Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [54]
Runcorn looked at him with something almost like approval. “Well, he probably gave it to Sarah Mackeson, to keep her docile, if nothing else—poor creature. He wouldn’t care what it did to her over time. He’s only interested in the way she looks now, not what happens to her once he’s tired of her and picked someone else.” His mouth closed in a bitter line, as if he were angry not only with Allardyce but with everyone else who failed to see what he did or was indifferent to it.
Monk said nothing. There were too many changes whirling through his mind. His fury against Runcorn dissolved, and then was confused with a new one, because he did not want to have to change his opinion of this man, especially so quickly and so violently. It was his own fault for leaping to a cruel conclusion before he knew the truth, but he still blamed Runcorn for not being what he had supposed. Even as he was doing it he knew it was unfair, and that made it worse.
Runcorn flicked through the papers on his desk and found what he was looking for. He held it out to Monk. “That’s the drawing Allardyce spoke about. Feller who drew it said it was the night of the murders, and the pub landlord said he was there right enough, and drawing people.”
Monk took it from him. He needed only a glance to see an unmistakable portrait of Allardyce. It had not Allardyce’s skill at catching the passion of a moment. There was no tension in it, no drama. It was simply a group of friends around a table at a tavern, but the atmosphere was pervasive; even in such a hasty sketch one could imagine the laughter, the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and music in the background, a theater poster on the wall behind them.
“They were there all evening,” Runcorn said flatly. “We can forget Allardyce.”
Monk said nothing; the ugly, choking misery inside him closed his throat.
CHAPTER SIX
Hester went to the hospital again to see Mary Ellsworth. She found her sitting up in bed, her wound healing nicely and the pain definitely less than even a day ago.
“I’m going to be all right!” she said the moment Hester was in the door. “Aren’t I?” Her eyes were anxious, and she held the bedclothes so tightly her hands were balled into fists. Her hair was straggling out of the braids she had put it in for the night, as if already she had started to pull at it again.
Hester felt her heart sink. What could she say to this woman that would even begin to heal her real illness? The bezoar had been the symptom, not the cause.
“You are recovering very well,” she replied. She reached out her hand and put it over Mary’s. It was as rigid as it looked.
“And I’ll . . . I’ll go home?” Mary said, watching Hester intently. “And will Dr. Beck tell me what to do? I mean . . . he’s a doctor; he’d know better than anyone, wouldn’t he?” That was a challenge, almost a plea.
Kristian could tell her not to eat her hair, but that was not what she meant. She was looking for some other kind of instruction, reassurance.
“Of course he will, but I expect most of it you know for yourself,” Hester answered.
An extraordinary look came into Mary’s eyes: hope, terror, and a kind of desperate anger as if she were newly aware of something which was monstrously unjust. “No, I don’t. And Mama won’t know! She won’t know this!”
“Would it help if we tell her?” Hester suggested.
Now, Mary was quite clearly frightened. She seemed to be faced with a dilemma beyond her courage to solve.
“Is your mother not very good at looking after things?” Hester said gently. She knew Mary’s father had been a country parson, a younger son of a well-to-do family.
“She’s good at everything!” Mary asserted angrily, pulling the bedclothes more tightly up to her chest. “She always knows what to do.” That came out like a charge. Resentment and fear smoldered in her eyes. Then she looked away, down at her hands.
“I see.” Hester thought that perhaps she did,