The face of a stranger Read online

  "I was working on a Latterly case some time ago," he said, struggling to keep his voice level. "It's probably coincidence. I was looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn't find it."

  "Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some scandal to hush up, or—"

  "No!" He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying his feelings. He moderated his tone. "No, not at all. Poor man is dead anyway. Died before Grey did."

  "Oh." Evan turned back to the desk. "That's about all, I'm afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from these, and they'll lead us to more."

  "Yes, yes quite. I'll take Latterly's address, all the same."

  "Oh, right." Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.

  Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.

  They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.

  "Lunch," Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent, obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of daily life.

  "Right." Evan fell in step beside him. "There's a good public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent dumplings. That is—" he stopped suddenly. "It's very ordinary—don't know if you—"

  "Fine," Monk agreed. "Sounds just what we need. I'm frozen after being in that place. I don't know why, but it seems cold, even inside."

  Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. "It might be imagination, but it always chills me. I'm not used to murder yet. I suppose you're above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven't got that far—"

  "Don't!" Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to. "Don't get used to it!" He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden sensitivity, but he did not care. "I mean," he said more softly, aware that he had startled Evan by his vehemence, "keep your brain clear, by all means, but don't let it cease to shock you. Don't be a

  detective before you're a man." Now that he had said it it sounded sententious and extremely trite. He was embarrassed.

  Evan did not seem to notice.

  "I've a long way to go before I'm efficient enough to do that, sir. I confess, even that room up there makes me feel a little sick. This is the first murder like this I've been on." He sounded self-conscious and very young. "Of course I've seen bodies before, but usually accidents, or paupers who died in the street. There are quite a few of them in the winter. That's why I'm so pleased to be on this case with you. I couldn't learn from anyone better."

  Monk felt himself color with pleasure—and shame, because he did not deserve it. He could not think of anything at all to say, and he strode ahead through the thickening rain searching for words, and not finding them. Evan walked beside him, apparently not needing an answer.

  * * * * *

  The following Monday Monk and Evan got off the train at Shelburne and set out towards Shelbume Hall. It was one of the summer days when the wind is fresh from the east, sharp as a slap in the face, and the sky is clear and cloudless. The trees were huge green billows resting on the bosom of the earth, gently, incessantly moving, whispering. There had been rain overnight, and under the shadows the smell of damp earth was sweet where their feet disturbed it.

  They walked in silence, each enjoying it in his own way. Monk was not aware of any particular thoughts, except perhaps a sense of pleasure in the sheer distance of the sky, the width across the fields. Suddenly memory flooded back vividly, and he saw Northumberland again: broad, bleak hills, north wind shivering in the grass. The milky sky was mackerel shredded out to sea, and white gulls floated on the currents, screaming.

  He could remember his mother, dark like Beth, standing in the kitchen, and the smell of yeast and flour. She had been proud of him, proud that he could read and write.

  He must have been very young then. He remembered a room with sun in it, the vicar's wife teaching him letters, Beth in a smock staring at him in awe. She could not read. He could almost feel himself teaching her, years after, slowly, outline by outline. Her writing still carried echoes of those hours, careful, conscious of the skill and its long learning. She had loved him so much, admired him without question. Then the memory disappeared and it was as if someone had drenched him in cold water, leaving him startled and shivering. It was the most acute and powerful memory he had recaptured and its sharpness left him stunned. He did not notice Evan's eyes on him, or the quick glance away as he strove to avoid what he realized would be intrusion.

  Shelburne Hall was in sight across the smooth earth, less than a thousand yards away, framed in trees.

  "Do you want me to say anything, or just listen?" Evan asked. "It might be better if I listened."

  Monk realized with a start that Evan was nervous. Perhaps he had never spoken to a woman of title before, much less questioned her on personal and painful matters. He might not even have seen such a place, except from the distance. He wondered where his own assurance came from, and why he had not ever thought of it before. Run-corn was right, he was ambitious, even arrogant—and insensitive.

  "Perhaps if you try the servants," he replied. "Servants notice a lot of things. Sometimes they see a side of their masters that their lordships manage to hide from their equals."

  "I'll try the valet," Evan suggested. "I should imagine you are peculiarly vulnerable in the bath, or in your underwear." He grinned suddenly at the thought, and perhaps in some amusement at the physical helplessness of his social superiors to need assistance in such common matters. It offset his own fear of proving inadequate to the situation.

  Lady Fabia Shelburne was somewhat surprised to see

  Monk again, and kept him waiting nearly half an hour, this time in the butler's pantry with the silver polish, a locked desk for the wine book and the cellar keys, and a comfortable armchair by a small grate. Apparently the housekeeper's sitting room was already in use. He was annoyed at the casual insolence of it, and yet part of him was obliged to admire her self-control. She had no idea why he had come. He might even have been able to tell her who had murdered her son, and why.

  When he was sent for and conducted to the rosewood sitting room, which seemed to be peculiarly hers, she was cool and gracious, as if he had only just arrived and she had no more than a courteous interest in what he might say.

