The face of a stranger Page 8

  "Eleven," Monk replied. "No one was out."

  "What did Lamb say about this man who visited Yeats?" Runcorn screwed up his face.

  "Not much. Apparently he only spoke to Yeats once, and then he spent most of the time trying to find out something about Grey. Maybe he didn't realize the importance of the visitor at that time. Grimwade said he took him up to Yeats's door and Yeats met him. Lamb was still looking for a thief off the street then—"

  "Then!" Runcorn leapt on the word, sharp, eager. "So what are you looking for now?"

  Monk realized what he had said, and that he meant it. He frowned, and answered as carefully as he could.

  "I think I'm looking for someone who knew him, and hated him; someone who intended to kill him."

  "Well for God's sake don't say so to the Dowager Lady Shelburne!" Runcorn said dangerously.

  "I'm hardly likely to be speaking to her," Monk answered with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  "Oh yes you are!" There was a ring of triumph in Run-corn's voice and his big race was glowing with color. "You are going down to Shelburne today to assure Her Ladyship that we are doing everything humanly possible to apprehend the murderer, and that after intensive effort and brilliant work, we at last have a lead to discovering this monster." His lip curled very faintly. "You're generally so blunt, damn near rude, in spite of your fancy airs, she

  won't take you for a liar." Suddenly his tone altered again and became soft. "Anyway, why do you think it was someone who knew him? Maniacs can kill with a hell of a mess; madmen strike over and over again, hate for no reason."

  "Possibly." Monk stared back at him, matching dislike for dislike. "But they don't scout out the names of other residents, call upon them, and then go and kill someone else. If he was merely a homicidal lunatic, why didn't he kill Yeats? Why go and look for Grey?"

  Runcorn's eyes were wide; he resented it, but he took the point.

  "Find out everything you can about this Yeats," he ordered. "Discreetly, mind! I don't want him scared away!"

  "What about Lady Shelburne?" Monk affected innocence.

  "Go and see her. Try to be civil, Monk—make an effort! Evan can chase after Yeats, and tell you whatever he finds when you get back. Take the train. You'll be in Shelburne a day or two. Her Ladyship won't be surprised to see you, after the rumpus she's raised. She demanded a report on progress, in person. You can put up at the inn. Well, off you go then. Don't stand there like an ornament, man!"

  * * * * *

  Monk took the train on the Great Northern line from the King's Cross Station. He ran across the platform and jumped in, slamming the carriage door just as the engine belched forth a cloud of steam, gave a piercing shriek and jolted forward. It was an exciting sensation, a surge of power, immense, controlled noise, and then gathering speed as they emerged from the cavern of the station buildings out into the sharp late-afternoon sunlight.

  Monk settled himself into a vacant seat opposite a large woman in black bombazine with a fur tippet around her neck (in spite of the season) and a black hat on at a fierce angle. She had a packet of sandwiches, which she opened immediately and began to eat. A little man with large

  spectacles eyed them hopefully, but said nothing. Another man in striped trousers studiously read his Times.

  They roared and hissed their way past tenements, houses and factories, hospitals, churches, public halls and offices, gradually thinning, more interspersed with stretches of green, until at last the city fell away and Monk stared with genuine pleasure at the beauty of soft countryside spread wide in the lushness of full summer. Huge boughs clouded green over fields heavy with ripening crops and thick hedgerows starred with late wild roses. Coppices of trees huddled in folds of the slow hills, and villages were easily marked by the tapering spires of churches, or the occasional squarer Norman tower.

  Shelburne came too quickly, while he was still drinking in the loveliness of it. He grabbed his valise oif the rack and opened the door hastily, excusing himself past the fet woman in the bombazine and incurring her silent displeasure. On the platform he inquired of the lone attendant where Shelburne Hall lay, and was told it was less than a mile. The man waved his arm to indicate the direction, then sniffed and added, "But the village be two mile in t'opposite way, and doubtless that be w'ere you're a-goin'."

  "No thank you," Monk replied. "I have business at the hall."

