The face of a stranger Page 7

  The nothingness was crowding in on him, threatening to engulf the precarious present. He had not even the comfort of habit.

  Evan's acute face, all eyes and nose, was infinitely welcome.

  "Find out anything, sir?" He stood up from the wooden chair in which he had been sitting.

  "Not a lot," Monk answered with a voice that was suddenly louder, firmer than the words warranted. "I don't see much chance of anyone having got in unseen, except the man who visited Yeats at about quarter to ten. Grim-wade says he was a biggish man, muffled up, which is reasonable on a night like that. He says he saw him leave at roughly half past ten. Took him upstairs, but didn't see him closely, and wouldn't recognize him again."

  Evan's face was a mixture of excitement and frustration.

  "Damn!" he exploded. "Could be almost anyone then!" He looked at Monk quickly. "But at least we have a fair idea how he got in. That's a great step forward; congratulations, sir!"

  Monk felt a quick renewal of his spirits. He knew it was not justified; the step was actually very small. He sat down in the chair behind the desk.

  "About six feet," he reiterated. "Dark and probably clean-shaven. I suppose that does narrow it a little."

  "Oh it narrows it quite a lot, sir," Evan said eagerly, resuming his own seat. "At least we know that it wasn't a chance thief. If he called on Yeats, or said he did, he had planned it, and taken the trouble to scout the building. He knew who else lived there. And of course there's Yeats himself. Did you see him?"

  "No, he wasn't in, and anyway I'd rather find out a little about him before I face him with it."

  "Yes, yes of course. If he knew anything, he's bound to deny it, I suppose." But the anticipation was building in Evan's face, his voice; even his body was tightening under the elegant coat as if he expected some sudden action here in the police station. "The cabby was no good, by the way. Perfectly respectable fellow, worked this area for twenty years, got a wife and seven or eight children. Never been any complaints against him."

  "Yes," Monk agreed. "Grimwade said he hadn't gone into the building, in fact doesn't think he even got off the box."

  "What do you want me to do about this Yeats?" Evan asked, a very slight smile curling his lips. "Sunday tomorrow, a bit hard to turn up much then."

  Monk had forgotten.

  "You're right. Leave it till Monday. He's been there for nearly seven weeks; it's hardly a hot trail."

  Evan's smile broadened rapidly.

  "Thank you, sir. I did have other ideas for Sunday." He stood up. "Have a good weekend, sir. Good night."

  Monk watched him go with a sense of loss. It was foolish. Of course Evan would have friends, even family, and interests, perhaps a woman. He had never thought of that before. Somehow it added to his own sense of isolation. What did he normally do with his own time? Had he friends outside duty, some pursuit or pastime he enjoyed? There had to be more than this single-minded, ambitious man he had found so far.

  He was still searching his imagination uselessly when there was a knock on the door, hasty, but not assertive, as though the person would have been pleased enough had there been no answer and he could have left again.

  "Come in!" Monk said loudly.

  The door opened and a stout young man came in. He wore a constable's uniform. His eyes were anxious, his rather homely face pink.

  "Yes?" Monk inquired.

  The young man cleared his throat. "Mr. Monk, sir?"

  "Yes?" Monk said again. Should he know this man? From his wary expression there was some history in their past which had been important at least to him. He stood in the middle of the floor, fidgeting his weight from one foot to the other. Monk's wordless stare was making him worse.

  "Can I do something for you?" Monk tried to sound reassuring. "Have you something to report?" He wished he could remember the man's name.

  "No sir—I mean yes sir, I 'ave something to ask you." He took a deep breath. "There's a report of a watch turned up at a pawnbroker's wot I done this arternoon, sir, an'— an' I thought as it might be summink ter do with your gennelman as was murdered—seein' as 'e didn't 'ave no watch, just a chain, like? Sir." He held a piece of paper with copperplate handwriting on it as if it might explode.

  Monk took it and glanced at it. It was the description of a gentleman's gold pocket watch with the initials J.G. inscribed ornately on the cover. There was nothing written inside.

  He looked up at the constable.

