The Face of a Stranger (18 page)

pigskin toilet kit. Certainly no burglar had come this far. There were
many fine pocket handkerchiefs, mono-grammed, silk and linen shirts, cravats,
socks, clean underwear. He was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find he
knew to within a few shillings the price one would pay for each article, and
wondered what aspirations had led him to such knowledge.

He had hoped to find letters in the top drawers, perhaps those too
personal to mix with bills and casual correspondence in the desk, but there
was nothing, and eventually he went back to the main room. Evan was still at
the desk, standing motionless. The place was totally silent, as though both of
them were aware that it was a dead man's room, and felt intrusive.

Far down in the street there was a rumble of wheels, the sharper sound
of hooves, and a street seller's cry which sounded like "Ole clo'—ole
clo'!"

"Well?" He found his voice sunk to a near whisper.

Evan looked up, startled. His face was tight.

"Rather a lot of letters here, sir. I'm not sure really what to
make of them. There are several from his sister-in-law, Rosamond Grey; a rather
sharp one from his brother Lovel—that's Lord Shelburne, isn't it? A very recent
note from his mother, but only one, so it looks as if he didn't keep hers.
There are several from a Dawlish family, just prior to his death; among them an
invitation to stay at their home for a week. They seem to have been
friendly." He puckered his mouth slightly. "One is from Miss Amanda
Dawlish, sounds quite eager. In fact there are a number of invitations, all for
dates after his death. Apparently he didn't keep old ones. And I'm afraid there's
no diary. Funny." He looked up at Monk. "You'd think a man like that
would have a social diary, wouldn't you?"

"Yes you would!" Monk moved forward. "Perhaps the
murderer took it. You're quite sure?"

"Not in the desk." Evan shook his head. "And IVe checked
for hidden drawers. But why would anyone hide a social diary anyway?"

"No idea," Monk said honestly, taking a step nearer to the
desk and peering at it. "Unless it was the murderer who took it. Perhaps
his name figures heavily. We'll have to try these Dawlishes. Is there an
address on the letters?"

"Oh yes, I've made a note of it."

"Good. What else?"

"Several bills. He wasn't very prompt in paying up, but I knew that
already from talking to the tradesmen. Three from his tailor, four or five from
a shirtmaker, the one I visited, two from the wine merchant, a rather terse
letter from the family solicitor in reply to a request for an increased
allowance.''

"In the negative, I take it?"

"Very much so."

"Anything from clubs, gambling and so on?"

"No, but then one doesn't usually commit gambling debts to paper,
even at Boodles, unless you are the one who is collecting, of course."
Then he smiled suddenly. "Not that I can afford to know—except by
hearsay!"

Monk relaxed a little. "Quite," he agreed. "Any other
letters?"

"One pretty cool one from a Charles Latterly, doesn't say
much—"

"Latterly?" Monk froze.

"Yes. You know him?" Evan was watching him.

Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs.
Latterly at St. Marylebone had said "Charles," and he had feared it
might have been her husband.

"I was working on a Latterly case some time ago," he said,
struggling to keep his voice level. "It's probably coincidence. I was
looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn't find it."

"Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some
scandal to hush up, or—"

"No!" He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying
his feelings. He moderated his tone. "No, not at all. Poor man is dead
anyway. Died before Grey did."

"Oh." Evan turned back to the desk. "That's about all,
I'm afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from
these, and they'll lead us to more."

"Yes, yes quite. I'll take Latterly's address, all the same."

"Oh, right." Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.

Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and
there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which
was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing
further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.

They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went
outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.

"Lunch," Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear
laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent,
obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of
daily life.

"Right." Evan fell in step beside him. "There's a good
public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent
dumplings. That is—" he stopped suddenly. "It's very ordinary—don't
know if you—"

"Fine," Monk agreed. "Sounds just what we need. I'm
frozen after being in that place. I don't know why, but it seems cold, even
inside."

Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. "It
might be imagination, but it always chills me. I'm not used to murder yet. I
suppose you're above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven't got that
far—"

"Don't!" Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to.
"Don't get used to it!" He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden
sensitivity, but he did not care. "I mean," he said more softly,
aware that he had startled Evan by his vehemence, "keep your brain clear,
by all means, but don't let it cease to shock you. Don't be a

detective before you're a man." Now that he had said it it sounded
sententious and extremely trite. He was embarrassed.

Evan did not seem to notice.

"I've a long way to go before I'm efficient enough to do that, sir.
I confess, even that room up there makes me feel a little sick. This is the
first murder like this I've been on." He sounded self-conscious and very
young. "Of course I've seen bodies before, but usually accidents, or
paupers who died in the street. There are quite a few of them in the winter.
That's why I'm so pleased to be on this case with you. I couldn't learn from
anyone better."

Monk felt himself color with pleasure—and shame, because he did not
deserve it. He could not think of anything at all to say, and he strode ahead
through the thickening rain searching for words, and not finding them. Evan
walked beside him, apparently not needing an answer.

* * * * *

The following Monday Monk and Evan got off the train at Shelburne and
set out towards Shelbume Hall. It was one of the summer days when the wind is
fresh from the east, sharp as a slap in the face, and the sky is clear and
cloudless. The trees were huge green billows resting on the bosom of the
earth, gently, incessantly moving, whispering. There had been rain overnight,
and under the shadows the smell of damp earth was sweet where their feet disturbed
it.