  The man shrugged. "If'n you say so, sir. Then you'd best take the road left an' keep walking."

  Monk thanked him again and set out.

  It took him only fifteen minutes to walk from the station entrance to the drive gates. It was a truly magnificent estate, an early Georgian mansion three stories high, with a handsome frontage, now covered in places by vines and creepers, and approached by a sweeping carriageway under beech trees and cedars that dotted a parkland which seemed to stretch towards distant fields, and presumably the home farm.

  Monk stood in the gateway and looked for several minutes. The grace of proportion, the way it ornamented rather

  than intruded upon the landscape, were all not only extremely pleasing but also perhaps indicative of something in the nature of the people who had been born here and grown up in such a place.

  Finally he began walking up the considerable distance to the house itself, a further third of a mile, and went around past the outhouses and stables to the servants' entrance. He was received by a rather impatient footman.

  "We don't buy at the door," he said coldly, looking at Monk's case.

  "I don't sell," Monk replied with more tartness than he had intended. "I am from the Metropolitan Police. Lady Shelburne wished a report on the progress we have made in investigating the death of Major Grey. I have come to give that report."

  The footman's eyebrows went up.

  "Indeed? That would be the Dowager Lady Shelburne. Is she expecting you?"

  "Not that I know of. Perhaps you would tell her I am here."

  "I suppose you'd better come in." He opened the door somewhat reluctantly. Monk stepped in, then without further explanation the man disappeared, leaving Monk in the back hallway. It was a smaller, barer and more utilitarian version of the front hall, only without pictures, having only the functional furniture necessary for servants' use. Presumably he had gone to consult some higher authority, perhaps even that autocrat of below-stairs—and sometimes above—the butler. It was several minutes before he returned, and motioned Monk to go with him.

  "Lady Shelburne will see you in half an hour." He left Monk in a small parlor adjacent to the housekeeper's room, a suitable place for such persons as policemen; not precisely servants or tradesmen, and most certainly not to be considered as of quality.

  Monk walked slowly around the room after the footman had gone, looking at the worn furniture, brown upholstered chairs with bow legs and an oak sideboard

  and table. The walls were papered and fading, the pictures anonymous and rather puritan reminders of rank and the virtues of duty. He preferred the wet grass and heavy trees sloping down to ornamental water beyond the window.

  He wondered what manner of woman she was who could control her curiosity for thirty long minutes rather than let her dignity falter in front of a social inferior. Lamb had said nothing about her. Was it likely he had not even seen her? The more he considered it, the more certain he became. Lady Shelburne would not direct her inquiries through a mere employee, and there had been no cause to question her in anything.

  But Monk wanted to question her; if Grey had been killed by a man who hated him, not a maniac in the sense of someone without reason, only insofar as he had allowed a passion to outgrow control until it had finally exploded in murder, then it was imperative Monk learn to know Grey better. Intentionally or not, Grey's mother would surely betray something of him, some honesty through the memories and the grief, that would give color to the outline.

  He had had time to think a lot about Grey and formulate questions in his mind by the time the footman returned and conduc
ted him through the green baize door and across the corridor to Lady Fabia's sitting room. It was decorated discreetly with deep pink velvet and rosewood furniture. Lady Fabia herself was seated on a Louis Quinze sofa and when Monk saw her all his preconceptions fled his tongue. She was not very big, but as hard and fragile as porcelain, her coloring perfect, not a blemish on her skin, not a soft, fair hair out of place. Her features were regular, her blue eyes wide, only a slightly jutting chin spoiled the delicacy of her face. And she was perhaps too thin; slen-derness had given way to angularity. She was dressed in violet and black, as became someone in mourning, although on her it looked more like something to be observed for one's own dignity than any sign of distress. There was nothing frail in her manner.

  "Good morning," she said briskly, dismissing the footman with a wave of her hand. She did not regard Monk with any particular interest and her eyes barely glanced at his face. "You may sit if you wish. I am told you have come to report to me the progress you have made in discovering and apprehending the murderer of my son. Pray proceed."

