The William Monk Mysteries Page 13

  Then why had the new person in charge not spoken to Mrs. Latterly—or more likely her husband, if he were alive? Perhaps he was not. Maybe that was the reason it was she who had asked? He put the files away and went to Runcorn’s office. He was startled in passing an outside window to notice that it was now nearly dusk.

  Runcorn was still in his office, but on the point of leaving. He did not seem in the least surprised to see Monk.

  “Back to your usual hours again?” he said dryly. “No wonder you never married; you’ve taken a job to wife. Well, cold comfort it’ll get you on a winter night,” he added with satisfaction. “What is it?”

  “Latterly.” Monk was irritated by the reminder of what he could now see of himself. Before the accident it must have been there, all his characteristics, habits, but then he was too close to see them. Now he observed them dispassionately, as if they belonged to someone else.

  “What?” Runcorn was staring at him, his brow furrowed into lines of incomprehension, his nervous gesture of the left eye more pronounced.

  “Latterly,” Monk repeated. “I presume you gave the case to someone else when I was ill?”

  “Never heard of it,” Runcorn said sharply.

  “I was working on the case of a man called Latterly. He either committed suicide, or was murdered—”

  Runcorn stood up and went to the coat stand and took his serviceable, unimaginative coat off the hook.

  “Oh, that case. You said it was suicide and closed it, weeks before the accident. What’s the matter with you? Are you losing your memory?”

  “No I am not losing my memory!” Monk snapped, feeling a tide of heat rising up inside him. Please heaven it did not show in his face. “But the papers are gone from my files. I presumed something must have occurred to reopen the case and you had given it to someone.”

  “Oh.” Runcorn scowled, proceeding to put on his coat and gloves. “Well, nothing has occurred, and the file is closed. I haven’t given it to anyone else. Perhaps you didn’t write up anything more? Now will you forget about Latterly, who presumably killed himself, poor devil, and get back to Grey, who most assuredly did not. Have you got anything further? Come on, Monk—you’re usually better than this! Anything from this fellow Yeats?”

  “No sir, nothing helpful.” Monk was stung and his voice betrayed it.

  Runcorn turned from the hat stand and smiled fully at him, his eyes bright.

  “Then you’d better abandon that and step up your inquiries into Grey’s family and friends, hadn’t you?” he said with ill-concealed satisfaction. “Especially women friends. There may be a jealous husband somewhere. Looks like that kind of hatred to me. Take my word, there’s something very nasty at the bottom of this.” He tilted his hat slightly on his head, but it simply looked askew rather than rakish. “And you, Monk, are just the man to uncover it. You’d better go and try Shelburne again!” And with that parting shot, ringing with jubilation, he swung his scarf around his neck and went out.

  Monk did not go to Shelburne the next day, or even that week. He knew he would have to, but he intended when he went to be as well armed as possible, both for the best chance of success in discovering the murderer of Joscelin Grey, whom he wanted with an intense and driving sense of justice, and—fast becoming almost as important—to avoid all he could of offense in probing the very private lives of the Shelburnes, or whoever else might have been aroused to such a rage, over whatever jealousies, passions or perversions. Monk knew that the powerful were no less frail than the rest of men, but they were usually far fiercer in covering those frailties from the mockery and the delight of the vulgar. It was not a matter of memory so much as instinct, the same way he knew how to shave, or to tie his cravat.

  Instead he set out with Evan the following morning to go back to Mecklenburg Square, this time not to find traces of an intruder but to learn anything he could about Grey himself. Although they walked with scant conversation, each deep in his own thoughts, he was glad not to be alone. Grey’s flat oppressed him and he could never free his mind from the violence that had happened there. It was not the blood, or even the death that clung to him, but the hate. He must have seen death before, dozens, if not scores of times, and he could not possibly have been troubled by it like this each time. It must usually have been casual death, pathetic or brainless murder, the utter selfishness of the mugger who wants and takes, or murder by the thief who finds his escape blocked. But in the death of Grey there was a quite different passion, something intimate, a bond of hatred between the killer and the killed.

