The face of a stranger Page 11

  * * * * *

  Outside in the sharper evening air Hester Latterly turned to her sister-in-law.

  "I think it is past time you explained yourself, Imogen," she said quietly, but with an edge of urgency in her voice. "Just who is that man?"

  "He is with the police," Imogen replied, walking briskly towards their carriage, which was waiting at the curbside. The coachman climbed down, opened the door and handed them in, Imogen first, then Hester. Both took his courtesy for granted and Hester arranged her skirts merely sufficiently to be comfortable, Imogen to avoid crushing the fabric.

  "What do you mean, 'with'?" Hester demanded as the carriage moved forward. "One does not accompany the police; you make it sound like a social event! 'Miss Smith is with Mr. Jones this evening.' "

  "Don't be pedantic," Imogen criticized. "Actually you can say it of a maid as well—'Tilly is with the Robinsons at present'!"

  Hester's eyebrows shot up. "Indeed! And is that man presently playing footman to the police?"

  Imogen remained silent.

  "Ifri sorry," Hester said at length. "But I know there is something distressing you, and I feel so helpless because I don't know what it is."

  Imogen put out her hand and held Hester's tightly.

  "Nothing," she said in a voice so low it could only just be heard above the rattle of the carriage and the dull thud of hooves and the noises of the street. "It is only Papa's death, and all that followed. None of us are over the shock of it yet, and I do appreciate your leaving everything and coming home as you did."

  "I never thought of doing less," Hester said honestly, although her work in the Crimean hospitals had changed her beyond anything Imogen or Charles could begin to

  understand. It had been a hard duty to leave the nursing service and the white-hot spirit to improve, reform and heal that had moved not only Miss Nightingale but so many other women as well. But the death of first her father, then within a few short weeks her mother also, had made it an undeniable duty that she should return home and be there to mourn, and to assist her brother and his wife in all the affairs that there were to be attended to. Naturally Charles had seen to all the business and the finances, but there had been the house to close up, servants to dismiss, endless letters to write, clothes to dispose of to the poor, bequests of a personal nature to be remembered, and the endless social facade to be kept up. It would have been desperately unfair to expect Imogen to bear the burden and that responsibility alone. Hester had given no second thought as to whether she should come, simply excused herself, packed her few belongings and embarked.

  It had been an extraordinary contrast after the desperate years in the Crimea with the unspeakable suffering she had seen, the agony of wounds, bodies torn by shot and sword; and to her even more harrowing, those wasted by disease, the racking pain and nausea of cholera, typhus and dysentery, the cold and the starvation; and driving her almost beyond herself with fury, the staggering incompetence.

  She, like the other handful of women, had worked herself close to exhaustion, cleaning up human waste where there were no sanitary facilities, excrement from the helpless running on the floor and dripping through to the packed and wretched huddled in the cellars below. She had nursed men delirious with fever, gangrenous from amputations of limbs lost to everything from musket shot, cannon shot, sword thrust, even frostbite on the exposed and fearful bivouacs of the winter encampments where men and horses had perished by the thousands. She had delivered babies of the hungry and neglected army wives, buried many of them, then comforted the bereaved.

  And when she could bear the pity no longer she had expended her last energy in fury, fighting the endless, idiotic inadequacy of the command, who seemed to her not to have the faintest grasp of ordinary sense, let alone management ability.

  She had lost a brother, and many friends, chief among them Alan Russell, a brilliant war correspondent who had written home to the newspapers some of the unpalatable truths about one of the bravest and foolhardiest campaigns ever fought. He had shared many of them with her, allowing «her to read them before they were posted.

  Indeed in the weakness of fever he had dictated his last letter to her and she had sent it. When he died in the hospital at Scutari she had in a rash moment of deep emotion written a dispatch herself, and signed his name to it as if he were still alive.

  It had been accepted and printed. From knowledge gleaned from other injured and feverish men she had learned their accounts of battle, siege and trench warfare, crazy charges and long weeks of boredom, and other dispatches had followed, all with Alan's name on them. In the general confusion no one realized.

  Now she was home in the orderly, dignified, very sober grief of her brother's household mourning both her parents, wearing black as if this were the only loss and there were nothing else to do but conduct a gentle life of embroidery, letter writing and discreet good works with local charities. And of course obey Charles's continuous and rather pompous orders as to what must be done, and how, and when. It was almost beyond bearing. It was as if she were in suspended animation. She had grown used to having authority, making decisions and being in the heart of emotion, even if overtired, bitterly frustrated, full of anger and pity, desperately needed.

  Now Charles was driven frantic because he could not understand her or comprehend the change in her from the brooding, intellectual girl he knew before, nor could he foresee any respectable man offering for her in marriage. He found the thought of having her living under his roof for the rest of her life well nigh insufferable.