  "Thank you," he said with a smile. "It might well be-right initials. What do you know about it?"

  The constable blushed scarlet. "Nufflnk much, Mr. Monk. 'E swears blind as it was one of 'is reg'lars as brought it in. But you can't believe anyfink 'e says 'cause 'e would say that, wouldn't 'e? He don't want ter be mixed up in no murder."

  Monk glanced at the paper again. The pawnbroker's name and address were there and he could follow up on it any time he chose.

  "No, he'd doubtless lie," he agreed. "But we might learn something all the same, if we can prove this was Grey's watch. Thank you—very observant of you. May I keep it?"

  "Yes sir. We don't need it; we 'as lots more agin 'im." Now his furious pink color was obviously pleasure, and considerable surprise. He still stood rooted to the spot.

  "Was there anything else?" Monk raised his eyebrows.

  "No sir! No there in't. Thank you, sir." And the constable turned on his heel and marched out, tripping on the doorsill as he went and rocketing out into the passage.

  Almost immediately the door was opened again by a wiry sergeant with a black mustache.

  "You o'right, sir?" he asked, seeing Monk's frown.

  "Yes. What's the matter with—er." He waved his hand towards the departing figure of the constable, wishing desperately that he knew the man's name.

  " 'Arrison?"

  "Yes."

  "Nothin'—just afeared of you, that's all. Which in't 'ardly surprisin', seein' as 'ow you tore 'im off such a strip in front o' the 'ole station, w'en that macer slipped through 'is fingers—which weren't 'ardly 'is fault, seein' as the feller were a downright contortionist. 'Arder to 'old then a greased pig, 'e were. An' if we'd broke 'is neck we'd be the ones for the 'igh jump before breakfast!"

  Monk was confused. He did not know what to say. Had he been unjust to the man, or was there cause for whatever he had said? On the face of it, it sounded as if he had been gratuitously cruel, but he was hearing only one side of the story—there was no one to defend him, to explain, to give his reasons and say what he knew and perhaps they did not.

  And rack and tear as he might, there was nothing in his

  mind, not even Harrison's face—let alone some shred about the incident.

  He felt a fool sitting staring up at the critical eyes of the sergeant, who plainly disliked him, for what he felt was fair cause.

  Monk ached to explain himself! Even more he wanted to know for his own understanding. How many incidents would come up like this, things he had done that seemed ugly from the outside, to someone who did not know his side of the story?

  "Mr. Monk, sir?"

  Monk recalled his attention quickly. "Yes, Sergeant?"

  "Thought you might like to know as we got the mags-man wot snuffed ol' Billy Marlowe. They'll swing 'im for sure. Right villain."

  "Oh—thank you. Well done." He had no idea what the sergeant was talking about, but obviously he was expected to. "Very well done," he added.

  "Thank you, sir." The sergeant straightened up, then turned and left, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.

  Monk bent to his work again.

  * * * * *

  An hour later he left the police station and walked slowly along the dark, wet pavements and found the way back to Grafton Street.

  Mrs. Worley's rooms were at least becoming familiar. He knew where to find things, and better than that, they offered privacy: no one would disturb him, intrude on his time to think, to try again to find some thread.

  After his meal of mutton
stew and dumplings, which were hot and filling, if a little heavy, he thanked Mrs. Worley when she collected the tray, saw her down the stairs, and then began once more to go through the desk. The bills were of little use; he could hardly go to his tailor and say "What kind of man am I? What do I care about? Do you like, or dislike me, and why?" One small comfort he could draw from his accounts was that he appeared to

  have been prompt in paying them; there were no demand notices, and the receipts were all dated within a few days of presentation. He was learning something, a crumb: he was methodical.

  The personal letters from Beth told him much of her: of simplicity, an unforced affection, a life of small detail. She said nothing of hardships or of bitter winters, nothing even of wrecks or the lifeboatmen. Her concern for him was based on her feelings, and seemed to be without knowledge; she simply translated her own affections and interests to his life, and assumed his feelings were the same. He knew without needing deeper evidence that it was because he had told her nothing; perhaps he had not even written regularly. It was an unpleasant thought, and he was harshly ashamed of it. He must write to her soon, compose a letter which would seem rational, and yet perhaps elicit some answer from her which would tell him more.

