The face of a stranger Read online

  "And you deduce from that that it was someone he knew?" Shelburne was skeptical.

  "That, and the violence of the crime," Monk agreed, standing across the room from him so he could see Shel-burne's face in the light. "A simple burglar does not go on hitting his victim long after he is quite obviously dead."

  Shelburne winced. "Unless he is a madman! Which was rather my point. You are dealing with a madman, Mr.— er." He could not recall Monk's name and did not wait for it to be offered. It was unimportant. "I think there's scant chance of your catching him now. You would probably be better employed stopping muggings, or pickpockets, or whatever it is you usually do."

  Monk swallowed his temper with difficulty, "Lady Shelburne seems to disagree with you."

  Lovel Grey was unaware of having been rude; one could not be rude to a policeman.

  "Mama?" His face flickered for an instant with unaccustomed emotion, which quickly vanished and left his features smooth again. "Oh, well; women feel these things. I am afraid she has taken Joscelin's death very hard, worse than if he'd been killed in the Crimea." It appeared to surprise him slightly.

  "It's natural," Monk persisted, trying a different approach. "I believe he was a very charming person—and well liked?"

  Shelburne was leaning against the mantelpiece and his boots shone in the sun falling wide through the French window. Irritably he kicked them against the brass fender.

  "Joscelin? Yes, I suppose he was. Cheerful sort of fellow, always smiling. Gifted with music, and telling stories, that kind of thing. I know my wife was very fond of him. Great pity, and so pointless, just some bloody madman." He shook his head. "Hard on Mother."

  "Did he come down here often?" Monk sensed a vein more promising.

  "Oh, every couple of months or so. Why?" He looked up. "Surely you don't think someone followed him from here?"

  "Every possibility is worth looking into, sir." Monk leaned his weight a little against the sideboard. "Was he here shortly before he was killed?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact he was; couple of weeks, or less. But I think you are mistaken. Everyone here had known him for years, and they all liked him." A shadow crossed his face. "Matter of fact, I think he was pretty well the servants' favorite. Always had a pleasant word, you know; remembered people's names, even though he hadn't lived here for years."

  Monk imagined it: the solid, plodding older brother, worthy but boring; the middle brother still an outline only; and the youngest, trying hard and finding that charm could bring him what birth did not, making people laugh, unbending the formality, affecting an interest in the servants' lives and families, winning small treats for himself that his brothers did not—and his mother's love.

  "People can hide hatred, sir," Monk said aloud. "And they usually do, if they have murder in mind."

  "I suppose they must," Lovel conceded, straightening up and standing with his back to the empty fireplace. "Still, I think you're on the wrong path. Look for some lunatic in London, some violent burglar; there must be loads of them. Don't you have contacts, people who inform to the police? Why don't you try them?"

  "We have, sir—exhaustively. Mr. Lamb, my predecessor, spent weeks combing every possibility in that direction. It was the first place to look." He changed the subject

  suddenly, hoping to catch him less guarded. "How did Major Grey finance himself, sir? We haven't uncovered any business interest yet.''

  "What on earth do you want to know that for?" Lovel was startled. "You cannot imagine he had the sort of business rivals who would beat him to death with a stick! That's ludicrous!"

  "Someone did."

  He wrinkled his face with distaste. "I had not forgotten that! I really don't know what his business interests were. He had a small allowance from the estate, naturally."

  "How much, sir?"

  "I hardly think that needs to concern you." Now the irritation was back; his aifairs had been trespassed upon by a policeman. Again his boot kicked absently at the fender behind him.

  "Of course it concerns me, sir." Monk had command of his temper now. He was in control of the conversation, and he had a direction to pursue. "Your brother was murdered, probably by someone who knew him. Money may well come into it; it is one of the commonest motives for murder."

  Lovel looked at him without replying.

  Monk waited.

  "Yes, I suppose it is," Lovel said at last. "Four hundred pounds a year—and of course there was his army pension."

