Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [80]
“No! I . . .” He let out his breath slowly. “How could you think that . . .” He stopped.
“Where were you?” she persisted. “Where did you follow her, Charles? Someone killed Elissa Beck. It wasn’t the artist, and it wasn’t one of the gamblers. I want above everything else to be able to prove it wasn’t you.”
“I don’t know who it was!” There was desperation in his voice now, rising close to panic.
“Where did Imogen go?” she said again.
“Swinton Street . . .” he whispered.
“Then where?”
“I . . .” He gulped. “I . . . got very angry.” He closed his eyes as if he could not bear to say it while looking at her. “I made a complete fool of myself. I created a scene, and one of the doormen hit me over the head with something . . . I think I remember falling. Later I woke up in the dark, my head feeling as if it were splitting, and I lay for quite a little while so dizzy I daren’t move.” He bit his lip. “When I did, I crawled around and realized I was in a small room, not much more than a cupboard. I shouted, but no one came, and the door was heavy, and of course it was locked. It was daylight when they let me out.” Now he was looking at her, no more evasion in his face, only the most agonizing embarrassment.
She believed him. She was so overwhelmed with relief that the stiff, formal office swam around her in a blur, and she had to make an effort not to buckle at the knees. Very deliberately, she walked forward and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. “Good,” she said almost normally. “That’s . . . good.” What an idiotic understatement. He was not guilty! It was impossible. He had spent the entire night locked up in a cupboard. She remembered the bruises on his face, how ill he had looked when she had seen him afterwards. They would remember him and could swear to it. She would tell Monk, of course, and get their testimony before they realized how important it was. Charles was safe. What was a little humiliation compared with what she had feared?
She looked up at him and smiled.
For an instant he thought she was laughing at him, then he read her face more closely and his eyes filled with sudden tears. He turned away and blew his nose.
She gave him a moment, but only one, then she stood up and went to him, putting her arms around him and holding him as tightly as she could. She said nothing. She could not promise that it would be all right, that Imogen was not involved, or even that Imogen would stop gambling now. She did not know any of those things. But she did know that he could not have killed Elissa himself, and she could prove it.
The trip to the hospital was one of the worst journeys Monk could ever recall having made. He and Runcorn took a hansom, intending it to wait outside so they would have no difficulty in obtaining one for the return to the police station with Kristian Beck. Neither of them even mentioned the possibility of taking the police van in which criminals were customarily transported. They sat side by side without speaking, avoiding looking at each other. To do so would have made the silence even more obvious.
Monk thought about how he would tell Callandra that he had failed, and as he tried to work out in his mind what words he would use, each time he discarded them as false and unintentionally condescending, something she deserved least of all from him.
By the time they reached the hospital, and Runcorn had instructed the cabbie to wait, his sense of failure was for having led her to hope so fiercely, rather than warning her more honestly in the beginning, so she might have been better prepared for this.
They went up the steps side by side, and in through the doors to the familiar smells of carbolic, disease, drifting coal smuts, and floors too often wet. The corridors were empty except for three women with mops and buckets, but they did not need to ask their way. They both knew by now where Kristian’s rooms were, and the operating room.
“Are we . . .” Monk began.
“Are we what?” Runcorn said tartly, glaring at him.
“Going to wait until he’s seen his patients?” Monk finished.