  He was cold in the room, even though the rest of the building was warm. The light through the high windows was colorless as if it would drain rather than illuminate. The furniture seemed oppressive and shabby, too big for the place, although in truth it was exactly like any other. He looked at Evan to see if he felt it also, but Evan’s sensitive face was puckered over with the distaste of searching another man’s letters, as he opened the desk and began to go through the drawers.

  Monk walked past him into the bedroom, a little stale smelling from closed windows. There was a faint film of dust, as last time. He searched cupboards and clothes drawers, dressers, the tallboy. Grey had an excellent wardrobe; not very extensive, but a beautiful cut and quality. He had certainly possessed good taste, if not the purse to indulge it to the full. There were several sets of cuff links, all gold backed, one with his family crest engraved, two with his own initials. There were three stickpins, one with a fair-sized pearl, and a set of silver-backed brushes, a pigskin toilet kit. Certainly no burglar had come this far. There were many fine pocket handkerchiefs, mono-grammed, silk and linen shirts, cravats, socks, clean underwear. He was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find he knew to within a few shillings the price one would pay for each article, and wondered what aspirations had led him to such knowledge.

  He had hoped to find letters in the top drawers, perhaps those too personal to mix with bills and casual correspondence in the desk, but there was nothing, and eventually he went back to the main room. Evan was still at the desk, standing motionless. The place was totally silent, as though both of them were aware that it was a dead man’s room, and felt intrusive.

  Far down in the street there was a rumble of wheels, the sharper sound of hooves, and a street seller’s cry which sounded like “Ole clo‘—ole clo’!”

  “Well?” He found his voice sunk to a near whisper.

  Evan looked up, startled. His face was tight.

  “Rather a lot of letters here, sir. I’m not sure really what to make of them. There are several from his sister-in-law, Rosamond Grey; a rather sharp one from his brother Lovel—that’s Lord Shelburne, isn’t it? A very recent note from his mother, but only one, so it looks as if he didn’t keep hers. There are several from a Dawlish family, just prior to his death; among them an invitation to stay at their home for a week. They seem to have been friendly.” He puckered his mouth slightly. “One is from Miss Amanda Dawlish, sounds quite eager. In fact there are a number of invitations, all for dates after his death. Apparently he didn’t keep old ones. And I’m afraid there’s no diary. Funny.” He looked up at Monk. “You’d think a man like that would have a social diary, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes you would!” Monk moved forward. “Perhaps the murderer took it. You’re quite sure?”

  “Not in the desk.” Evan shook his head. “And I’ve checked for hidden drawers. But why would anyone hide a social diary anyway?”

  “No idea,” Monk said honestly, taking a step nearer to the desk and peering at it. “Unless it was the murderer who took it. Perhaps his name figures heavily. We’ll have to try these Dawlishes. Is there an address on the letters?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve made a note of it.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Several bills. He wasn’t very prompt in paying up, but I knew that already from talking to the tradesmen. Three from his tailor, four or five from a shirtmaker, the one I visited, two from the wine merchant,
a rather terse letter from the family solicitor in reply to a request for an increased allowance.”

  “In the negative, I take it?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Anything from clubs, gambling and so on?”

  “No, but then one doesn’t usually commit gambling debts to paper, even at Boodles, unless you are the one who is collecting, of course.” Then he smiled suddenly. “Not that I can afford to know—except by hearsay!”

  Monk relaxed a little. “Quite,” he agreed. “Any other letters?”

  “One pretty cool one from a Charles Latterly, doesn’t say much—”

  “Latterly?” Monk froze.

  “Yes. You know him?” Evan was watching him.

  Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs. Latterly at St. Marylebone had said “Charles,” and he had feared it might have been her husband.

  “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 Shelburne 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. Runcorn 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 that 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 weekends 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.