  To Monk it sounded a generous amount; one could run a very good establishment and keep a wife and family, with two maids, for less than a thousand pounds. But possibly Joscelin Grey's tastes had been a good deal more extravagant: clothes, clubs, horses, gambling, perhaps women, or at least presents for women. They had not so far explored his social circle, still believing it to have been an intruder from the streets, and Grey a victim of ill fortune rather than someone of his own acquaintance.

  "Thank you," he replied to Lord Shelburne. "You know of no other?"

  "My brother did not discuss his financial affairs with me."

  “You say your wife was fond of him? Would it be possible for me to speak to Lady Shelburne, please? He may have said something to her the last time he was here that could help us."

  "Hardly, or she would have told me; and naturally I should have told you, or whoever is in authority."

  "Something that meant nothing to Lady Shelburne might have meaning for me," Monk pointed out. "Anyway, it is worth trying."

  Lovel moved to the center of the room as if somehow he would crowd Monk to the door. "I don't think so. And she has already suffered a severe shock; I don't see any purpose in distressing her any further with sordid details."

  "I was going to ask her about Major Grey's personality, sir," Monk said with the shadow of irony in his voice. "His friends and his interests, nothing further. Or was she so attached to him that would distress her too much?"

  "I don't care for your impertinence!" Lovel said sharply. "Of course she wasn't. I just don't want to rake the thing over any further. It is not very pleasant to have a member of one's family beaten to death!"

  Monk faced him squarely. There was not more than a yard between them.

  "Of course not, but that surely is all the more reason why we must find the man."

  "If you insist." With ill humor he ordered Monk to follow him, and led him out of the very feminine sitting room along a short corridor into the main hall. Monk glanced around as much as was possible in the brief time as Shelburne paced ahead of him towards one of the several fine doorways. The walls were paneled to shoulder height in wood, the floor parqueted and scattered with Chinese carpets of cut pile and beautiful pastel shades, and the whole was dominated by a magnificent staircase dividing halfway up and sweeping to left and right at either

  end of a railed landing. There were pictures in ornate gold frames on all sides, but he had no time to look at them.

  Shelburne opened the withdrawing room door and waited impatiently while Monk followed him in, then closed it. The room was long and faced south, with French windows looking onto a lawn bordered with herbaceous flowers in brilliant bloom. Rosamond Shelburne was sitting on a brocaded chaise longue, embroidery hoop in her hand. She looked up when they came in. She was at first glance not unlike her mother-in-law: she had the same fair hair and good brow, the same shape of eye, although hers were dark brown, and there was a different balance to her features, the resolution was not yet hard, there was humor, a width of imagination waiting to be given flight. She was dressed soberly, as befitted one who had recently lost a brother-in-law, but the wide skirt was the color of wine in shadow, and only her beads were black.

  "I am sorry, my dear." Shelburne glanced pointedly at Monk. "But this man is from the police, and he thinks you may be able to tell him something about Joscelin that will help." He strode past her and stopped by the first window, glancing at the sun across the grass.

  Rosamond's fair skin colored very slightly and she a
voided Monk's eyes.

  "Indeed?" she said politely. "I know very little of Jos-celin's London life, Mr.—?"

  "Monk, ma'am," he answered. "But I understand Major Grey had an affection for you, and perhaps he may have spoken of some friend, or an acquaintance who might lead us to another, and so on?"

  "Oh." She put her needle and frame down; it was a tracery of roses around a text. "I see. I am afraid I cannot think of anything. But please be seated, and I will do my best to help.''

  Monk accepted and questioned her gently, not because he expected to learn a great deal from her directly, but because indirectly he watched her, listening to the intonations of her voice, and the fingers turning in her lap.

  Slowly he discovered a picture of Joscelin Grey.

  "He seemed very young when I came here after my marriage," Rosamond said with a smile, looking beyond Monk and out of the window. "Of course that was before he went to the Crimea. He was an officer then; he had just bought his commission and he was so"—she searched for just the right word—"so jaunty! I remember that day he came in in his uniform, scarlet tunic and gold braid, boots gleaming. One could not help feeling happy for him." Her voice dropped. "It all seemed like an adventure then."

