The Face of a Stranger (16 page)

"Perhaps if you were to allow a few questions, Mr. Yeats."
Monk did not want him so frightened as to be incapable of thought or memory.

"Well—if you think so. Yes—yes, if . . ." He backed away and
sat down sharply on the chair closest to the table.

Monk sat also and was conscious of Evan behind him doing the same on a
ladder-back chair by the wall. He wondered fleetingly what Evan was thinking,
if he found him harsh, overconscious of his own ambition, his need to succeed.
Yeats could so easily be no more than he seemed, a frightened little man whom
mischance had placed at the pivot of a murder.

Monk began quietly, thinking with an instant's self-mockery that he
might be moderating his tone not to reassure Yeats but to earn Evan's
approval. What had led him to such isolation that Evan's opinion mattered so
much to him? Had he been too absorbed in learning, climbing, polishing himself,
to afford friendship, much less love? Indeed, had anything at all engaged his
higher emotions?

Yeats was watching him like a rabbit seeing a stoat, and too horrified
to move.

"You yourself had a visitor that night," Monk told him quite
gently. "Who was he?"

"I don't know!" Yeats's voice was high, almost a squeak.
"I don't know who he was! I told Mr. Lamb that! He came here by mistake;
he didn't even really want me!"

Monk found himself holding up his hand, trying to calm him as one would
with an overexcited child, or an animal.

"But you saw him, Mr. Yeats." He kept his voice low. "No
doubt you have some memory of his appearance, perhaps his voice? He must have
spoken to you?" Whether Yeats was lying or not, he would achieve nothing
by attacking his statement now; Yeats would only entrench himself more and
more deeply into his ignorance.

Yeats blinked.

"I-I really can hardly say, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Monk—I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having
introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or
small?"

"Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you
are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad
night—wet—terribly."

"Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?"
Monk stood up helpfully.

Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same,
as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head
unhappily.

Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.

"He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested,
still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his
trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then
realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all
there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must
believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death."
He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks,
does it not?"

Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.

"You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.

"Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any
thought of social arrogance—or involvement. “Only to pass the time of day, you
understand? But he was very

civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of
fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."

"And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you
said."

"Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but
now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."

"And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"

Yeats looked surprised.

"He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business,
you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or
another."

"He was English then?"

“I beg your pardon?''

"He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known,
even had he been in the business?"

"Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was
English."

"And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"

"I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air.
"He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he
had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''

"I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major
Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."

"Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled inside him and he slid
backwards and down into his chair. Behind Monk, Evan moved as if to help, then
changed his mind and sat down again.

"That surprises you?" Monk inquired.

Yeats was gasping, beyond speech.

"Are you sure this man was not known to you?" Monk persisted,
giving him no time to regather his thoughts. This was the time to press.

"Yes, yes I am. Quite unknown." He covered his face with his
hands. "Oh my dear heaven!"

Monk stared at Yeats. The man was useless now, either reduced to abject
horror, or else very skillfully affecting to be. He turned and looked at Evan.
Evan's face was stiff with embarrassment, possibly for their presence and their
part in the man's wretchedness, possibly merely at being witness to it.

Monk stood up and heard his own voice far away. He knew he was risking a
mistake, and that he was doing it because of Evan.

"Thank you, Mr. Yeats. I'm sorry for distressing you. Just one more
thing: was this man carrying a stick?"

Yeats looked up, his face sickly pale; his voice was no more than a
whisper.

"Yes, quite a handsome one; I noticed it."

"Heavy or light?"

"Oh heavy, quite heavy. Oh no!" He shut his eyes, screwing
them up to hide even his imagination.

"There is no need for you to be frightened, Mr. Yeats," Evan
said from behind. "We believe he was someone who knew Major Grey
personally, not a chance lunatic. There is no reason to suppose he would have
harmed you. I daresay he was looking for Major Grey in the first place and
found the wrong door."

It was not until they were outside that Monk realized Evan must have
said it purely to comfort the little man. It could not have been true. The
visitor had asked for Yeats by name. He looked sideways at Evan, now walking silently
beside him in the drizzling rain. He made no remark on it.

Grimwade had proved no further help. He had not seen the man come down
after leaving Yeats's door, nor seen him go to Joscelin Grey's. He had taken
the opportunity to attend the call of nature, and then had seen the man leave
at a quarter past ten, three quarters of an hour later.

"There's only one conclusion," Evan said unhappily, striding
along with his head down. "He must have left

Yeats's door and gone straight along the hallway to Grey, spent half an
hour or so with him, then killed him, and left when Grimwade saw him go."

"Which doesn't tell us who he was," Monk said, stepping
across a puddle and passing a cripple selling bootlaces. A rag and bone cart
trundled by, its driver calling out almost unintelligibly in a singsong voice.
"I keep coming back to the one thing," Monk resumed. "Why did
anyone hate Joscelin Grey so much? There was a passion of hate in that room.
Someone hated him so uncontrollably he couldn't stop beating him even after he
was dead."