  The following morning he woke late to find Mrs. Wor-ley knocking on the door. He let her in and she put his breakfast on the table with a sigh and a shake of her head. He was obliged to eat it before dressing or it would have grown cold. Afterwards he resumed the search, and again it was fruitless for any sharpening of identity, anything of the man behind the immaculate, rather expensive possessions. They told him nothing except that he had good taste, if a little predictable—perhaps that he liked to be admired? But what was admiration worth if it was for the cost and discretion of one's belongings? A shallow man? Vain? Or a man seeking security he did not feel, making his place in a world that he did not believe accepted him?

  The apartment itself was impersonal, with traditional furniture, sentimental pictures. Surely Mrs. Worley's taste rather than his own?

  After luncheon he was reduced to the last places to seek: the pockets of his other clothes, jackets hanging in the cupboard. In the best of them, a well-cut, rather formal coat, he found a piece of paper, and on unfolding it carefully, saw that it was a printed sheet for a service of Evensong at a church he did not know.

  Perhaps it was close by. He felt a quickening of hope. Maybe he was a member of the congregation. The minister would know him. He might have friends there, a belief, even an office or a calling of some sort. He folded up the paper again carefully and put it in the desk, then went into the bedroom to wash and shave again, and change into his best clothes, and the coat from which the sheet had come. By five o'clock he was ready, and he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Worley where St. Marylebone Church might be.

  His disappointment was shattering when she showed complete ignorance, Temper boiled inside him at the frustration. She must know. But her placid, blunt face was expressionless.

  He was about to argue, to shout at her that she must know, when he realized how foolish it would be. He would only anger her, drive from himself a friend he sorely needed.

  She was staring at him, her face puckered.

  "My, you are in a state. Let me ask Mr. Worley for yer; he's a rare fine understanding o' the city. O' course I expect it's on the Marylebone Road, but ezac'ly where I'm sure I wouldn't know. It's a long street, that is."

  "Thank you," he said carefully, feeling foolish. "It's rather important."

  "Going to a wedding, are yer?" She looked at his carefully brushed dark coat. "What you want is a good cabby, what knows 'is way, and'll get you there nice and prompt, like."

  It was an obvious answer, and he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. He thanked her, and when Mr. Worley had been asked, and given his opinion that it might be opposite York Gate, he went out to look for a cab.

  Evensong had already begun when he hurried up the steps and into the vestry. He could hear the voices lifted rather thinly in the first hymn. It sounded dutiful rather

  than joyous. Was he a religious man; or, it would be truer to ask, had he been? He felt no sense of comfort or reverence now, except for the simple beauty of the stonework.

  He went in as quickly as he could, walking almost on the sides of his polished boots to make no noise. One or two heads turned, sharp with criticism. He ignored them and slid into a back pew, fumbling for a hymnbook.

  Nothing sounded familiar; he followed the hymn because the tune was trite, full of musical cliches. He knelt when everyone else knelt, and rose as they rose. He missed the responses.

  When the minister stepped into the pulpit to speak, Monk stared at him, searching his face for some nicker of memory. Could he go to this man and confide in him the truth, ask him to tell him everything he knew? The voice droned on in one platitude after another; his intention was benign, but so tied in words as to be almost incomprehensible. Monk sank deeper and deeper into a feeling of helplessness. The man did not seem able to remember his own train of thought from one sentence to the next, let alone the nature and passions of his flock.

  When the last amen had been sung, Monk watched the people file out, hoping someone would touch his memory, or better still, actually speak to him.

  He was about to give up even that when he saw a young woman in black, slender and of medium height, dark hair drawn softly back from a face almost luminous, dark eyes and fragile skin, mouth too generous and too big for it. It was not a weak face, and yet it was one that could have moved easily to laughter, or tragedy. There was a grace in the way she walked that compelled him to watch her.

