The Face of a Stranger (11 page)

"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.

"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 conducted 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?"