The Face of a Stranger (39 page)

What was the secret? Something in her attitude, an extra awareness, made
Hester believe it had to do with Joscelin Grey, because Imogen both pursued and
was afraid of the policeman Monk.

"You did not mention before that Joscelin Grey had known
George," she said aloud.

Imogen looked out of the window. "Did I not? Well, it was probably
a desire not to hurt you, dear. I did not wish to remind you of George, as well
as Mama and Papa."

Hester could not argue with that. She did not believe it, but it was
exactly the sort of thing Imogen would have done.

"Thank you," she replied. "It was most thoughtful of you,
especially since you were so fond of Major Grey."

Imogen smiled, her far-off gaze seeing beyond the dappled light through
the window, but to what Hester thought it unfair to guess.

"He was fun," Imogen said slowly. "He was so different
from anyone else I know. It was a very dreadful way to die—but I suppose it was
quick, and much less painful than many you have seen."

Again Hester did not know what to say.

* * * * *

When Monk returned to the police station Runcorn was waiting for him,
sitting at his desk looking at a sheaf of papers. He put them down and pulled a
face as Monk came in.

"So your thief was a moneylender," he said dryly. "And
the newspapers are not interested in moneylenders, I assure you."

"Then they should be!" Monk snapped back. "They're a
filthy infestation, one of the more revolting symptoms of poverty—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, either run for Parliament or be a
policeman," Runcorn said with exasperation. "But if you value your
job, stop trying to do both at once. And policemen are employed to solve cases,
not make moral commentary.''

Monk glared at him.

"If we got rid of some of the poverty, and its parasites, we might
prevent the crime before it came to the stage of needing a solution," he
said with heat that surprised himself. A memory of passion was coming back,
even if he could not know anything of its cause.

'' Joscelin Grey,'' Runcorn said flatly. He was not going to be
diverted.

"I'm working," Monk replied.

"Then your success has been embarrassingly limited!"

"Can you prove it was Shelburne?" Monk demanded. He knew what
Runcorn was trying to do, and he would

fight him to the very last step. If Runcorn forced him to arrest
Shelburne before he was ready, he would see to it that it was publicly
Runcorn's doing.

But Runcorn was not to be drawn.

"It's your job," he said acidly. "I'm not on the
case."

"Perhaps you should be." Monk raised his eyebrows as if he
were really considering it. "Perhaps you should take over?"

Runcorn's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you cannot manage?"
he asked very softly, a lift at the end of his words. "That it is too big
for you?"

Monk called his bluff.

"If it is Shelburne, then perhaps it is. Maybe you should make the
arrest; a senior officer, and all that."

Runcorn's face fell blank, and Monk tasted a certain sweetness; but it
was only for a moment.

"It seems you've lost your nerve, as well as your memory,"
Runcorn answered with a faint sneer. "Are you giving up?"

Monk took a deep breath.

"I haven't lost anything," he said deliberately. "And I
certainly haven't lost my head. I don't intend to go charging in to arrest a
man against whom I have a damn good suspicion, but nothing else. If you want
to, then take this case from me, officially, and do it yourself. And God help
you when Lady Fabia hears about it. You'll be beyond anyone else's help, I
promise you."

"Coward! By God you've changed, Monk."

"If I would have arrested a man without proof before, then I needed
to change. Are you taking the case from me?"

"I'll give you another week. I don't think I can persuade the
public to give you any more than that."

"Give
us,"
Monk corrected him. "As far as they
know, we are all working for the same end. Now have you anything helpful to
say, like an idea how to prove it was Shelburne, without a witness? Or would
you have gone ahead and done it yourself, if you had?"

The implication was not lost on Runcorn. Surprisingly, his face flushed
hotly in anger, perhaps even guilt.

"It's your case," he said angrily. "I shan't take it from
you till you come and admit you've failed or I'm asked to remove you."

"Good. Then I'll get on with it."

"Do that. Do that, Monk; if you can!"

Outside the sky was leaden and it was raining hard. Monk thought grimly
as he walked home that the newspapers were right in their criticism; he knew
little more now than he had when Evan had first showed him the material
evidence. Shelburne was the only one for whom he knew a motive, and yet that
wretched walking stick clung in his mind. It was not the murder weapon, but he
knew he had seen it before. It could not be Joscelin Grey's, because Imogen had
said quite distinctly that Grey had not been back to the Latterlys' house since
her father-in-law's death, and of course Monk had never been to the house
before then.

Then whose was it?

Not Shelburne's.

Without realizing it his feet had taken him not towards his own rooms
but to Mecklenburg Square.

Grimwade was in the hallway.

"Evenin', Mr. Monk. Bad night, sir. I dunno wot summer's comin'
ter—an' that's the truth. 'Ailstones an' all! Lay like snow, it did, in July.
An' now this. Cruel to be out in, sir." He regarded Monk's soaking clothes
with sympathy. "Can I 'elp yer wif summink, sir?"

"The man who came to see Mr. Yeats—"

"The murderer?" Grimwade shivered but there was a certain
melodramatic savoring in his thin face.

"It would seem so," Monk conceded. "Describe him again,
will you?"

Grimwade screwed up his eyes and ran his tongue around his lips.

"Well that's 'ard, sir. It's a fair while ago now, an' the more I
tries to remember 'im, the fainter 'e gets. 'E were

tallish, I know vat, but not outsize, as you might say. 'Aid ter say
w'en somebody's away from yer a bit. W'en 'e came in 'e seemed a good couple o'
hinches less than you are, although 'e seemed bigger w'en 'e left. Can be
de-ceivin', sir."

"Well that's something. What sort of coloring had he: fresh,
sallow, pale, swarthy?"

