The William Monk Mysteries Read online

  Monk closed the main door, then followed him into the sitting room.

  “Then you asked her, sir?” He allowed his face to register interest.

  “Yes, of course I did!” Scarsdale was beginning to regain his composure, now that he was among his own possessions. The gas was lit and turned up; it glowed gently on polished leather, old Turkey carpet and silver-framed photographs. He was a gentleman, facing a mere member of Peel’s police. “Naturally, if there had been anything that could have assisted you in your work, I should have told you.” He used the word work with a vague condescension, a mark of the gulf between them. He did not invite Monk to sit, and remained standing himself, rather awkwardly between the sideboard and the sofa.

  “And this young lady, of course, is well known to you?” Monk did not try to keep his own sarcastic contempt out of his voice.

  Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing. He chose the latter.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said stiffly.

  “You can vouch for her truthfulness,” Monk elaborated, his eyes meeting Scarsdale’s with a bitter smile. “Apart from her … work”—he deliberately chose the same word—“she is a person of perfect probity?”

  Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of cooperation from him.

  “You exceed your authority!” Scarsdale snapped. “And you are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue, or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors.” He looked at Monk and decided this was not a good idea. “The woman in question has no reason to lie,” he said stiffly. “She came up alone and left alone, and saw no one at either time, except Grimwade, the porter; and you can ascertain that from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know.” He sniffed very slightly. “This is not a common rooming house!” His eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.

  “Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer,” Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale’s face.

  Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps bigoted, but he was not stupid.

  Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.

  “You are a gentleman of similar social standing”—he winced inwardly at his own hypocrisy—“and an immediate neighbor of Major Grey’s; you must be able to tell me something about him personally. I know nothing.”

  Scarsdale was happy enough to change the subject, and in spite of his irritation, flattered.

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed quickly. “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing at all,” Monk conceded.

  “He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?” Scarsdale’s eyes widened, and at last he walked to the center of the room and sat down on a hard-backed, carved chair. He waved his arm vaguely, giving Monk permission to do so too.

  “Indeed?” Monk chose another hard-backed chair so as not to be below Scarsdale.

  “Oh yes, a very old family,” Scarsdale said with relish. “The Dowager Lady Shelburne, his mother, of course, was the eldest daughter of the Duke of Ruthven, at least I think it was he; certainly the duke of somewhere.”

  “Joscelin Grey,” Monk reminded him.

  “Oh. Very pleasant fellow; officer in the Crimea, forgotten which regiment, but a very distinguished record.” He nodded vigorously. “Wounded at Sebastopol, I think he said, then invalided out. Walked with a limp, poor devil. Not that it was disfiguring. Very good-looking fellow, great charm, very well liked, you know.”

  “A wealthy family?”

  “Shelburne?” Scarsdale was faintly amused by Monk’s ignorance and his confidence was beginning to return. “Of course. But I suppose you know, or perhaps you don’t.” He looked Monk up and down disparagingly. “But naturally all the money went to the eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne. Always happens that way, everything to the eldest, along with the title. Keeps the estates whole, otherwise everything would be in bits and pieces, d’you understand? All the power of the land gone!”

  Monk controlled his sense of being patronized; he was perfectly aware of the laws of primogeniture.

  “Yes, thank you. Where did Joscelin Grey’s money come from?”

  Scarsdale waved his hands, which were small, with wide knuckles and very short nails. “Oh business interests, I presume. I don’t believe he had a great deal, but he didn’t appear in any want. Always dressed well. Tell a lot from a fellow’s clothes, you know.” Again he looked at Monk with a faint curl of his lip, then saw the quality of Monk’s jacket and the portion of his shirt that was visible, and changed his mind, his eyes registering confusion.

  “And as far as you know he was neither married nor betrothed?” Monk kept a stiff face and hid at least most of his satisfaction.

  Scarsdale was surprised at his inefficiency.

  “Surely you know that?”

  “Yes, we know there was no official arrangement,” Monk said, hastening to cover his mistake. “But you are in a position to know if there was any other relationship, anyone in whom he—had an interest?”

  Scarsdale’s rather full mouth turned down at the corners.

  “If you mean an arrangement of convenience, not that I am aware of. But then a man of breeding does not inquire into the personal tastes—or accommodations—of another gentleman.”

  “No, I didn’t mean a financial matter,” Monk answered with the shadow of a sneer. “I meant some lady he might have—admired—or even been courting.”

  Scarsdale colored angrily. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Was he a gambler?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t gamble myself, except with friends, of course, and Grey was not among them. I haven’t heard anything, if that’s what you mean.”

  Monk realized he would get no more this evening, and he was tired. His own mystery was heavy at the back of his mind. Odd, how emptiness could be so intrusive. He rose to his feet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Scarsdale. If you should hear anything to throw light on Major Grey’s last few days, or who might have wished him harm, I am sure you will let us know. The sooner we apprehend this man, the safer it will be for everyone.”

  Scarsdale rose also, his face tightening at the subtle and unpleasant reminder that it had happened just across the hall from his own flat, threatening his security even as he stood there.

  “Yes, naturally,” he said a little sharply. “Now if you will be good enough to permit me to change—I have a dinner engagement, you know.”

  Monk arrived at the police station to find Evan waiting for him. He was surprised at the sharpness of his pleasure at seeing him. Had he always been a lonely person, or was this just the isolation from memory, from all that might have been love or warmth in himself? Surely there was a friend somewhere—someone with whom he had shared pleasure and pain, at least common experience? Had there been no woman—in the past, if not now—some stored-up memory of tenderness, of laughter or tears? If not he must have been a cold fish. Was there perhaps some tragedy? Or some wrong?

  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. Grimwade 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. “Nuffink 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. Worley 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.