The Face of a Stranger (28 page)

The people from whom they learned more about Joscelin Grey were the
Dawlishes. Their house was in Primrose Hill, not far from the Zoological
Gardens, and Monk and Evan went to visit them the day after returning from
Shel-burne. They were admitted by a butler too well trained to show surprise,
even at the sight of policemen on the front doorstep. Mrs. Dawlish received
them in the morning room. She was a small, mild-featured woman with faded hazel
eyes and brown hair which escaped its pins.

"Mr. Monk?" She queried his name because it obviously meant
nothing to her.

Monk bowed very slightly.

"Yes ma'am; and Mr. Evan. If Mr. Evan might have your permission to
speak to the servants and see if they can be of assistance?"

"I think it unlikely, Mr. Monk." The idea was obviously
futile in her estimation. "But as long as he does not distract them from
their duties, of course he may."

"Thank you, ma'am." Evan departed with alacrity, leaving Monk
still standing.

"About poor Joscelin Grey?" Mrs. Dawlish was puzzled and a
little nervous, but apparently not unwilling to help. "What can we tell
you? It was a most terrible tragedy. We had not known him very long, you
know."

"How long, Mrs. Dawlish?"

"About five weeks before he ... died." She sat down and he was
glad to follow suit. "I believe it cannot have been more."

"But you invited him to stay with you? Do you often do that, on
such short acquaintance?"

She shook her head, another strand of hair came undone and she ignored
it.

"No, no hardly ever. But of course he was Menard Grey's
brother—" Her face was suddenly hurt, as if something had betrayed her inexplicably
and without warning, wounding where she had believed herself safe. "And
Jos-celin was so charming, so very natural," she went on. "And of
course he also knew Edward, my eldest son, who was killed at Inkermann."

"I'm sorry."

Her face was very stiff, and for a moment he was afraid she would not be
able to control herself. He spoke to cover the silence and her embarrassment.

"You said 'also.' Did Menard Grey know your son?"

"Oh yes," she said quietly. "They were close friends— for
years." Her eyes filled with tears. "Since school."

"So you invited Joscelin Grey to Stay with you?" He did not
wait for her to reply; she was beyond speech. "That's very natural."
Then quite a new idea occurred to him with sudden, violent hope. Perhaps the
murder was nothing to do with any current scandal, but a legacy from the war,
something that had happened on the battlefield? It was possible. He should have
thought of it before—they all should.

"Yes," she said very quietly, mastering herself again. "If
he knew Edward in the war, we wanted to talk with him, listen to him. You
see—here at home, we know so little of what really happened." She took a
deep breath. "I am not sure if it helps, indeed in some ways it is harder,
but we feel . . . less cut off. I know Edward is dead and it cannot matter to
him anymore; it isn't reasonable, but I feel closer to him, however it
hurts."

She looked at him with a curious need to be understood.

Perhaps she had explained precisely this to other people, and they had tried
to dissuade her, not realizing that for her, being excluded from her son's
suffering was not a kindness but an added loss.

"Of course," he agreed quietly. His own situation was utterly
different, yet any knowledge would surely be better than this uncertainty.
"The imagination conjures so many things, and one feels the pain of them
all, until one knows."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You understand? So many friends have
tried to persuade me into acceptance, but it gnaws away at the back of my mind,
a sort of dreadful doubt. I read the newspapers sometimes"—she
blushed—"when my husband is out of the house. But I don't know what to
believe of them. Their accounts are—" She sighed, crumpling her
handkerchief in her lap, her fingers clinging around it. "Well, they are
sometimes a little softened so as not to distress us, or make us feel critical
of those in command. And they are sometimes at variance with each other."

"I don't doubt it." He felt an unreasonable anger for the
confusion of this woman, and all the silent multitude like her, grieving for
their dead and being told that the truth was too harsh for them. Perhaps it
was, perhaps many could not have borne it, but they had not been consulted,
simply told; as their sons had been told to fight. For what? He had no idea. He
had looked at many newspapers in the last few weeks, trying to learn, and he
still had only the dimmest notion—something to do with the Turkish Empire and
the balance of power.

"Joscelin used to speak to us so—so carefully," she went on
softly, watching his face. "He told us a great deal about how he felt, and
Edward must have felt the same. I had had no idea it was so very dreadful. One
just doesn't know, sitting here in England—" She stared at him anxiously.
"It wasn't very glorious, you know—not really. So many men dead, not
because the enemy killed them, but from the cold and the disease. He told us
about the hospital at Scutari. He was there, you know; with a wound in his leg.
He suffered quite appallingly. He told us about seeing men freezing to death in
the winter. I had not known the Crimea was cold like that. I suppose it was
because it was east from here, and I always think of the East as being hot. He
said it was hot in the summer, and dry. Then with winter there was endless rain
and snow, and winds that all but cut the flesh. And the disease.'' Her face
pinched. "I thanked God that if Edward had to die, at least it was
quickly, of a bullet, or a sword, not cholera. Yes, Joscelin was a great
comfort to me, even though I wept as I hadn't done before; not only for Edward,
but for all the others, and for the women like me, who lost sons and husbands.
Do you understand, Mr. Monk?"

"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes I do. I'm very sorry I have
to distress you now by speaking of Major Grey's death. But we must find whoever
killed him."

She shuddered.

"How could anyone be so vile? What evil gets into a man that he
could beat another to death like that? A fight I deplore, but I can understand
it; but to go on, to mutilate a man after he is dead! The newspapers say it
was dreadful. Of course my husband does not know I read them—having known the
poor man, I felt I had to. Do you understand it, Mr. Monk?"

"No, I don't. In all the crimes I have investigated, I have not
seen one like this." He did not know if it was true, but he felt it.
"He must have been hated with a passion hard to conceive."