"Kind o' fresh, sir. But then that could 'a' bin the cold. Proper
wicked night it were, somethin' cruel for July. Shockin' unseasonal. Rainin'
'ard, an' east wind like a knife."

"And you cannot remember whether he had a beard or not?"

"I think as 'e 'adn't, leastways if 'e 'ad, it were one o' vem very
small ones wot can be 'idden by a muffler."

"And dark hair? Or could it have been brown, or even fair?"

"No sir, it couldn't 'a' bin fair, not yeller, like; but it could
'a' bin brahn. But I do remember as 'e 'ad very gray eyes. I noticed that as 'e
were goin' out, very piercin' eyes 'e 'ad, like one o' vem fellers wot puts
people inter a trance."

"Piercing eyes? You're sure?" Monk said dubiously, skeptical
of Grimwade's sense of melodrama in hindsight.

"Yes sir, more I fink of it, more I'm sure. Don't remember 'is
face, but I do remember 'is eyes w'en 'e looked at me. Not w'en 'e was comin'
in , but w'en 'e was a-goin' out. Funny thing, that. Yer'd fink I'd a noticed
vem w'en 'e spoke ter me, but sure as I'm standin' 'ere, I didn't." He
looked at Monk ingenuously.

"Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. Now I'll see Mr. Yeats, if he's in. If he
isn't then I'll wait for him."

"Oh 'e's in, sir. Bin in a little while. Shall I take you up, or do
you remember the way?"

"I remember the way, thank you." Monk smiled grimly and
started up the stairs. The place was becoming wretchedly familiar to him. He
passed Grey's entrance quickly, still conscious of the horror inside, and
knocked sharply

at Yeats's door, and a moment later it opened and Yeats's worried little
face looked up at him.

"Oh!" he said in some alarm. "I—I was going to speak to
you. I—I, er—I suppose I should have done it before." He wrung his hands
nervously, twisting them in front of him, red knuckled. "But I heard all
about the—er—the burglar—from Mr. Grimwade, you know—and I rather thought
you'd, er—found the murderer—so—"

"May I come in, Mr. Yeats?" Monk interrupted. It was natural
Grimwade should have mentioned the burglar, if only to warn the other tenants,
and because one could hardly expect a garrulous and lonely old man to keep to
himself such a thrilling and scandalous event, but Monk was irritated by the
reminder of its uselessness.

"I'm—I'm
sorry," Yeats stammered as Monk moved
past him. "I—I do realize I should have said something to you
before."

"About what, Mr. Yeats?" Monk exercised his patience with an
effort. The poor little man was obviously much upset.

"Why, about my visitor, of course. I was quite sure you knew, when
you came to the door." Yeats's voice rose to a squeak in amazement.

“What about him, Mr. Yeats? Have you recalled something further?"
Suddenly hope shot up inside him. Could this be the beginning of proof at last?

"Why sir, I discovered who he was."

"What?" Monk did not dare to believe. The room was singing
around him, bubbling with excitement. In an instant this funny little man was
going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible,
dazzling.

"I discovered who he was," Yeats repeated. "I knew I
should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought—"

The moment of paralysis was broken.

"Who?" Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. "Who
was it?"

Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.

“Who was it?'' Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his
own voice was rising to a shout.

"Why—why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a
dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it—is it important, Mr. Monk?"

Monk was stunned.

"Bartholomew Stubbs?" he repeated foolishly.

"Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I
thought I would ask him." His hands fluttered. "I was quite
shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major
Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after
speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon
Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that
because my friend was there also." He moved from one foot to the other in
his agitation. "He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs's arrival, because the
first speaker had just commenced his address."

Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left
immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen
leaving later?

“Did—did he remain at the temperance meeting all evening?" he
asked desperately.

"No sir." Yeats shook his head. "He only went there to
meet my friend, who is also a collector, a very learned one-"

"He left!" Monk seized on it.

"Yes sir." Yeats danced around in his anxiety, his hands
jerking to and fro. "I am trying to tell you! They left together and went
to get some supper—"

"Together?"

"Yes sir. I am afraid, Mr. Monk, Mr. Stubbs could not have been the
one to have so dreadfully attacked poor Major Grey."

"No." Monk was too shaken, too overwhelmingly disappointed to
move. He did not know where to start again.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Monk?" Yeats asked tentatively.
"I am so sorry. Perhaps I really should have told you earlier, but I did
not think it would be important, since he was not guilty."

"No—no, never mind," Monk said almost under his breath.
"I understand."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I thought perhaps I was in error."

Monk muttered something polite, probably meaningless—he did not want to
be unkind to the little man—and made his way out onto the landing again. He was
hardly aware
of
going down the stairs, nor did he register the drenching
weight of the rain when he passed Grimwade and went outside into the street
with its gaslight and swirling gutters.

He began to walk, blindly, and it was not until he was spattered with
mud and a cab wheel missed him by less than a foot that he realized he was on
Doughty Street.

" 'Ere!" the cabby shouted at him. "Watch w'ere yer
going', guv! Yer want ter get yerself killed?"

Monk stopped, staring up at him. "You occupied?"

"No guv. Yer want ter go somewhere? Mebbe yer'd better, afore yer
get someb'dy into a haccident."

"Yes," Monk accepted, still without moving.

"Well come on then," the cabby said sharply, leaning forward
to peer at him. "Not a night fer man ner beast ter be out in, it ain't.
Mate o' mine were killed on a night like this, poor sod. 'Orse bolted and 'is
cab turned over. Killed, 'e were. 'It 'is 'ead on the curb an' 'e died, jes'
like that. And 'is fare were all smashed abaht too, but they say as 'e were
o'right, in the end. Took 'im orf ter 'orspital, o' course. 'Ere, are yer goin'
ter stand there all night, guv? Come on now, either get in, or don't; but make
up yer mind!"