jew or Christian? That she was not outraged by Elissa's acts, nor did she hold him accountable for how he reacted now?

He met her eyes, his own hollow, skin blue around the sockets as if he were physically ill. He was searching her, and not able to find the words to ask, perhaps not knowing whether it was unfair, expecting of her something she could not give. Perhaps he was even afraid of the answer. Was she here from pity, loyalty, anything that was half a lie, and entirely a hurt?

She made herself smile at him fully, without reservation, and felt the tears brim her eyes. "I cannot imagine what you must be suffering." She heard herself say it without thinking first. "Or how you can absorb what you have heard. But families are not who you are, good or bad. You cannot judge why they did what they did. We were not there to see the pa.s.sions or know for whom the sacrifice was made. What you believe, how you behave towards others, and within your own truth, is who you are. No one can alter that except you. And you should not try, because who you are is good." He bent his head to hide the well of emotion in his eyes.

"Is it?" he said, his voice choked.

"Yes," she answered with certainty. "Maybe you were not always wise with Elissa, or even fair to her boredom or lack of purpose. But you cannot have known the guilt within her, because it sprang from an act beyond your imagination." He looked up suddenly. "I did not kill her!"

"I know," she answered, and he saw in her face that she did know. She smiled very slightly. "I never imagined that you could have killed the artist's model, no matter what provocation there was to hurt Elissa, or to stop her destruction of both of you."

"Thank you," he whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His skin was only just warm.

She ached to do something more, to reach him in an infinitely comforting way and take some of his pain and tiredness to herself, and bear it for him, but she could already hear the guard's footsteps and she knew time was up.

She stepped back so their intimacy should not be intruded upon. She would not say goodbye, she would not use those words. She just looked at Kristian for a moment, then as the door opened, faced the guard and thanked him for his courtesy. She left without looking back or speaking again. Her throat was aching too much and she was blind with tears anyway.

Hesterand Monk also left the courtroom and went outside into the hallway.

"Where is Callandra?" Monk asked, looking around and failing to see her. He took a step forward as if to search, and Hester put her hand on his arm to stop him. "No," she said quietly. "She'll find us if she needs us. I think she may prefer to be alone." He stopped, turning to meet her eyes. For a moment he seemed about to question her, then he saw her certainty and changed his mind.

People were milling all around them, trying to decide whether to leave and find supper, or even to go home. Would the jury return tonight?

Surely not! It was too late, after six already.

Hester looked at Monk. "Could they still come in tonight?" she asked, not knowing if she wanted it sooner or if it would be even worse to wait all night. "Is it better if... ?"

"I don't know," he answered gently. "n.o.body does." She closed her eyes. "No, of course not. I'm sorry." She started to push her way towards a clearer s.p.a.ce a few yards from the door and was just short of the entrance when Charles came striding towards her. His hair was falling forward and his cheeks were flushed.

"Have you seen Imogen?" he demanded, urgency making his voice rough-edged. "Is she with you?"

"No," Hesteranswered, trying to ignore the fear she felt in him. "Did she say she was looking for me?"

"No ... I thought..." Charles stared around, searching for sight of Imogen.

"Perhaps she has gone to the cloakroom," Hester suggested. "Is she all right? Was she a little faint, or distressed? It was very close in there. Shall I go and look?"

"Please!" Charles accepted instantly. "She was..." He swore under his breath, his jaw clenched.

"What?" Monk demanded. "What is it? Charles?" Hester saw in her mind's eye Imogen's white face and staring eyes. "Why did you come?" she caught Charles's sleeve. "Not for me!"

"No," Charles looked wretched. "I thought if she heard what had happened to Elissa Beck, the tragedy and the waste of it, the terrible way she died, she might be shocked enough never to gamble again. I thought if I brought her today, just at the end, the summing up..."

"It was a good idea," Monk agreed vehemently.

"Was it?" Charles seemed almost to be pleading for a.s.surance. "I'm afraid I might have frightened her too much. She excused herself when the judge adjourned, and I thought she had just gone to ... but that was fifteen minutes ago, and I haven't seen her since." Again, as if he could not help himself, he craned around to search for her.