  Opposite him Lady Fabia sat, her back ramrod-straight from years of obedience to governesses, walking as a child with a book on her head for deportment, and riding upright in a sidesaddle in the park or to hounds. There was little Monk could do but obey, sitting reluctantly on one of the ornate chairs and feeling self-conscious.

  "Well?" she demanded when he remained silent. "The watch your constable brought was not my son's."

  Monk was stung by her tone, by her almost unthinking assumption of superiority. In the past he must have been used to this, but he could not remember; and now it stung with the shallow sharpness of gravel rash, not a wound but a blistering abrasion. A memory of Beth's gentleness came to his mind. She would not have resented this. What was the difference between them? Why did he not have her soft Northumbrian accent? Had he eradicated it intentionally, washing out his origins in an attempt to appear some kind of gentleman? The thought made him blush for its stupidity.

  Lady Shelburne was staring at him.

  "We have established the only time a man could have gained entry to the buildings,'' he replied, still stiff with his own sense of pride. "And we have a description of the only man who did so." He looked straight into her chilly and rather surprised blue eyes. "He was roughly six feet tall, of solid build, as far as can be judged under a greatcoat. He was dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. He went ostensibly to visit a Mr. Yeats, who also lives in the building. We have not yet spoken to Mr. Yeats—"

  "Why not?"

  "Because you required that I come and report our progress to you, ma'am."

  Her eyebrows rose in incredulity, touched with contempt. The sarcasm passed her by entirely.

  "Surely you cannot be the only man directed to conduct such an important case? My son was a brave and distinguished soldier who risked his life for his country. Is this the best with which you can repay him?"

  "London is full of crimes, ma'am; and every man or woman murdered is a loss to someone."

  "You can hardly equate the death of a marquis's son with that of some thief or indigent in the street!" she snapped back.

  "Nobody has more than one life to lose, ma'am; and all are equal before the law, or they should be."

  "Nonsense! Some men are leaders, and contribute to society; most do not. My son was one of those who did."

  "Some have nothing to—" he began.

  "Then that is their own fault!" she interrupted. "But I do not wish to hear your philosophies. I am sorry for those in the gutter, for whatever reason, but they really do not interest me. What are you doing about apprehending this madman who killed my son? Who is he?"

  "We don't know—"

  "Then what are you doing to find out?" If she had any feelings under her exquisite exterior, like generations of her kind she had been bred to conceal them, never to indulge herself in weakness or vulgarity. Courage and good taste were her household gods and no sacrifice to them was questioned, nor too great, made daily and without fuss.

  Monk ignored Runcorn's admonition, and wondered in passing how often he had done so in the past. There had been a certain asperity in Runcorn's tone this morning which surpassed simply frustration with the case, or Lady Shelburne's letter.

  "We believe it was someone who knew Major Grey," he answered her. "And planned to kill him."

  "Nonsense!" Her response was immediate. "Why should anyone who knew my son have wished to kill him? He was a man of the greatest charm; everyone liked him, even those who barely knew him." She stood up and walked over towards the window, her back half to him. "Perhaps that is difficult for you to understand; but you never met him. Lovel, my eldest son, has the sobriety, the sense of responsibility, and something of a gift to manage men; Menard is excellent with facts and figures. He can make anything profitable; but it was Joscelin who had the charm, Joscelin who could make one laugh." There was a catch in her voice now, the sound of real grief. “Menard cannot sing as Joscelin could; and Lovel has no imagination. He will make an excellent master of Shelburne. He will govern it well and be just to everyone, as just as it is wise to be—but my God"—there was sudden heat in her voice, almost passion—"compared with Joscelin, he is such a bore!"

  Suddenly Monk was touched by the sense of loss that came through her words, the loneliness, the feeling that something irrecoverably pleasing had gone from her life and part of her could only look backwards from now on.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it deeply. "I know it cannot bring him back, but we will find the man, and he will be punished."

