by Anne Perry
She could understand being so in love it robbed you of your balance, your judgment of good and evil, but she could not make the leap to acting out the passion or the violence as Elissa had. There was nothing worth winning at the cost of your own being, the soul, the integrity that was the core of who you were. The act of doing such a thing made it impossible for you to hold the good, even if you could grasp it for an instant.
She pushed through the crowd, oblivious of individuals, wanting only to escape for a while.
Had Elissa submitted to a moment’s insanity when she was exhausted, frightened, pressed in by danger and threat on all sides, then spent the rest of her life regretting it, and unable to redeem any part of herself because she had kept the prize?
Callandra had expected to feel loathing, and yet, walking slowly out of the courtroom entrance and down the steps with the rain in her face, she was amazed that it was pity that stirred inside her for all that had been thrown away.
She stood on the pavement alone as people brushed past her. When would they bring in the verdict? Monk had taken a terrible chance. He had been brilliant. She knew why he had done it. It was like him, a desperate throw when all else was lost. He would have known how it would lacerate to the core and create scars for which there was no healing.
She did not know whether she would be allowed to see Kristian. The verdict was not in yet, so he was technically still an innocent man. She could lay no claim to be family, but she was a representative from the hospital; Thorpe had never taken that from her. Surely if they would permit him to see anyone at all, other than his lawyer, since he had no relative, it would be a colleague from his place of work.
She should hurry. They could bring in the verdict at any time, and then it might be too late. She turned and began to climb back up the steps.
She did not know if he would even wish to see her, but she must try. Whatever happened, and she refused to think it through to the end, he must know now, before the verdict, that she believed in his innocence.
She had feared he could have killed Elissa. The provocation was so great it was too easy to understand a moment of fear overcoming a lifetime’s morality and restraint. The act could be over and irretrievable in moments, before the brain had caught up with the action of the hands.
But she did not believe he could then have gone on and deliberately killed Sarah Mackeson. No fear whatever would have driven the man she knew to do that. She must look him in the face and he must see in her eyes that it was so.
“Can’t give you long, ma’am,” the guard said reluctantly, his voice tense, his eyes glancing back to be sure he was not observed by any higher authority. He was doing this as an act of compassion, and it made him nervous.
“Thank you,” she accepted sincerely.
“I can give you ten minutes, that’s all,” he warned.
“Thank you,” she said again. Ten minutes seemed desperately short, but then ten hours would have been, too. Whatever the time, there was always an end to it, a parting which might be the last. If that was what she had, then she must make every second of value.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open with a scrape of iron on stone. “Visitor for yer!” he said, and allowed her to go in.
Kristian was standing, staring up towards the high window where a square of gray 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 identity was no longer what he had believed. 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 honor 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 happens to 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, say that she believed in him? That it made no difference whatever to her whether he was a Jew or a 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 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 passions 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 artists’ 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 good-bye; she would not use those words. She just looked at Kristian for a moment, then as the door opened, she 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.
Hester and 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 the verdict sooner or if it would be even worse to wait all night. “Is it better if. .”
“I don’t know,” he answered gently. “Nobody does.”
She closed her eyes. “No, of course not. I’m sorry.” She started to push her way towards a clearer space 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-ed
ged. “Is she with you?”
“No,” she answered, 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 assurance. “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 the trial 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 nob’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? And 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 daresay 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!” she said abruptly, and swinging around, 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 at 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 keep from tripping. Outside was that unique darkness of very late autumn and fog. It was almost like disappearing into a muffling layer of cloths, 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 vapor.
“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 around, almost colliding with them 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 curb. “But why in God’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 she loves,” Charles said, trying to choke back his emotions and hold on to some kind of control.
Hester was beginning to shiver, 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 assailed 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’s? She swung around and gripped Monk’s arm so hard he winced. “What if he thinks it is her fault that Elissa gambled?” she said urgently. “What if he means her harm?”
Monk started to protest her foolishness, but Charles broke away and, churning his arms, trying to feel his way through the shifting 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 muffled hoofbeats of cab horses behind them and the dismal sound of foghorns 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, swiveling from right to left as he searched desperately for a sign of someone, anyone he could ask. The gas lamps were barely visible, 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 the 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 a 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 glass, and then gone again, rolled over and vanished in the choking vapor.
Another hansom passed them, moving more certainly. A moment later the driver called out, a thi
ck, 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 up and passing her. Even so she saw the dark heap on the curbside 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 vapor 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, God!” He snatched 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 swiveled towards the roadway and scrambled to her feet. “Cabbie!” 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 gray-faced, and the whole top of her body from the waist up was scarlet with blood.
The cabbie 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 realized 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?