  At her invitation he sat down opposite her on the same deep rose-pink chair as before.

  "Well, Mr. Monk?" she inquired with slightly raised eyebrows. "Is there something further you want to say to me?"

  "Yes ma'am, if you please. We are even more of the opinion thai whoever killed Major Grey did so for some personal reason, and that he was not a chance victim. Therefore we need to know everything further we can about him, his social connections—"

  Her eyes widened. "If you imagine his social connections are of a type to indulge in murder, Mr. Monk, then you are extraordinarily ignorant of society."

  "I am afraid, ma'am, that most people are capable of murder, if they are hard-pressed enough, and threatened in what they most value—"

  "I think not." Her voice indicated the close of the subject and she turned her head a little away from him.

  "Let us hope they are rare, ma'am." He controlled his impulse to anger with difficulty. "But it would appear there is at least one, and I am sure you wish to find him, possibly even more than I do."

  "You are very slick with words, young man." It was

  grudgingly given, even something of a criticism. "What is it you imagine I can tell you?"

  "A list of his closest friends," he answered. "Family friends, any invitations you may know of that he accepted in the last few months, especially for weeks or week
ends away. Perhaps any lady in whom he may have been interested." He saw a slight twitch of distaste cross her immaculate features. "I believe he was extremely charming." He added the flattery in which he felt was her only weakness.

  "He was." There was a small movement in her lips, a change in her eyes as for a moment grief overtook her. It was several seconds till she smoothed it out again and was as perfect as before.

  Monk waited in silence, for the first time aware of the force of her pain.

  "Then possibly some lady was more attracted to him than was acceptable to her other admirers, or even her husband?" he suggested at last, and in a considerably softer tone, although his resolve to find the murderer of Joscelin Grey was if anything hardened even further, and it allowed of no exceptions, no omissions for hurt.

  She considered this thought for a moment before deciding to accept it. He imagined she was seeing her son again as he had been in life, elegant, laughing, direct of gaze.

  "It might have been," she conceded. "It could be that some young person was indiscreet, and provoked jealousy."

  "Perhaps someone who had a little too much to drink?" He pursued it with a tact that did not come to him naturally. "And saw in it more than there was?"

  "A gentleman knows how to conduct himself." She looked at Monk with a slight turn downwards at the corners of her mouth. The word gentleman was not lost on him. "Even when he has had too much to drink. But unfortunately some people are not as discriminating in their choice of guests as they should be."

  "If you would give me some names and addresses,

  ma'am; I shall conduct my inquiries as cautiously as I can, and naturally shall not mention your name. I imagine all persons of good conscience will be as keen to discover who murdered Major Grey as you are yourself."

  It was a well-placed argument, and she acknowledged it with a momentary glance directly into his eyes.

  "Quite," she agreed. "If you have a notebook I shall oblige you." She reached across to the rosewood table almost at her side and opened a drawer. She took out a leather-bound and gold-tooled address book.

  He made ready and was well started when Lovel Grey came in, again dressed in casual clothes—this time breeches and a Norfolk jacket of well-worn tweed. His face darkened when he saw Monk.

  "I really think, Mr. Monk, that if you have something to report, you may do so to me!" he said with extreme irritation. "If you have not, then your presence here serves no purpose, and you are distressing my mother. I am surprised you should come again."

  Monk stood up instinctively, annoyed with himself for the necessity.

  "I came, my lord, because I needed some further information, which Lady Shelburne has been kind enough to give me." He could feel the color hot in his face.

  “There is nothing we can tell you that could be of the least relevance," Lovel snapped. "For heaven's sake, man, can't you do your job without rushing out here every few days?" He moved restlessly, fidgeting with the crop in his hand. "We cannot help you! If you are beaten, admit it! Some crimes are never solved, especially where madmen are concerned."

  Monk was trying to compose a civil reply when Lady Shelburne herself intervened in a small, tight voice.

  "That may be so, Lovel, but not in this case. Joscelin was killed by someone who knew him, however distasteful that may be to us. Naturally it is also possible it was someone known here. It is far more discreet of Mr. Monk to

  ask us than to go around inquiring of the whole neighborhood."

  "Good God!" Lovel's face fell. "You cannot be serious. To allow him to do that would be monstrous. We'd be ruined."

  "Nonsense!" She closed her address book with a snap and replaced it in the drawer. "We do not ruin so easily. There have been Shelburnes on the land for five hundred years, and will continue to be. However I have no intention of allowing Mr. Monk to do any such thing." She looked at Monk coldly. "That is why I am providing him with a list myself, and suitable questions to ask—and to avoid."

  "There is no need to do either." Lovel turned furiously from his mother to Monk and back again, his color high. "Whoever killed Joscelin must have been one of his London acquaintances—if indeed it really was someone he knew at all, which I still doubt. In spite of what you say, I believe it was purely chance he was the victim, and not someone else. I daresay he was seen at a club, or some such place, by someone who saw he had money and hoped to rob him."

