Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [137]
“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted at her. “Do you know what time it is?”
She looked astonished, then angry. “No! Nor do I care!” she retorted.
“Where were you?” he repeated, his voice shaking with emotion he could not conceal. He could not take his eyes from her face, drawing into himself every detail of her, furious that he cared more than he could control, or hide. He wished to hold her and never let her go, not all night, not tomorrow, not ever. The power of it frightened him. “Don’t stand there! Where were you?” he demanded.
“Are you saying that you may go halfway around Europe and I may not go around the corner to the police station?” she asked with a sharp lift to her voice. She stared at him, her eyes brilliant, her face almost colorless except for the dark bruise.
“The police station? Why?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
“I have discovered that Argo Allardyce was not in Southwark on the night Elissa was killed,” she replied. “He was in Swinton Street, at least earlier on.”
“Yes, Max Niemann saw him,” he replied. “How do you know?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “I detected it,” she said icily. “The picture he gave Runcorn wasn’t drawn that night; the music hall poster was wrong. He admitted he was in the gambling club.”
“Runcorn told you?”
“No, I told him.”
“How the devil did you know? Where have you been?” He did not intend to, but his voice had risen until he was once more shouting at her. Fear drove him, fear that she had been in danger and he had not been there to protect her, or prevent her from taking risks. “Damn it, Hester!” He hurled the caddy into the corner and watched the tea fly all over the floor.
Without any warning she began to laugh. Tearing at the ribbons of her hat, she flung it away and walked into his arms. Her laughter turned to weeping and she clung to him so hard it bruised his skin, and he was happy just to feel the strength of her. He closed his own arms around her and held on to her while he lost all sense of time and it really did not matter anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monk could have held Hester in his arms all night, but the trial would resume in the morning and they could not afford to leave seeing Imogen and Pendreigh until then. It might be too late.
Hester pushed away and looked up at him. “The judge’s patience is all but ended,” she said. “We must prepare everything we can tonight.” She reached his eyes, seeing the exhaustion in him. “I’m sorry.”
“Have we enough to cast doubt?” he asked. “Allardyce was there, but what if someone can find proof he left before the murders?” His mind was racing over all he had learned in Vienna, and about Max Niemann, who he could not believe had killed Elissa. But deeper and more bitter than anything else was the betrayal of Hanna Jakob. He did not want to tell Hester of it, he wanted to bury it in a silence that would recede into the past until the details blurred and whole months went by without it troubling his mind. Perhaps implicating Allardyce as a suspect would be sufficient, without anything else being said?
“I told Runcorn,” she said quietly. “He’s bound to look for the cabbie he says picked him up. Of course, he may not find him before the end of the trial. It may not even be true.”
He told her Niemann’s theory that Sarah killed Elissa, and then Allardyce in turn killed Sarah.
She looked skeptical. “I don’t believe it, but I know of no reason why it couldn’t be possible. But we must persuade Imogen to testify. That will corroborate what Niemann says about Allardyce definitely being there. If she won’t, I suppose we can always oblige her to?”
“Yes . . . but it would be . . . unpleasant.”
“I know.” She straightened her shoulders. “We need to go tonight.” As she said it she turned and went for her coat.
They had to walk in the fine rain down to Tottenham Court Road before they could find a hansom, and directed it to Charles and Imogen’s house. They rode in silence. There was no point in planning what to say, there was only the truth,