"I'll go," Hester said quickly. "Stay here, so that if I find her we don't lose each other again." And without waiting she moved away to find the cloakroom and the convenience.

Perhaps Imogen just needed a little time to be alone and compose herself after the distress of what she had heard. In her place Hester felt she would have herself. If it had had the effect on her that Charles had desired, it would produce a change which could hardly be accommodated in a few moments.

She pushed her way against the crowd, who were now leaving for the night, and ended up in the cloakroom, but Imogen was not there. There was a woman in charge. Hester described Imogen as well as she could, her clothes, particularly her hat, and asked if the woman had seen her.

"Sorry, ma'am, no idea." The woman shook her head. "All I can tell yer is there's no one 'ere now, 'ceptin' us. But n.o.b'dy 'ere bin wot yer'd call poorly."

"Thank you." Hester gave her a halfpenny and left as quickly as she could. Where on earth could Imogen be? Why? Why would she go off alone, now of all times? Suddenly fury boiled up inside her for the sheer thoughtlessness of causing more grief and anxiety at a moment when they had almost more burden than they could bear.

She marched to the clerk she saw standing at the top of the stairs to the nearest entrance.

"Excuse me," she said peremptorily. "My sister-in-law appears to have gone looking for her carriage without us." It was the first lie which sprang to her mind. "She is about two inches less than I in height, she has dark hair and eyes and is wearing a green coat and hat with black feathers. Have you seen her?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said immediately. "Carrying a green umbrella. At least it sounds like the lady you describe. She left several minutes ago, with Mr. Pendreigh."

"What?" Hester was stunned. "No, that can't..."

"Sounded like the young lady you described, ma'am. Sorry if I made a mistake." He inclined his head towards the open doors. "They went that way. Almost ten minutes ago, walking quite quickly. I think he was helping her. She seemed a bit upset. I dare say one of the trials had affected someone she knew. He might only have been taking her as far as her carriage, just making sure she was all right."

"Thank you!" Hester said abruptly and, swinging round, she ran back to where Monk and Charles were still waiting. They saw her and started towards her.

"What is it?" Monk said breathlessly. "Where is she?" Hester looked beyond him at Charles. "Did she have an umbrella, a green one?" Charles was ashen. "Yes! Why? What's happened?"

"I think she left with Pendreigh. A clerk as the door over there says someone exactly like her went out with him about ten minutes ago." Charles lunged forward and ran across the now almost empty hallway and down the steps, Monk and Hester racing after him, feet flying, clutching the rails to stop from tripping. Outside was that unique darkness of winter and fog. It was almost like disappearing into a m.u.f.fling layer of clothes, ice cold and gripping as if a solid touch, except that it parted in front of you and closed behind, leaving you without sense of direction. Even sound seemed swallowed by the wall of vapour.

"Why would she go with Pendreigh?" Charles said from a few feet away in the gloom. "What could he do for her? How could he help? With what he's just heard about his daughter, how could he even think of anyone else's grief?" He spun round, almost colliding with Monk in the thick darkness. "Do you think he's trying to save her, because he lost Elissa?" His voice was wild with hope, soaring up out of control.

"I don't know," Monk said roughly. He swore as he stumbled on the edge of the kerb. "But why in G.o.d's name did they leave the courthouse? She must have known you'd be frantic with worry for her?"

"Perhaps she's still angry with me for bringing her to see just how gambling can destroy everything you love," Charles said, trying to choke back his emotions and hold on to some kind of control.

Hester was beginning to s.h.i.+ver, as much from fear as cold. There was something profoundly wrong. Imogen did not know Fuller Pendreigh. Why on earth would she go out into the fog alone with him? No matter how distressed she was over Elissa, or gambling, or anything else, no matter how much she might grieve for Pendreigh because they had both known Elissa at wildly different times of her life, she would not have left Charles and walked off into the fog.

