The face of a stranger Read online

  He lifted his hand and rapped sharply. It was long, desperate minutes with the questions roaring in his mind before it was opened by a broad, middle-aged woman in an apron. Her hair was scraped back untidily, but it was thick and clean and her scrubbed face was generous.

  "Well I never!" she said impulsively. "Save my soul, if it in't Mr. Monk back again! I was only saying to Mr. Worley this very morning, as 'ow if you didn't come back again soon I'd 'ave ter let yer rooms; much as it'd go against me ter do it. But a body 'as ter live. Mind that Mr. Runcorn did come around an' say as yer'd 'ad a hac-cident and bin terrible 'urt and was in one 'o them 'or-stipitals." She put her hand to her head in despair. "Gawd save us from such places. Ye're the first man I've seen as 'as come out o' there on 'is own two feet. To tell you the truth, I was expectin' every day to 'ave some messenger boy come and say as you was dead." She screwed up her face and looked at him carefully. "Mind yer does still look proper poorly. Come in and I'll make yer a good meal. Yer must be starved, I'll dare swear yer 'aven't 'ad a decent dish since yer left 'ere! It were as cold as a workhouse master's 'eart the day yer went!" And she whisked her enormous skirts around and led him inside.

  He followed her through the paneled hallway hung with sentimental pictures and up the stairs to a large landing. She produced a bunch of keys from her girdle and opened one of the doors.

  "I suppose you gorn and lorst your own key, or you wouldn't 'ave knocked; that stands ter reason, don't it?"

  "I had my own key?" he asked before realizing how it betrayed him.

  "Gawd save us, o' course yer did!" she said in surprise. "Yer don't think I'm goin' ter get up and down at all hours o' the night ter let yer in and out, do yer? A Christian body needs 'er sleep. 'Eathen hours yer keeps, an' no mistake. Comes o' chasin' after 'eathen folk, I expec'."

  She turned to look at him. " 'Ere, yer does look ill. Yer must 'ave bin 'it summink terrible. You go in there an' sit down, an' I'll bring yer a good 'ot meal an' a drink. Do you the world o' good, that will." She snorted and straightened her apron fiercely. "I always thought them 'orstipitals din't look after yer proper. I'll wager as 'alf o' them wot dies in there dies o' starvation." And with indignation at the thought twitching in every muscle under her black taffeta, she swept out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

  Monk walked over and closed it, then turned to face the room. It was large, dark brown paneling and green wallpaper. The furniture was well used. A heavy oak table with four matching chairs stood in the center, Jacobean with carved legs and decorated claw feet. The sideboard against the far wall was similar, although what purpose it served he did not know; there was no china on it, and when he opened the drawers, no cutlery. However the lower drawers did contain table linen and napkins, freshly laundered and in good repair. There was also an oak desk with two small, flat drawers. Against the near wall, by the door, there was a handsome bookcase full of volumes. Part of the furniture? Or his own? Later he would look at the titles.

  The windows were draped rather than hung with fringed plush curtains of a mid shade of green. The gas brackets on the walls were ornate, with pieces missing. The leather easy chair had faded patches on the arms, and the pile on the cushions was flat. The carpet's colors had long since dimmed to muted plums, navies and forest greens—a pleasant background. There were several pictures of a self-indulgent tone, and a motto over the mantelpiece with the dire warning god sees all.

  Were they his? Surely not; the emotions jarred on him and he found himself pulling a face at the mawkishness of the subjects, even feeling a touch of contempt.

  It was a comfortable room, well lived in, but peculiarly impersonal, without photographs or mementos, no mark

  of his own taste. His eyes went around it again and again, but nothing was familiar, nothing brought even a pinprick of memory.

  He tried the bedroom beyond. It was the same: comfortable, old, shabby. A large bed stood in the center, made up ready with clean sheets, crisp white bolster, and wine-colored eiderdown, flounced at the edges. On the heavy dresser there was a rather pleasant china washbowl and a jug for water. A handsome silver-backed hairbrush lay on the tallboy.