Evan shivered and the rain ran off his nose and chin. He pulled his
collar up closer around his ears and his face was pale.

"Mr. Runcorn was right," he said miserably. "It's going
to be extremely nasty. You have to know someone very well to hate them as much
as that."

"Or have been mortally wronged," Monk added. "But you're
probably right; it'll be in the family, these things usually are. Either that,
or a lover somewhere."

Evan looked shocked. "You mean Grey was—?"

"No." Monk smiled with a sharp downward twist. "That
wasn't what I meant, although I suppose it's possible; in fact it's distinctly
possible. But I was thinking of a woman, with a husband perhaps."

Evan's faced relaxed a fraction.

"I suppose it's too violent for a simple debt, gambling or
something?" he said without much hope.

Monk thought for a moment.

"Could be blackmail," he suggested with genuine belief. The
idea had only just occurred to him seriously, but he liked it.

Evan frowned. They were walking south along Grey's Inn Road.

"Do you think so?" He looked sideways at Monk. "Doesn't
ring right to me. And we haven't found any unaccounted income yet. Of course,
we haven't really

looked. And blackmail victims can be driven to a very deep hatred
indeed, for which I cannot entirely blame them. When a man has been tormented,
stripped of all he has, and then is still threatened with ruin, mere comes a
point when reason breaks."

"We'll have to check on the social company he kept," Monk
replied. "Who might have made mistakes damaging enough to be blackmailed
over, to the degree that ended in murder."

"Perhaps if he was homosexual?" Evan suggested it with
returning distaste, and Monk knew he did not believe his own word. "He
might have had a lover who would pay to keep him quiet—and if pushed too for,
kill him?"

"Very nasty." Monk stared at the wet pavement. "Run-corn
was right." And thought of Runcorn set his mind on a different track.

He sent Evan to question all the local tradesmen, people at the club
Grey had been at the evening he was killed, anything to learn about his
associates.

* * * * *

Evan began at the wine merchant's whose name they had found on a bill
head in Grey's apartments. He was a fat man with a drooping mustache and an
unctuous manner. He expressed desolation over the loss of Major Grey. What a
terrible misfortune. What an ironic stroke of fete that such a fine officer
should survive the war, only to be struck down by a madman in his own home.
What a tragedy. He did not know what to say—and he said it at considerable
length while Evan struggled to get a word in and ask some useful question.

When at last he did, the answer was what he had guessed it would be.
Major Grey—the Honorable Joscelin Grey— was a most valued customer. He had
excellent taste—but what else would you expect from such a gentleman? He knew
French wine, and he knew German wine. He liked the best. He was provided with
it from this establishment. His accounts? No, not always up to date—but paid in
due course. The nobility were that way with-money—one had

to learn to accommodate it. He could add nothing—but nothing at all. Was
Mr. Evan interested in wine? He could recommend an excellent Bordeaux.

No, Mr. Evan, reluctantly, was not interested in wine; he was a country
parson's son, well educated in the gentilities of life, but with a pocket too
short to indulge in more than the necessities, and a few good clothes, which
would stand him in better stead than even the best of wines. None of which he
explained to the merchant.

Next he tried the local eating establishments, beginning with the
chophouse and working down to the public alehouse, which also served an
excellent stew with spotted dick pudding, full of currants, as Evan could
attest.

"Major Grey?" the landlord said ruminatively. "Yer mean
'im as was murdered? 'Course I knowed 'im. Come in 'ere reg'lar, 'e did."

Evan did not know whether to believe him or not. It could well be true;
the food was cheap and filling and the atmosphere not unpleasant to a man who
had served in the army, two years of it in the battlefields of the Crimea. On
the other hand it could be a boost to his business— already healthy—to say that
a famous victim of murder had dined here. There was a grisly curiosity in many
people which would give the place an added interest to them.

"What did he look like?" Evan asked.

" 'Ere!" The landlord looked at him suspiciously. "You on
the case—or not, then? Doncher know?"

"I never met him alive," Evan replied reasonably. "It
makes a lot of difference, you know.''

The landlord sucked his teeth. " 'Course it do—sorry, guv, a daft
question. 'E were tall, an' not far from your build, kind o' slight—but 'e were
real natty wiv it! Looked like a gennelman, even afore 'e opened 'is mouf. Yer
can tell. Fair 'air, 'e 'ad; an' a smile as was summat luv'ly."

"Charming," Evan said, more as an observation than a question.

"Not 'alf," the landlord agreed.

"Popular?" Evan pursued.

"Yeah. Used ter tell a lot o' stories. People like that— passes the
time."

"Generous?" Evan asked.

"Gen'rous?" The landlord's eyebrows rose. "No—not
gen'rous. More like 'e took more'n 'e gave. Reckon as 'e din't 'ave that much.
An' folk liked ter treat 'im—like I said, 'e were right entertainin'. Flash
sometimes. Come in 'ere of an occasion an' treat everyone 'andsome— but not
often, like—mebbe once a monf."