Then a terrible thought a.s.sailed her. Could Pendreigh in some insane way blame Imogen for Elissa's gambling, just as she had once feared Charles might blame Elissa for Imogen? She swung around and gripped Monk's arm so hard he winced.

"What if he thinks it is Imogen's fault that Elissa gambled?" she said urgently. "What if he means her harm?" Monk started to protest the foolishness of the idea, but Charles broke away and, churning his arms, trying to feel his way through the s.h.i.+fting patterns of the mist as it thinned and then rolled together again, he lurched towards Ludgate Hill.

With awful certainty Hester knew where he was going... Blackfriars' Bridge, and the river.

Monk must have known it too. He clasped her hand and pulled her along, forcing her to run blindly through the white wall around them, along to New Bridge Street, then left with m.u.f.fled hoofbeats of cab horses behind them and the dismal sound of foghorns up from the water ahead The mist smelled of salt and it was moving in patches now on the wind off the water.

It cleared and they saw Charles ahead of them, still trying to run, swivelling from right to left as he searched desperately for sight of someone, anyone he could ask. The gas lamps were barely visible, only just one before and one behind, giving the illusion of a pathway.

They overtook a hansom, which was almost soundless in the gloom, just a faint creak of leather and wood and hiss of the wheels on the wet road.

It was invisible until they were almost on top of it, and then only a darkness in the paler mist.

"Imogen!" Charles shouted, and the night swallowed his voice like a wet sheet. "Imogen!" he called, louder and more desperately.

There was a faint murmur and slurp of water ahead and then suddenly the boom of a foghorn almost on top of them. The road was rising. The bridge!

It was stupid, pointless, but Hester found herself calling out as well.

There was a gust of wind; the fog cleared a few yards. Half a dozen lamps were visible. They were on the bridge, the water below a black, glistening surface, looking as solid as gla.s.s, and then gone again, rolled over and vanished in the choking vapour.

Another hansom pa.s.sed them, moving more certainly. A moment later the driver called out, a thin, sharp cry of alarm.

Monk sprinted in the brief patch of light from the lamps.

Hester picked up her skirts and ran after him, Charles catching her up and pa.s.sing her. Even so she saw the dark heap on the kerb side between the lamps, almost as soon as they did, and only the volume of fabric around her ankles prevented her from reaching it at the same time.

Monk fell on his knees beside the body, but in the fitful light through the vapour he could see little, except the ashen pallor of her face.

"Imogen!" Charles cried, all but collapsing on his knees and reaching out for her. "Oh G.o.d!" He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hands back, covered with dark, sticky liquid. He tried to speak again, but he could scarcely breathe.

Hester felt her heart choking in her throat, but it was too dark to see anything to help. She swivelled round towards the roadway and scrambled to her feet. "Cabby!" she shouted, her voice high and thin like a scream, except she had not drawn in enough breath. "Bring the carriage lamp! Hurry!" It seemed like an eternity in the mist and darkness before she saw it wavering towards them, but actually it was only a moment in time. He made his way at a run, carrying the lamp high and held it over the body on the ground.

Charles gasped and let out a sob of horror. Even Monk gave a low moan.

Imogen was grey-faced and the whole top of her body from the waist up was scarlet with blood.

The cabby drew in his breath with a hiss between his teeth, and the light in his hand swayed.

Hester steeled herself to touch Imogen, to search for the wound and see if there was anything she could do. There was no blood pumping, no movement at all.

Blinded by her own tears, she felt for Imogen's neck and pulled away her collar. Her fingers touched warm skin, and a definite beat of pulse.

"She's alive!" she said. "She's alive!" Then immediately she realised how stupid that was. There was blood everywhere, scarlet arterial blood. The whole of Imogen's jacket front was soaked in it.

But where was the wound? Was there even any point in trying to find it when so much blood had been lost?

With fumbling fingers in the juddering light from the carriage lamp she half pulled, half tore at the fastenings until Monk reached over and ripped Imogen's jacket open. Underneath on Imogen's white blouse there was only a single bright stain.