  He touched the surfaces. His hands came away clean. Mrs. Worley was at least a good housekeeper.

  He was about to open the drawers and look further when there was a sharp rap on the outer door and Mrs. Worley returned, carrying a tray with a steaming plate piled with steak and kidney pudding, boiled cabbage, carrots and beans, and another dish with pie and custard.

  "There yer are," she said with satisfaction, setting it down on the table. He was relieved to see knife, fork and spoon with it, and a glass of cider. "You eat that, and yer'll feel better!"

  "Thank you, Mrs. Worley." His gratitude was genuine; he had not had a good meal since . . . ?

  "It's my duty, Mr. Monk, as a Christian woman," she replied with a little shake of her head. "And yer always paid me prompt, I'll say that for yer—never argued ner was a day late, fer ought else! Now you eat that up, then go ter bed. Yer look proper done in. I don't know what yer bin doin', an' I don't want ter. Prob'ly in't fit fer a body to know anyway."

  "What shall I do with the . . ."He looked at the tray.

  "Put it outside the door like yer always does!" she said with raised eyebrows. Then she looked at him more closely and sighed. "An' if yer gets took poorly in the night, yer'd best shout out, an I'll come an' see to yer."

  "It won't be necessary—I shall be perfectly well."

  She sniffed and let out a little gasp, heavy with disbelief, then bustled out, closing the door behind her with a

  loud click. He realized immediately how ungracious he had been. She had offered to get up in the night to help him if he needed it, and all he had done was assure her she was not needed. And she had not looked surprised, or hurt. Was he always this discourteous? He paid—she said he paid promptly and without quibble. Was that all there was between them, no kindness, no feeling, just a lodger who was financially reliable, and a landlady who did her Christian duty by him, because that was her nature?

  It was not an attractive picture.

  He turned his attention to the food. It was plain, but of excellent flavor, and she was certainly not ungenerous with her portions. It flickered through his mind with some anxiety to wonder how much he paid for these amenities, and if he could much longer afford them while he was unable to work. The sooner he recovered his strength, and enough of his wits to resume his duties for the police, the better. He could hardly ask her for credit, particularly after her remarks, and his manners. Please heaven he did not owe her already for the time he was in the hospital!

  When he had finished the meal he placed the tray outside on the landing table where she could collect it. He went back into the room, closed the door and sat in one of the armchairs, intending to look through the desk in the window corner, but in weariness, and the comfort of the cushions, he fell asleep.

  When he woke, cold now and stiff, his side aching, it was dark, and he fumbled to light the gas. He was still tired, and would willingly have gone to bed, but he knew that the temptation of the desk, and the fear of it, would trouble even the most exhausted sleep.

  He lit the lamp above it and pulled open the top. There was a flat surface with inkstand, a leather writing block and a dozen small closed drawers.

  He started at the top left-hand side, and worked through them all. He must be a methodical man. There were receipted bills; a few newspaper clippings, entirely of crimes, usually violent, and describing brilliant police work in solving them; three railway timetables; business letters; and a note from a tailor.

  A tailor. So that was where his money went—vain beggar. He must take a look through his wardrobe and see what his taste was. Expensive, according to the bill in his hand. A policeman who wanted to look like a gentleman! He laughed sharply: a ratcatcher with pretensions—was that what he was? A somewhat ridiculous figure. The thought hurt and he pushed it away with a black humor.


  In other drawers there were envelopes, notepaper, good quality—vanity again! Whom did he write to? There was also sealing wax, string, a paper knife and scissors, a number of minor items of convenience. It was not until me tenth drawer that he found the personal correspondence. They were all in the same hand, to judge from the formation of the letters a young person, or someone of slight education. Only one person wrote to him—or only one whose letters he had considered worth keeping. He opened the first, angry with himself that his hands were shaking.

  It was very simple, beginning "Dear William," full of homely news, and ending "your loving sister, Beth."