  The prospect did not please Hester either, but then she had no intention of allowing it to come to pass. As long as Imogen needed her she would remain, then she would consider her future and its possibilities.

  However, as she sat in the carriage beside Imogen while they rattled through the dusk streets she had a powerful conviction that there was much troubling her sister-in-law and it was something that, for whatever reasons, Imogen was keeping secret, telling neither Charles nor Hester, and bearing the weight of it alone. It was more than grief, it was something that lay not only in the past but in the future also.

  5

  Monk and Evan saw Grimwade only briefly, then went straight up to visit Yeats. It was a little after eight in the morning and they hoped to catch him at breakfast, or possibly even before.

  Yeats opened the door himself; he was a small man of about forty, a trifle plump, with a mild face and thinning hair which fell forward over his brow. He was startled and there was still a piece of toast and orange preserve in his hand. He stared at Monk with some alarm.

  "Good morning, Mr. Yeats," Monk said firmly. "We are from the police; we would like to speak to you about the murder of Major Joscelin Grey. May we come in please?" He did not step forward, but his height seemed to press over Yeats and vaguely threaten him, and he used it deliberately.

  "Y-yes, y-yes of course," Yeats stuttered, backing away, still clutching the toast. "But I assure you I d-don't know anything I haven't already t-told you. Not you—at least—a Mr. Lamb who was—a—"

  "Yes I know." Monk followed him in. He knew he was being oppressive, but he could not afford to be gentle.

  Yeats must have seen the murderer face-to-face, possibly even been in collusion with him, willingly or unwillingly.

  "But we have learned quite a few new facts," he went on, "since Mr. Lamb was taken ill and I have been put on the case."

  "Oh?" Yeats dropped the toast and bent to pick it up, ignoring the preserve on the carpet. It was a smaller room than Joscelin Grey's and overpoweringly furnished in heavy oak covered in photographs and embroidered linen. There were antimacassars on both the chairs.

  "Have you—" Yeats said nervously. "Have you? I still don't think I can—er—could—"

  "Perhaps if you were to allow a few questions, Mr. Yeats." Monk did not want him so frightened as to be incapable of thought or memory.

  "Well—if you think so. Yes—yes, if . . ." He backed away and sat down sharp
ly on the chair closest to the table.

  Monk sat also and was conscious of Evan behind him doing the same on a ladder-back chair by the wall. He wondered fleetingly what Evan was thinking, if he found him harsh, overconscious of his own ambition, his need to succeed. Yeats could so easily be no more than he seemed, a frightened little man whom mischance had placed at the pivot of a murder.

  Monk began quietly, thinking with an instant's self-mockery that he might be moderating his tone not to reassure Yeats but to earn Evan's approval. What had led him to such isolation that Evan's opinion mattered so much to him? Had he been too absorbed in learning, climbing, polishing himself, to afford friendship, much less love? Indeed, had anything at all engaged his higher emotions?

  Yeats was watching him like a rabbit seeing a stoat, and too horrified to move.

  "You yourself had a visitor that night," Monk told him quite gently. "Who was he?"

  "I don't know!" Yeats's voice was high, almost a squeak. "I don't know who he was! I told Mr. Lamb that! He came here by mistake; he didn't even really want me!"

  Monk found himself holding up his hand, trying to calm him as one would with an overexcited child, or an animal.

  "But you saw him, Mr. Yeats." He kept his voice low. "No doubt you have some memory of his appearance, perhaps his voice? He must have spoken to you?" Whether Yeats was lying or not, he would achieve nothing by attacking his statement now; Yeats would only entrench himself more and more deeply into his ignorance.

  Yeats blinked.

  "I-I really can hardly say, Mr.—Mr.—"

  "Monk—I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or small?"

  "Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad night—wet—terribly."

  "Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?" Monk stood up helpfully.

  Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same, as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head unhappily.

  Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.

  "He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested, still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death." He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks, does it not?"

  Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.

  "You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.

  "Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any thought of social arrogance—or involvement. “Only to pass the time of day, you understand? But he was very

  civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."

  "And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you said."

  "Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."

  "And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"

  Yeats looked surprised.

  "He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business, you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or another."

  "He was English then?"

  “I beg your pardon?''

  "He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known, even had he been in the business?"

  "Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was English."

  "And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"

  "I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air. "He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''

  "I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."

  "Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled inside him and he slid backwards and down into his chair. Behind Monk, Evan moved as if to help, then changed his mind and sat down again.

  "That surprises you?" Monk inquired.

  Yeats was gasping, beyond speech.

  "Are you sure this man was not known to you?" Monk persisted, giving him no time to regather his thoughts. This was the time to press.

  "Yes, yes I am. Quite unknown." He covered his face with his hands. "Oh my dear heaven!"