"I cannot imagine it, such a violence of feeling." She closed
her eyes and shook her head fractionally. "Such a wish to destroy, to—to
disfigure. Poor Joscelin, to have been the victim of such a—a creature. It
would frighten me even to think someone could feel such an intensity of hatred
for me, even if I were quite sure they could not touch me, and I were innocent
of its cause. I wonder if poor Joscelin knew?''

It was a thought that had not occurred to Monk before—

had Joscelin Grey had any idea that his killer hated him? Had he known,
but merely thought him impotent to act?

"He cannot have feared him," he said aloud. "Or he would
hardly have allowed him into his rooms while he was alone."

"Poor man." She hunched her shoulders involuntarily, as if
chilled. "It is very frightening to think that someone with that madness
in their hearts could walk around, looking like you or me. I wonder if anyone
dislikes me intensely and I have no idea of it. I had never entertained such a
thought before, but now I cannot help it. I shall be unable to look at people
as I used to. Are people often killed by those they know quite well?''

"Yes ma'am, I am afraid so; most often of all by relatives."

"How appalling." Her voice was very soft, her eyes staring at
some spot beyond him. "And how very tragic."

"Yes it is." He did not want to seem crass, nor indifferent
to her horror, but he had to pursue the business of it. "Did Major Grey
ever say anything about threats, or anyone who might be afraid of him—"

She lifted her eyes to look at him; her brow was puckered and another
strand of hair escaped the inadequate pins. "Afraid of him? But it was he
who was killed!"

"People are like other animals," he replied. "They most
often kill when they are afraid themselves."

"I suppose so. I had not thought of that." She shook her head
a little, still puzzled. "But Joscelin was the most harmless of people! I
never heard him speak as if he bore real ill will towards anyone. Of course he
had a sharp wit, but one does not kill over a joke, even if it is a trifle
barbed, and possibly even not in the kindest of taste."

"Even so," he pressed, "against whom were these remarks
directed?"

She hesitated, not only in an effort to remember, but it seemed the
memory was disturbing her.

He waited.

"Mostly against his own family," she said slowly. "At

least that was how it sounded to me—and
I
think to others. His
comments on Menard were not always kind, although my husband knows more of that
than I—I always liked Menard—but then that was no doubt because he and Edward
were so close. Edward loved him dearly. They shared so much—" She blinked
and screwed up her mild face even more. "But then Joscelin often spoke
harshly of himself also—it is hard to understand."

"Of himself?" Monk was surprised. "I've been to his
family, naturally, and I can understand a certain resentment. But in what way
of himself?"

"Oh, because he had no property, being a third son; and after his
being wounded he limped, you know. So of course there was no career for him in
the army. He appeared to feel he was of little—little standing—that no one
accounted him much. Which was quite untrue, of course. He was a hero—and much
liked by all manner of people!"

"I see." Monk was thinking of Rosamond Shelburne, obliged by
her mother to marry the son with the title and the prospects. Had Joscelin
loved her, or was it more an insult than a wound, a reminder that he was third
best? Had he cared, it could only have hurt him that she had not the courage to
follow her heart and marry as she wished. Or was the status more important to
her, and she had used Joscelin to reach Lovel? That would perhaps have hurt
differently, with a bitterness that would remain.

Perhaps they would never know the answer to that.

He changed the subject. "Did he at any time mention what his
business interests were? He must have had some income beyond the allowance from
his family."

"Oh yes," she agreed. "He did discuss it with my husband,
and he mentioned it to me, although not in any great detail."

"And what was it, Mrs. Dawlish?"

"I believe it was some investment, quite a sizable one, in a
company to trade with Egypt." The memory of it was bright in her face for
a moment, the enthusiasm and expectation of that time coming back.

"Was Mr. Dawlish involved in this investment?"

"He was considering it; he spoke highly of its possibilities."

"I see. May I call again later when Mr. Dawlish is at home, and
learn more details of this company from him?"

"Oh dear." The lightness vanished. "I am afraid I have
expressed myself badly. The company is not yet formed. I gathered it was merely
a prospect that Joscelin intended to pursue."

Monk considered for a moment. If Grey were only forming a company, and
perhaps persuading Dawlish to invest, then what had been his source of income
up to that time?

"Thank you." He stood up slowly. "I understand. All the
same, I should like to speak to Mr. Dawlish. He may well know something about
Mr. Grey's finances. If he were contemplating entering business with him, it
would be natural he should inquire."

"Yes, yes of course." She poked ineffectually at her hair.
"Perhaps about six o'clock."

* * * * *

Evan's questioning of the half-dozen or so domestic servants yielded
nothing except the picture of a very ordinary household, well run by a quiet,
sad woman stricken with a grief she bore as bravely as she could, but of which
they were all only too aware and each in their own way shared. The butler had a
nephew who served as a foot soldier and had returned a cripple. Evan was
suddenly sobered by the remembrance of so many other losses, so many people who
had to struggle on without the notoriety, or the sympathy, of Joscelin Grey's
family.

The sixteen-year-old between-stairs maid had lost an elder brother at
Inkermann. They all recalled Major Grey, how charming he was, and that Miss
Amanda was very taken with him. They had hoped he would return, and were
horrified that he could be so terribly murdered right here in his home. They
had an obvious duality of thought that confounded Evan—it shocked them that a
gentleman should be so killed, and yet they viewed their own losses as things
merely to be borne with quiet dignity.

He came away with an admiration for their stoicism, and an anger that
they should accept the difference so easily. Then as he came through the green
baize door back into the main hallway, the thought occurred to him that perhaps
that was the only way of bearing it—anything else would be too destructive, and
in the end only futile.