They walked in silence, each enjoying it in his own way. Monk was not
aware of any particular thoughts, except perhaps a sense of pleasure in the
sheer distance of the sky, the width across the fields. Suddenly memory flooded
back vividly, and he saw Northumberland again: broad, bleak hills, north wind
shivering in the grass. The milky sky was mackerel shredded out to sea, and
white gulls floated on the currents, screaming.

He could remember his mother, dark like Beth, standing in the kitchen,
and the smell of yeast and flour. She had been proud of him, proud that he
could read and write.

He must have been very young then. He remembered a room with sun in it,
the vicar's wife teaching him letters, Beth in a smock staring at him in awe.
She could not read. He could almost feel himself teaching her, years after,
slowly, outline by outline. Her writing still carried echoes of those hours,
careful, conscious of the skill and its long learning. She had loved him so
much, admired him without question. Then the memory disappeared and it was as
if someone had drenched him in cold water, leaving him startled and shivering.
It was the most acute and powerful memory he had recaptured and its sharpness
left him stunned. He did not notice Evan's eyes on him, or the quick glance
away as he strove to avoid what he realized would be intrusion.

Shelburne Hall was in sight across the smooth earth, less than a
thousand yards away, framed in trees.

"Do you want me to say anything, or just listen?" Evan asked.
"It might be better if I listened."

Monk realized with a start that Evan was nervous. Perhaps he had never
spoken to a woman of title before, much less questioned her on personal and
painful matters. He might not even have seen such a place, except from the
distance. He wondered where his own assurance came from, and why he had not
ever thought of it before. Run-corn was right, he was ambitious, even
arrogant—and insensitive.

"Perhaps if you try the servants," he replied. "Servants
notice a lot of things. Sometimes they see a side of their masters that their
lordships manage to hide from their equals."

"I'll try the valet," Evan suggested. "I should imagine
you are peculiarly vulnerable in the bath, or in your underwear." He
grinned suddenly at the thought, and perhaps in some amusement at the physical
helplessness of his social superiors to need assistance in such common matters.
It offset his own fear of proving inadequate to the situation.

Lady Fabia Shelburne was somewhat surprised to see

Monk again, and kept him waiting nearly half an hour, this time in the
butler's pantry with the silver polish, a locked desk for the wine book and the
cellar keys, and a comfortable armchair by a small grate. Apparently the
housekeeper's sitting room was already in use. He was annoyed at the casual
insolence of it, and yet part of him was obliged to admire her self-control. She
had no idea why he had come. He might even have been able to tell her who had
murdered her son, and why.

When he was sent for and conducted to the rosewood sitting room, which
seemed to be peculiarly hers, she was cool and gracious, as if he had only just
arrived and she had no more than a courteous interest in what he might say.

At her invitation he sat down opposite her on the same deep rose-pink
chair as before.

"Well, Mr. Monk?" she inquired with slightly raised eyebrows.
"Is there something further you want to say to me?"

"Yes ma'am, if you please. We are even more of the opinion thai
whoever killed Major Grey did so for some personal reason, and that he was not
a chance victim. Therefore we need to know everything further we can about him,
his social connections—"

Her eyes widened. "If you imagine his social connections are of a
type to indulge in murder, Mr. Monk, then you are extraordinarily ignorant of
society."

"I am afraid, ma'am, that most people are capable of murder, if
they are hard-pressed enough, and threatened in what they most value—"

"I think not." Her voice indicated the close of the subject
and she turned her head a little away from him.

"Let us hope they are rare, ma'am." He controlled his impulse
to anger with difficulty. "But it would appear there is at least one, and
I am sure you wish to find him, possibly even more than I do."

"You are very slick with words, young man." It was

grudgingly given, even something of a criticism. "What is it you
imagine I can tell you?"

"A list of his closest friends," he answered. "Family
friends, any invitations you may know of that he accepted in the last few
months, especially for weeks or weekends away. Perhaps any lady in whom he may
have been interested." He saw a slight twitch of distaste cross her
immaculate features. "I believe he was extremely charming." He added
the flattery in which he felt was her only weakness.

"He was." There was a small movement in her lips, a change in
her eyes as for a moment grief overtook her. It was several seconds till she
smoothed it out again and was as perfect as before.

Monk waited in silence, for the first time aware of the force of her
pain.

"Then possibly some lady was more attracted to him than was
acceptable to her other admirers, or even her husband?" he suggested at
last, and in a considerably softer tone, although his resolve to find the
murderer of Joscelin Grey was if anything hardened even further, and it allowed
of no exceptions, no omissions for hurt.

She considered this thought for a moment before deciding to accept it.
He imagined she was seeing her son again as he had been in life, elegant,
laughing, direct of gaze.

"It might have been," she conceded. "It could be that
some young person was indiscreet, and provoked jealousy."

"Perhaps someone who had a little too much to drink?" He
pursued it with a tact that did not come to him naturally. "And saw in it
more than there was?"

"A gentleman knows how to conduct himself." She looked at Monk
with a slight turn downwards at the corners of her mouth. The word
gentleman
was not lost on him. "Even when he has had too much to drink. But unfortunately
some people are not as discriminating in their choice of guests as they should
be."