  Monk stared at Yeats. The man was useless now, either reduced to abject horror, or else very skillfully affecting to be. He turned and looked at Evan. Evan's face was stiff with embarrassment, possibly for their presence and their part in the man's wretchedness, possibly merely at being witness to it.

  Monk stood up and heard his own voice far away. He knew he was risking a mistake, and that he was doing it because of Evan.

  "Thank you, Mr. Yeats. I'm sorry for distressing you. Just one more thing: was this man carrying a stick?"

  Yeats looked up, his face sickly pale; his voice was no more than a whisper.

  "Yes, quite a handsome one; I noticed it."

  "Heavy or light?"

  "Oh heavy, quite heavy. Oh no!" He shut his eyes, screwing them up to hide even his imagination.

  "There is no need for you to be frightened, Mr. Yeats," Evan said from behind. "We believe he was someone who knew Major Grey personally, not a chance lunatic. There is no reason to suppose he would have harmed you. I daresay he was looking for Major Grey in the first place and found the wrong door."

  It was not until they were outside that Monk realized Evan must have said it purely to comfort the little man. It could not have been true. The visitor had asked for Yeats by name. He looked sideways at Evan, now walking silently beside him in the drizzling rain. He made no remark on it.

  Grimwade had proved no further help. He had not seen the man come down after leaving Yeats's door, nor seen him go to Joscelin Grey's. He had taken the opportunity to attend the call of nature, and then had seen the man leave at a quarter past ten, three quarters of an hour later.

  "There's only one conclusion," Evan said unhappily, striding along with his head down. "He must have left

  Yeats's door and gone straight along the hallway to Grey, spent half an hour or so with him, then killed him, and left when Grimwade saw him go."

  "Which doesn't tell us who he was," Monk said, stepping across a puddle and passing a cripple selling bootlaces. A rag and bone cart trundled by, its driver calling out almost unintelligibly in a singsong voice. "I keep coming back to the one thing," Monk resumed. "Why did anyone hate Joscelin Grey so much? There was a passion of hate in that room. Someone hated him so uncontrollably he couldn't stop beating him even after he was dead."

  Evan shivered and the rain ran off his nose and chin. He pulled his collar up closer around his ears and his face was pale.

  "Mr. Runcorn was right," he said miserably. "It's going to be extremely nasty. You have to know someone very well to hate them as much as that."

  "Or have been mortally wronged," Monk added. "But you're probably right; it'll be in the family, these things usually are. Either that, or a lover somewhere."

  Evan looked shocked. "You mean Grey was—?"

  "No." Monk smiled with a sharp downward twist. "That wasn't what I meant, although I suppose it's possible; in fact it's distinctly possible. But I was thinking of a woman, with a husband perhaps."

  Evan's faced relaxed a fraction.

  "I suppose it's too violent for a simple debt, gambling or something?" he said without much hope.

  Monk thought for a moment.

  "Could be blackmail," he suggested with genuine belief. The idea had only just occurred to him seriously, but he liked it.

  Evan frowned.
They were walking south along Grey's Inn Road.

  "Do you think so?" He looked sideways at Monk. "Doesn't ring right to me. And we haven't found any unaccounted income yet. Of course, we haven't really

  looked. And blackmail victims can be driven to a very deep hatred indeed, for which I cannot entirely blame them. When a man has been tormented, stripped of all he has, and then is still threatened with ruin, mere comes a point when reason breaks."

  "We'll have to check on the social company he kept," Monk replied. "Who might have made mistakes damaging enough to be blackmailed over, to the degree that ended in murder."

  "Perhaps if he was homosexual?" Evan suggested it with returning distaste, and Monk knew he did not believe his own word. "He might have had a lover who would pay to keep him quiet—and if pushed too for, kill him?"

  "Very nasty." Monk stared at the wet pavement. "Run-corn was right." And thought of Runcorn set his mind on a different track.

  He sent Evan to question all the local tradesmen, people at the club Grey had been at the evening he was killed, anything to learn about his associates.

  * * * * *

  Evan began at the wine merchant's whose name they had found on a bill head in Grey's apartments. He was a fat man with a drooping mustache and an unctuous manner. He expressed desolation over the loss of Major Grey. What a terrible misfortune. What an ironic stroke of fete that such a fine officer should survive the war, only to be struck down by a madman in his own home. What a tragedy. He did not know what to say—and he said it at considerable length while Evan struggled to get a word in and ask some useful question.

  When at last he did, the answer was what he had guessed it would be. Major Grey—the Honorable Joscelin Grey— was a most valued customer. He had excellent taste—but what else would you expect from such a gentleman? He knew French wine, and he knew German wine. He liked the best. He was provided with it from this establishment. His accounts? No, not always up to date—but paid in due course. The nobility were that way with-money—one had

  to learn to accommodate it. He could add nothing—but nothing at all. Was Mr. Evan interested in wine? He could recommend an excellent Bordeaux.