  "And after?" Monk prompted, watching the delicate shadows in her face, the search for something glimpsed but not understood except by a leap of instinct.

  "He was wounded, you know?" She looked at him, frowning.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Twice—and ill too." She searched his eyes to see if he knew more than she, and there was nothing in his memory to draw on. "He suffered very much," she continued. "He was thrown from his horse in the charge at Balaclava and sustained a sword wound in his leg at Sebastopol. He refused to speak much to us about being in hospital at Scutari; he said it was too terrible to relate and would distress us beyond bearing." The embroidery slipped on the smooth nap of her skirt and rolled away on the floor. She made no effort to pick it up.

  "He was changed?" Monk prompted.

  She smiled slowly. She had a lovely mouth, sweeter and more sensitive than her mother-in-law's. "Yes—but he did not lose his humor, he could still laugh and enjoy beautiful things. He gave me a musical box for my birthday." Her smile widened at the thought of it. "It had an enamel top with a rose painted on it. It played 'Fur Elise'—Beethoven, you know—"

  "Really, my dear!" Lovel's voice cut across her as he turned from where he had been standing by the window. "The man is here on police business. He doesn't know or care about Beethoven and Joscelin's music box. Please try to concentrate on something relevant—in the remote likelihood there is anything. He wants to know if Joscelin offended someone—owed them money—God knows what!"

  Her face altered so slightly it could have been a change in the light, had not the sky beyond the windows been a steady cloudless blue. Suddenly she looked tired.

  "I know Joscelin found finances a little difficult from time to time," she answered quietly. "But I do not know of any particulars, or whom he owed."

  "He would hardly have discussed such a thing with my wife." Lovel swung around sharply. "If he wanted to borrow he would come to me—but he had more sense than to try. He had a very generous allowance as it was."

  Monk glanced frantically at the splendid room, the swagged velvet curtains, and the garden and parkland beyond, and forbore from making any remark as to generosity. He looked back at Rosamond.

  "You never assisted him, ma'am?"

  Rosamond hesitated.

  "With what?" Lovel asked, raising his eyebrows.

  "A gift?" Monk suggested, struggling to be tactful. "Perhaps a small loan to meet a sudden embarrassment?"

  "I can only assume you are trying to cause mischief," Lovel said acidly. "Which is despicable, and if you persist I shall have you removed from the case."

  Monk was taken aback; he had not deliberately intended offense, simply to uncover a truth. Such sensibilities were peripheral, and he thought a rather silly indulgence now. Lovel saw his irritation and mistook it for a failure to understand. "Mr. Monk, a married woman does not own anything to dispose of—to a brother-in-law or anyone else."

  Monk blushed for making a fool of himself, and for the patronage in Lovel's manner. When reminded, of course he knew the law. Even Rosamond's personal jewelry was not hers in law. If Lovel said she was not to give it away, then she could not. Not that he had any doubt, from the

  catch in her speech and the .flicker of her eyes, that she had done so.

  He had no desire to betray her; the knowledge was all he wanted. He bit back the reply he wished to make.

  "I did not intend to suggest anything done without your permission, my lord, simply a gesture of kindness on Lady Shelburne's part."

  Lovel opened his mouth to retort, then changed his mind and looked out of the window again, his face tight, his shoulders broad and stiff.

  "Did the war affect Major Grey deeply?" Monk turned back to Rosamond.

  "Oh yes!" For a moment there was intense feeling in her, then she recalled the circumstances and struggled to control herself. Had she not been as schooled in the privileges and the duties of a lady she would have wept. "Yes," she said again. "Yes, although he mastered it with great courage. It was not many months before he began to be his old self—most of the time. He would play the piano, and sing for us sometimes." Her eyes looked beyond Monk to some past place in her own mind. "And he still told us funny stories and made us laugh. But there were occasions when he would think of the men who died, and I suppose his own suffering as well."

  Monk was gathering an increasingly sharp picture of Joscelin Grey: a dashing young officer, easy mannered, perhaps a trifle callow; then through experience of war with its blood and pain, and for him an entirely new kind of responsibility, returning home determined to resume as much of the old life as possible; a youngest son with little money but great charm, and a degree of courage.