  He put it down, the round characters burning in front of him, dizzy and overwhelmed with excitement and relief, and perhaps a shadow of disappointment he forced away. He had a sister, there was someone who knew him, had always known him; more than that, who cared. He picked up the letter again quickly, almost tearing it in his clumsiness to reread it. It was gentle, frank, and yes, it was affectionate; it must be, one did not speak so openly to someone one did not trust, and care for.

  And yet there was nothing in it that was any kind of reply, no reference to anything he had written to her. Surely he did write? He could not have treated such a woman with cavalier disregard.

  What kind of a man was he? If he had ignored her, not written, then there must be a reason. How could he explain himself, justify anything, when he could not remember? It was like being accused, standing in the dock with no defense.

  It was long, painful moments before he thought to look for the address. When he did it came as a sharp, bewildering surprise—it was in Northumberland. He repeated it over and over to himself, aloud. It sounded familiar, but he could not place it. He had to go to the bookcase and search for an atlas to look it up. Even so he could not see it for several minutes. It was very small, a name in fine letters on the coast, a fishing village.

  A fishing village! What was his sister doing there? Had she married and gone there? The surname on the envelope was Bannerman. Or had he been born there, and then come south to London? He laughed sharply. Was that the key to his pretension? He was a provincial fisherman's son, with eyes on passing himself off as something better?

  When? When had he come?

  He realized with a shock he did not know how old he was. He still had not looked at himself in the glass. Why not? Was he afraid of it? What did it matter how a man looked? And yet he was trembling.

  He swallowed hard and picked up the oil lamp from the desk. He walked slowly into the bedroom and put the lamp on the dresser. There must be a glass there, at least big enough to shave himself.

  It was on a swivel; that was why he had not noticed it before, his eye had been on the silver brush. He set the lamp down and slowly tipped the glass.

  The face he saw was dark and very strong, broad, slightly aquiline nose, wide mouth, rather thin upper lip, lower lip fuller, with an old scar just below it, eyes intense luminous gray in the flickering light. It was a powerful face, but not an easy one. If there was humor it would be harsh, of wit rather than laughter. He could have been anything between thirty-five and forty-five.

  He picked up the lamp and walked back to the main room, finding the way blindly, his inner eye still seeing

  the face that had stared back at him from the dim glass. It was not that it displeased him especially, but it was the face of a stranger, and not one easy to know.

  * * * * *

  The following day he made his decision. He would travel north to see his sister. She would at least be able to tell him his childhood, his family. And to judge from her letters, and the recent date of the last, she still held him in affection, whether he deserved it or not. He wrote in the morning telling her simply that he had had an accident but was considerably recovered now, and intended to visit her when he was well enough to make the journey, which he expected to be no more than another day or two at the outside.

  Among the other things in the desk drawer he found a modest sum of money. Apparently he was not extravagant except at the tailor, the clothes in his wardrobe were impeccably cut and of first-quality fabric, and possibly the bookshop—if the contents of the case were his. Other than that he had saved regularly, but if for any particular purpose there was no note of it, and it hardly mattered now. He gave Mrs. Worley what she asked for a further month's rent on account—minus the food he would not consume while he was away—and informed her he was going to visit his sister in Northumberland.

  "Very good idea." She nodded her head sagaciously. "More'n time you paid her a visit, if yer ask me. Not that yer did, o' course! I'm not one to interfere"—she drew in her breath—"but yer in't bin orf ter see 'er since I known yer—an that's some years now. An' the poor soul writes to yer reg'lar— although w'en yer writes back I'm blessed if I know!"

  She put the money in her pocket and looked at him closely.

  "Well, you look after yerself—eat proper and don't go doin' any daft caperin's around chasin' folk. Let ruffians alone an' mind for yerself for a space." And with that parting advice she smoothed her apron again and turned away, her boot heels clicking down the corridor towards the kitchen.

  It was August fourth when he boarded the train in London and settled himself for the long journey.