  "It was not robbery, sir," Monk said firmly. "There were all sorts of valuable items quite visible and untouched in his rooms, even the money in his wallet was still there."

  "And how do you know how much he had in his wallet?" Lovel demanded. "He may have had hundreds!"

  "Thieves do not usually count out change and return it to you," Monk replied, moderating the natural sarcasm in his voice only slightly.

  Lovel was too angry to stop. "And have you some reason to suppose this was a 'usual' thief? I did not know you had proceeded so far. In fact I did not know you had proceeded at all."

  "Most unusual, thank heaven." Monk ignored the jibe. "Thieves seldom kill. Did Major Grey often walk about with hundreds of pounds in his pocket?''

  Lovel's face was scarlet. He threw the crop across the room, intending it to land on the sofa, but it fell beyond and rattled to the floor. He ignored it. "No of course not!" he shouted. "But then this was a unique occasion. He was not simply robbed and left lying, he was beaten to death, if you remember."

  Lady Fabia's face pinched with misery and disgust.

  "Really, Lovel, the man is doing his best, for whatever that is worth. There is no need to be offensive."

  Suddenly his tone changed. "You are upset, Mama; and it's quite natural that you should be. Please leave this to me. If I think there is anything to tell Mr. Monk, I shall do so. Why don't you go into the withdrawing room and have tea with Rosamond?"

  "Don't patronize me, Lovel!" she snapped, rising to her feet. "I am not too upset to conduct myself properly, and to help the police find the man who murdered my son."

  "There is nothing whatsoever we can do, Mama!" He was fast losing his temper again. "Least of all assist them to pester half the country for personal information about poor Joscelin's life and friends."

  "It was one of poor Joscelin's 'friends' who beat him to death!" Her cheeks were ashen white and a lesser woman might well have fainted before now, but she stood ramrod stiff, her white hands clenched.

  "Rubbish!" Lovel dismissed it instantly. "It was probably someone he played at cards and who simply couldn't take losing. Joscelin gambled a damned sight more than he led you to believe. Some people play for stakes they can't afford, and then when they're beaten, they lose control of themselves and go temporarily off their heads." He breathed in and out hard. "Gaming clubs are not always as discriminating as they should be as to whom they allow in. That is quite probably what happened to Joscelin. Do you seriously imagine anyone at Shelburne would know anything about it?"

  "It is also possible it was someone who was jealous

  over a woman," she answered icily. "Joscelin was very charming, you know."

  Lovel flushed and the whole skin of his face appeared to tighten.

  "So I have frequently been reminded," he said in a soft, dangerous little voice. "But not everyone was as susceptible to it as you, Mama. It is a very superficial quality."

  She stared at him with something that bordered on contempt.

  "You never understood charm, Lovel, which is your great misfortune. Perhaps you would be good enough to order extra tea in the withdrawing room." Deliberately she ignored her son and contravened propriety, as if to annoy him. "Will you join us, Mr. Monk? Perhaps my daughter-in-law may be able to suggest something. She was accustomed to attend many of the same functions as Joscelin, and women are frequently more observant of other women, especially where"—she hesitated—"affairs of the emotions are concerned."

  Without waiting for his reply she assumed his compliance and, still ignoring Lovel, turned to the door and stopped.
Lovel wavered for only the barest second, then he came forward obediently and opened the door for her. She swept through without looking again at either of them.

  In the withdrawing room the atmosphere was stiff. Rosamond had difficulty hiding her amazement at being expected to take tea with a policeman as if he were a gentleman; and even the maid with the extra cups and muffins seemed uncomfortable. Apparently the below-stairs gossip had already told her who Monk was. Monk silently thought of Evan, and wondered if he had made any progress.

  When the maid had handed everyone their cups and plates and was gone Lady Fabia began in a level, quiet voice, avoiding Lovel's eyes.

  "Rosamond, my dear, the police require to know everything they can about Joscelin's social activities in the

  last few months before he died. You attended most of the same functions, and are thus more aware of any relationships than I. For example, who might have shown more interest in him than was prudent?"

  "I?" Rosamond was either profoundly surprised or a better actress than Monk had judged her to be on their earlier meeting.

  "Yes you, my dear." Lady Fabia passed her the muffins, which she ignored. "I am talking to you. I shall, of course, also ask Ursula."

  "Who is Ursula?" Monk interrupted.

  "Miss Ursula Wadham; she is betrothed to my second son, Menard. You may safely leave it to me to glean from her any information that would be of use." She dismissed Monk and turned back to Rosamond. "Well?"

  "I don't recall Joscelin having any . . . relationship in— in particular." Rosamond sounded rather awkward, as if the subject disturbed her. Watching her, Monk wondered for a moment if she had been in love with Joscelin herself, if perhaps that was why Lovel was so reluctant to have the matter pursued.

  Could it even have gone further than a mere attraction?

  "That is not what I asked," Lady Fabia said with thin patience. "I asked you if anyone else had shown any interest in Joscelin, albeit a one-sided one?"

  Rosamond's head came up. For a moment Monk thought she was about to resist her mother-in-law, then the moment died.