  "Hanged," she said tonelessly. "Taken out one morning and his neck broken on the rope."

  "Yes."

  "That is of little use to me." She turned back to him. "But it is better than nothing. See to it that it is done."

  It was dismissal, but he was not yet ready to go. There were things he needed to know. He stood up.

  "I mean to, ma'am; but I still need your help—"

  "Mine?" Her voice expressed surprise, and disapproval.

  "Yes ma'am. If I am to learn who hated Major Grey

  enough to kill him"—he caught her expression—"for whatever reason. The finest people, ma'am, can inspire envy, or greed, jealousy over a woman, a debt of honor that cannot be paid—"

  "Yes, you make your point." She blinked and the muscles in her thin neck tightened. "What is your name?"

  "William Monk."

  "Indeed. And what is it you wish to know about my son, Mr. Monk?"

  "To start with, I would like to meet the rest of the family."

  Her eyebrows rose in faint, dry amusement.

  "You think I am biased, Mr. Monk, that I have told you something less than the truth?"

  "We frequently show only our most flattering sides to those we care for most, and who care for us," he replied quietly.

  "How perceptive of you." Her voice was stinging. He tried to guess what well-covered pain was behind those words.

  "When may I speak to Lord Shelburne?" he asked. "And anyone else who knew Major Grey well?"

  "If you consider it necessary, I suppose you had better." She went back to the door. "Wait here, and I shall ask him to see you, when it is convenient." She pulled the door open and walked through without looking back at him.

  He sat down, half facing the window. Outside a woman in a plain stuff dress walked past, a basket on her arm. For a wild moment memory surged back to him. He saw in his mind a child as well, a girl with dark hair, and he knew the cobbled street beyond the trees, going down to the water. There was something missing; he struggled for it, and then knew it was wind, and the scream of gulls. It was a memory of happiness, of complete safety. Childhood—perhaps his mother, and Beth?

  Then it was gone. He fought to add to it, focus it more sharply and see the details again, but nothing else came.

  He was an adult back in Shelburne, with the murder of Joscelin Grey.

  He waited for another quarter of an hour before the door opened again
and Lord Shelburne came in. He was about thirty-eight or forty, heavier of build than Joscelin Grey, to judge by the description and the clothes; but Monk wondered if Joscelin had also had that air of confidence and slight, even unintentional superiority. He was darker than his mother and the balance of his face was different, sensible, without a jot of humor in the mouth.

  Monk rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy—and hated himself for doing it.

  "You're the police fellow?" Shelburne said with a slight frown. He remained standing, so Monk was obliged to also. "Well, what is it you want? I really can't imagine how anything I can tell you about my brother could help you find the lunatic who broke in and killed him, poor devil."

  "No one broke in, sir," Monk corrected him. "Whoever it was, Major Grey gave entrance to him himself."

  "Really?" The level brows rose a fraction. "I find that very unlikely."

  ' "Then you are not acquainted with the facts, sir.'' Monk was irked by the condescension and the arrogance of a man who presumed to know Monk's job better than he did, simply because he was a gentleman. Had he always found it so hard to bear? Had he been quick-tempered? Runcorn had said something about lack of diplomacy, but he could not remember what it was now. His mind flew back to the church the day before, to the woman who had hesitated as she passed him down the aisle. He could see her face as sharply here at Shelburne as he had then; the rustle of taffeta, the faint, almost imaginary perfume, the widening of her eyes. It was a memory that made his heart beat faster and excitement catch in his throat.

  "I know my brother was beaten to death by a lunatic." Shelburne's voice cut across him, scattering his thoughts. "And you haven't caught him yet. Those are facts!"

  Monk forced his attention to the present.

  "With respect, sir." He tried to choose his words with tact. "We know that he was beaten to death. We do not know by whom, or why; but there were no marks of forced entry, and the only person unaccounted for who could possibly have entered the building appears to have visited someone else. Whoever attacked Major Grey took great care about the way he did it, and so far as we know, did not steal anything."