  * * * * *

  Northumberland was vast and bleak, wind roaring over treeless, heather-darkened moors, but there was a simplicity about its tumultuous skies and clean earth that pleased him enormously. Was it familiar to him, memories stirring from childhood, or only beauty that would have woken the same emotion in him had it been as unknown as the plains of the moon? He stood a long time at the station, bag in his hand, staring out at the hills before he finally made move to begin. He would have to find a conveyance of some kind: he was eleven miles from the sea and the hamlet he wanted. In normal health he might well have walked it, but he was still weak. His rib ached when he breamed deeply, and he had not yet the full use of his broken arm.

  It was not more man a pony cart, and he had paid handsomely for it, he thought. But he was glad enough to have the driver take him to his sister's house, which he asked for by name, and deposit him and his bag on the narrow street in front of the door. As the wheels rattled away over the cobbles he conquered his thoughts, the apprehension and the sense of an irretrievable step, and knocked loudly.

  He was about to knock again when the door swung open and a pretty, fresh-faced woman stood on the step. She was bordering on the plump and had strong dark hair and features reminiscent of his own only in the broad brow and some echo of cheekbones. Her eyes were blue and her nose had the strength without the arrogance, and her mouth was far softer. All this flashed into his mind, wife the realization that she must be Beth, his sister. She would find him inexplicable, and probably be hurt, if he did not know her.

  "Beth." He held out his hands.

  Her face broke into a broad smile of delight.

  "William! I hardly knew you, you've changed so much!

  We got your letter—you said an accident—are you hurt badly? We didn't expect you so soon—" She blushed. "Not that you aren't very welcome, of course." Her accent was broad Northumberland, and he found it surprisingly pleasing to the ear. Was that familiarity again, or only the music of it after London?

  "William?" She was staring at him. "Come inside— you must be tired out, and hungry." She made as if to pull him physically into the house.

  He followed her, smiling in a sudden relief. She knew him; apparently she held no grudge for his long absence or the letters he had not written. There was a naturalness about her that made long explanations unnecessary. And he realized he was indeed hungry.

  The kitchen was small but scrubbed clean; in fact the table was almost white. It woke no chord of memory in him at all. There were warm smells of bread and baked fish and salt wind from the sea. For the first time since waking in the hospital, he found himself beginning to relax, to ease the knots out.

  Gradually, over bread and soup, he told her
the facts he knew of the accident, inventing details where the story was so bare as to seem evasive. She listened while she continued to stir her cooking on the stove, warm the flat-iron and then began on a series of small children's clothes and a man's Sunday white shirt. If it was strange to her, or less than credible, she gave no outward sign. Perhaps the whole world of London was beyond her knowledge anyway, and inhabited by people who lived incomprehensible lives which could not be hoped to make sense to ordinary people.

  It was the late summer dusk when her husband came in, a broad, fair man with wind-scoured face and mild features. His gray eyes still seemed tuned to the sea. He greeted Monk with friendly surprise, but no sense of dismay or of having been disturbed in his feelings, or the peace of his home.

  No one asked Monk for explanations, even the three shy children returned from chores and play, and since he had none to give, the matter was passed over. It was a strange mark of the distance between them, which he observed with a wry pain, that apparently he had never shared enough of himself with his only family that they noticed the omission.

  Day succeeded day, sometimes golden bright, sun hot when the wind was offshore and the sand soft under his feet. Other times it swung east off the North Sea and blew with sharp chill and the breath of storm. Monk walked along the beach, feeling it rip at him, beating his face, tearing at his hair, and the very size of it was at once frightening and comforting. It had nothing to do with people; it was impersonal, indiscriminate.

  He had been there a week, and was feeling the strength of life come back to him, when the alarm was called. It was nearly midnight and the wind screaming around the stone corners of the houses when the shouts came and the hammering on the door.

  Rob Bannerman was up within minutes, oilskins and seaboots on still almost in his sleep. Monk stood on the landing in bewilderment, confused; at first no explanation came to his mind as to the emergency. It was not until he saw Beth's face when she ran to the window, and he followed her and saw below them the dancing lanterns and the gleam of light on moving figures, oilskins shining in the rain, that he realized what it was. Instinctively he put his arm around Beth, and she moved fractionally closer to him, but her body was stiff. Under her breath she was praying, and there were tears in her voice.