  He had not seemed like a man to make enemies through wronging anyone—but it did not need a leap of imagination to conceive that he might have earned a jealousy powerful enough to have ended in murder. All that was needed for that might lie within this lovely room with its tapestries and its view of the parkland.

  "Thank you, Lady Shelburne," he said formally. "You have given me a much clearer picture of him than I had. I am most grateful." He turned to Lovel. "Thank you, my lord. If I might speak with Mr. Menard Grey—"

  "He is out," Lovel replied flatly. "He went to see one of the tenant farmers, and I don't know which so there is no point in your traipsing around looking. Anyway, you are looking for who murdered Joscelin, not writing an obituary!"

  "I don't think the obituary is finished until it contains the answer," Monk replied, meeting his eyes with a straight, challenging stare.

  "Then get on with it!" Lovel snapped. "Don't stand here in the sun—get out and do something useful."

  Monk left without speaking and closed the withdrawing room door behind him. In the hall a footman was awaiting discreetly to show him out—or perhaps to make sure that he left without pocketing the silver card tray on the hall table, or the ivory-handled letter opener.

  The weather had changed dramatically; from nowhere a swift overcast had brought a squall, the first heavy drops beginning even as he left.

  He was outside, walking towards the main drive through the clearing rain, when quite by chance he met the last member of the family. He saw her coming towards him briskly, whisking her skirts out of the way of a stray bramble trailing onto the narrower path. She was reminiscent of Fabia Shelburne in age and dress, but without the brittle glamour. This woman's nose was longer, her hair wilder, and she could never have been a beauty, even forty years ago.

  "Good afternoon." He lifted his hat in a small gesture of politeness.

  She stopped in her stride and looked at him curiously. "Good afternoon. You are a stranger. What are you doing here? Are you lost?"

  "No, thank you ma'am. I am from the Metropolitan Police. I
came to report our progress on the murder of Major Grey."

  Her eyes narrowed and he was not sure whether it was amusement or something else.

  "You look a well-set-up young man to be carrying messages. I suppose you came to see Fabia?"

  He had no idea who she was, and for a moment he was at a loss for a civil reply.

  She understood instantly.

  "I'm Callandra Daviot; the late Lord Shelburne was my brother."

  "Then Major Grey was your nephew, Lady Callandra?" He spoke her correct title without thinking, and only realized it afterwards, and wondered what experience or interest had taught him. Now he was only concerned for another opinion of Joscelin Grey.

  "Naturally," she agreed. "How can that help you?"

  "You must have known him."

  Her rather wild eyebrows rose slightly.

  "Of course. Possibly a little better than Fabia. Why?"

  "You were very close to him?" he said quickly.

  "On the contrary, I was some distance removed." Now he was quite certain there was a dry humor in her eyes.

  "And saw the clearer for it?" He finished her implication.

  "I believe so. Do you require to stand here under the trees, young man? I am being steadily dripped on."

  He shook his head, and turned to accompany her back along the way he had come.

  "It is unfortunate that Joscelin was murdered," she continued. "It would have been much better if he could have died at Sebastopol—better for Fabia anyway. What do you want of me? I was not especially fond of Joscelin, nor he of me. I knew none of his business, and have no useful ideas as to who might have wished him such intense harm."

  "You were not fond of him yourself?" Monk said curiously. "Everyone says he was charming."

  "So he was," she agreed, walking with large strides not towards the main entrance of the house but along a

  graveled path in the direction of the stables, and he had no choice but to go also or be left behind. "I do not care a great deal for charm." She looked directly at him, and he found himself wanning to her dry honesty. "Perhaps because I never possessed it," she continued. "But it always seems chameleon to me, and I cannot be sure what color the animal underneath might be really. Now will you please either return to the house, or go wherever it is you are going. I have no inclination to get any wetter than I already am, and it is going to rain again. I do not intend to stand in the stable yard talking polite nonsense that cannot possibly assist you."