The Face of a Stranger (12 page)

"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."

"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!"