Hester heard Charles sobbing.

Less blood... not more! The blood was from outside! It was not Imogen's! Just for a last a.s.surance she pulled the blouse out of its anchorage in the skirt waist and pushed her hand underneath. There was no blood at all, no wound to the smooth skin.

So why was Imogen unconscious? Quickly she replaced the clothes, wrapping them around her. "Coats!" she ordered. "Give me your coats to put around her!" And instantly Monk and Charles threw their coats off and handed them to her, the moment after the cabby offered his, struggling to keep the light high at the same time.

Hester felt very gently under Imogen's head, exploring, terrified to find broken bone, more blood, a soft indentation of the skull, but there was only a swelling. Her heart beating faster and faster, her mouth dry, she covered the last few inches. Still no splintered bone.

"She's struck her head," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "But her skull seems whole." She looked up at the cabby. "You'll take her home, won't you?

Now?"

"Yeah! Yeah, o' course!" he said quickly. "But wot abaht all that blood, miss? If she ain't stabbed... 'oo is?" Charles let out a long shuddering sigh.

Monk stepped forward and took the lamp from the cabby and held it high.

It was Hester who saw the green umbrella lying on the pavement beside the bridge rails. It was still rolled up, and the long, sharp spike of it was thick with blood.

"Oh G.o.d!" Charles burst out in horror.

"Pendreigh..." Monk gasped. "Why?"

"He must be very badly hurt." Hester tried to gather her wits.

Whatever had happened, someone was severely injured.

"I can't do anything more for Imogen," she said, climbing to her feet.

She turned to Charles. "Take her home, keep her as warm as you can, and when she comes to, try to get her to take a little beef tea. Call the doctor, of course. Don't put her into sheets, put her straight into blankets, and sit with her." She watched to make sure he had understood, then she faced Monk. "We must find Pendreigh, if he is still alive. I may be able to help."

"We've no idea where he is!" he reasoned.

"We'll begin at his home. That's where most people go when they're badly hurt." She started towards the roadway again.

"No!" Monk said instinctively.

Hester ignored him. "And we must take a constable or someone with us! Apart from anything else, you haven't any authority. And..." she gulped, the ice-cold vapour hurting her chest, 'we have to know what happened, for Imogen's sake. We have to protect her!" It was hideous, and still totally inexplicable. Why had she attacked Pendreigh? There had to be a reason, something that would excuse her in law.

"I'll get Runcorn," Monk answered. "But not you! You're going home!"

"No I'm not! It's my duty to help the injured, just as it's yours to answer the law. Don't stand here wasting time. We need a cab, and we need Runcorn!" Charles had already bent and picked Imogen up very carefully. Now he straightened his back and his legs to carry her across to the waiting cab. The cabby was suddenly galvanised into life and scrambled after them, waving the light, leaving Hesterand Monk alone in the darkness.

"Don't argue!" she hissed at him.

Monk swore, then bit it back and started to run towards the near end of the bridge where he could see a cab looming up from New Bridge Street.

He shouted at the driver, and saw the man turn in surprise and disapproval, silhouetted in his high-collared coat and stovepipe hat.

"It's an emergency!" Monk said breathlessly as he reached the cab, half lifted Hester in, then scrambled in behind her. "Take me to Superintendent Runcorn's house in Lamb's Conduit Street, and go as quickly as you can." After only the slightest indecision the driver obeyed and Monk sat beside Hester s.h.i.+vering, praying that Runcorn was at home. If he had to direct the cab to go looking for him he had no idea where else to search but the police station, and even that was time wasted. Pendreigh must be badly wounded, from the amount of blood on Imogen, perhaps even fatally.

"What on earth were they doing on the bridge? Why did she go with him?" Monk said in the darkness as they sat together and the cab moved forward.

Hester did not bother to answer. Nothing made sense, except that they had fought, wildly, desperately, leaving Imogen senseless on the footpath, and Pendreigh bleeding so terribly he surely could not get far.

The fog was thinning away from the river and the cab picked up speed.