  As she drew level she became aware of him and turned. Her eyes widened and she hesitated. She drew in her breath as if to speak.

  He waited, hope surging up inside him, and a ridiculous excitement, as if some exquisite realization were about to come.

  Then the moment vanished; she seemed to regain a

  mastery of herself, her chin lifted a little, and she picked up her skirt unnecessarily and continued on her way.

  He went after her, but she was lost in a group of people, two of whom, also dressed in black, were obviously accompanying her. One was a tall, fair man in his mid-thirties with smooth hair and a long-nosed, serious face; the other was a woman of unusual uprightness of carriage and features of remarkable character. The three of them walked towards the street and waiting vehicles and none of them turned their heads again.

  Monk rode home in a rage of confusion, fear, and wild, disturbing hope.

  4

  But when Monk arrived on Monday morning, breathless and a little late, he was unable to begin investigation on Yeats and his visitor. Runcorn was in his room, pacing the floor and waving a piece of blue notepaper in his hand. He stopped and spun around the moment he heard Monk's feet.

  "Ah!" He brandished the paper with a look of bright, shimmering anger, his left eye narrowed almost shut.

  The good-moming greeting died on Monk's tongue.

  "Letter from upstairs." Runcorn held up the blue paper. "The powers that be are after us again. The Dowager Lady Shelburne has written to Sir Willoughby Gentry, and confided to the said member of Parliament"—he gave every vowel its full value in his volume of scorn for that body—"that she is not happy with the utter lack of success the Metropolitan Police Force is having in apprehending the vile maniac who so foully murdered her son in his own house. No excuses are acceptable for our dilatory and lackadaisical attitude, our total lack of culprits to hand." His face purpled in his offense at the injustice of it, but there was no misery in him, only a feeding rage. "What the hell are you doing, Monk? You're supposed to be such a damn good detective, you've got your eyes on a superintendency—the commissionership, for all I know! So what do we tell this—this ladyship?"

  Monk took a deep breath. He was more stunned by Runcorn's reference to himself, to his ambition, than anything in the letter. Was he an overweeningly ambitious man? There was no time for self
-defense now; Runcorn was standing in front of him commanding an answer.

  "Lamb's done all the groundwork, sir." He gave Lamb the praise that was due him. "He's investigated all he could, questioned all the other residents, street peddlers, locals, anyone who might have seen or known anything." He could see from Runcorn's face that he was achieving nothing, but he persisted. "Unfortunately it was a particularly foul night and everyone was in a hurry, heads down and collars up against the rain. Because it was so wet no one hung around, and with the overcast it was dark earlier than usual."

  Runcorn was fidgeting with impatience.

  "Lamb spent a lot of time checking out the villains we know," Monk continued. "He's written up in his report that he's spoken to every snout and informer in the area. Not a peep. No one knows anything; or if they do, they're not saying. Lamb was of the opinion they were telling the truth. I don't know what else he could have done." His experience offered nothing, but neither could his intelligence suggest any omission. All his sympathy was with Lamb.

  "Constable Harrison found a watch with the initials J.G. on it in a pawnbroker's—but we don't know it was Grey's.''

  "No," Runcorn agreed fiercely, running his finger with distaste along the deckle edge of the notepaper. It was a luxury he could not afford. "Indeed you don't! So what are you doing, then? Take it to Shelburne Hall—get it identified."

  "Harrison's on his way."

  "Can't you at least find out how the bloody man got in?"

  "I think so," Monk said levelly. "There was a visitor

  for one of the other residents, a Mr. Yeats. He came in at nine forty-five and left at roughly ten thirty. He was a biggish man, dark, well muffled. He's the only person unaccounted for; the others were women. I don't want to leap to conclusions too soon, but it looks as if he could be the murderer. Otherwise I don't know any way a stranger could have got in. Grimwade locks up at midnight, or earlier if all the residents are in, and after that even they have to ring the bell and get him up."

  Runcorn put the letter carefully on Monk's desk.

  "And what time did he lock up that night?" he asked.