Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [67]
“I shall have to tell Charles,” she said softly.
“Hester . . .” He was still confused by her, wanting to help and certain that he had no idea how to. “Are you . . .” he began, then did not know how to finish. Charles already knew. He had followed Imogen. Runcorn had not discovered that yet, but when he investigated further into Elissa’s playing at the gambling house, it was more than likely that he would. Then he would know that he had praised Monk in his mind for an honesty that was partial, as if he would protect Charles Latterly but not Kristian. He would wonder why. Perhaps he understood family loyalty, or would he only see guilt?
Monk realized with surprise that he knew nothing about Runcorn’s parents, or if he had brothers or sisters. Surely he had known before the accident? Or had he never cared?
“Charles is already aware there is something,” Hester said, interrupting his thoughts. “I think he would rather it were gambling; most people would. It’s . . . it’s less of a betrayal. They may still love you as much as they love anyone.” She looked away a moment. “Is it only bored people who gamble like that, William? I can’t imagine wanting to, but perhaps if I did nothing but manage a house, with no children, no purpose, nothing to gain or lose, no excitement of life, no crises, I might create my own.”
He wanted to laugh. “I’m sure you would.” Then his smile withered. His agonizing over her pain had been pointless. He was not sure if he was relieved or angry, or both. She was right about an affair, too. He would rather she were obsessed with gambling, ruinous as it could be, than with another man. He was shocked by the knowledge that he was not certain if he could endure that. He had meant never, ever to be so dependent on someone else. Love was acceptable, but not the power to be so hurt, to be crippled beyond ever being whole again.
Was that what Charles Latterly faced? Or Kristian? Did Allardyce have a part in it, other than as a bystander who drew pictures and provided an occasional refuge? One thing was true for certain: somebody had killed both women.
“Why did Charles think it was an affair?” he asked. “Did he tell you?”
“He found some letters, agreeing to meet someone who didn’t bother to sign them,” she answered. “The way they were phrased made it obvious they met often. Perhaps it was someone she gambled with. . . .” She sounded uncertain.
A smattering of memory came back to Monk. “Some people like to have company, especially someone they think brings them luck . . . and Imogen is lucky, at least so far. But the gambling house will put an end to that. Hester . . . if Charles can’t stop her, you must. They won’t let her go on winning. The Swinton Street house has already had enough.”
“She goes somewhere else as well,” she said miserably. “Charles followed her the night of the murders, down in Drury Lane.”
“Drury Lane?” he said with a chill of fear. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why? Don’t they have gambling houses there, too?”
“He didn’t go down Drury Lane the night Elissa was killed.”
“Yes, he did. He told me . . .” Now she was staring at him with growing alarm. “Why?”
“Drury Lane was closed,” he said softly. “A dray slid over and dumped a load of raw sugar kegs, most of which cracked open over the road.”
“He just said that direction,” she lied. “I assumed he meant Drury Lane.” Her mind was whirling, trying to absorb his words and conceal her emotions from him.
The sauce in the pan thickened and went cold, and she ignored it. Why had Charles lied? Only because the truth was dangerous. He was trying to protect Imogen or himself. Either he thought she had been in Acton Street that night, or