The Face of a Stranger (40 page)

"This friend of yours." Monk's voice was distorted, as if from
far away. "When was he killed, when was this accident, exactly?"

"July it were, terrible weather fer July. Wicked night.

'Ailstorm wot lay like snow. Swear ter Gawd—I don't know wot the
wevver's comin' ter."

"What date in July?" Monk's whole body was cold, and
idiotically calm.

"Come on now, sir?" the cabby wheedled, as one does a drunk or
a recalcitrant animal. "Get in aht o' the rain. It's shockin' wet aht
there. Yer'll catch yer death."

"What date?"

"I fink as it were the fourf. Why? We ain't goin' ter 'ave no
haccident ternight, I promises yer. I'll be as careful as if you was me muwer.
Jus' make up yer mind, sir!"

"Did you know him well?"

"Yes sir, 'e were a good mate o' mine. Did yer know 'im too, sir?
Yer live 'rahnd 'ere, do yer? 'E used ter work this patch all ve time. Picked
up 'is last fare 'ere, right in vis street, accordin' ter 'is paper. Saw 'im
vat very night meself, I did. Nah is yer comin', sir, or ain't yer? 'Cos
I
'aven't
got all night. I reckon w'en yer goes a henjoyin' yerself, yer oughter take
someone wiv yer. Yer in't safe."

On this street. The cabby had picked him, Monk, up on this street, less
than a hundred yards from Mecklenburg Square, on the night Joscelin Grey was
murdered. What had he been doing here? Why?

"Yer sick, sir?" The cabby's voice changed; he was suddenly
concerned. " 'Ere, yer ain't 'ad one too many?" He climbed down off
his box and opened the cab door.

"No, no I'm quite well." Monk stepped up and inside obediently
and the cabby muttered something to himself about gentlemen whose families
should take better care of them, stepped back up onto the box and slapped the
reins over his horse's back.

As soon as they arrived at Grafton Street Monk paid the cabby and
hurried inside.

"Mrs. Worley!"

Silence.

"Mrs. Worley!" His voice was hard, hoarse.

She came out, rubbing her hands dry on her apron.

"Oh my heavens, you are wet. You'd like an 'ot drink.

You'll 'ave to change them clothes; you've let yourself get soaked
through! What 'ave you bin thinking of?"

"Mrs. Worley."

The tone of his voice stopped her.

"Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Monk? You look proper
poorly."

"I—" The words were slow, distant. "I can't find a stick
in my room, Mrs. Worley. Have you seen it?"

"No, Mr. Monk, I 'aven't, although what you're thinking about
sticks for on a night like this, I'm sure I don't know. What you need is an
umbrella."

"Have you seen it?"

She stood there in front of him, square and motherly. "Not since
you 'ad yer haccident, I 'aven't. You mean that dark reddish brown one with the
gold chain like 'round the top as yer bought the day afore? Proper 'andsome it
were, although wot yer want one like that fer, I'll never know. I do 'ope as
you 'aven't gorn and lorst it. If yer did, it must 'a' bin in yer haccident.
You 'ad it with yer, 'cos I remember plain as day. Proud of it. Proper dandy,
yer was."

There was a roaring in Monk's ears, shapeless and immense. Through the
darkness one thought was like a brilliant stab of light, searingly painful. He
had been in Grey's flat the night he was killed; he had left his own stick
there in the hall stand. He himself was the man with the gray eyes whom
Grimwade had seen leaving at half past ten. He must have gone in when Grimwade
was showing Bartholomew Stubbs up to Yeats's door.

There was only one conclusion—hideous and senseless—but the only one
left. God knew why, but he himself had killed Joscelin Grey.

11

Monk
sat in the armchair in his room staring at the ceiling. The rain had stopped
and the air was warm and clammy, but he was still chilled to the bone.

Why?

Why? It was as inconceivably senseless as a nightmare, and as
entanglingly, recurringly inescapable.

He had been in Grey's flat that night, and something had happened after
which he had gone in such haste he had left his stick in the stand behind him.
The cabby had picked him up from Doughty Street, and then barely a few miles
away, met with an accident which had robbed him of his life, and Monk of all
memory.

But why should he have killed Grey? In what connection did he even know
him? He had not met him at the Latter-lys'; Imogen had said so quite clearly.
He could imagine no way in which he could have met him socially. If he were
involved in any case, then Runcorn would have known; and his own case notes
would have shown it.

So why? Why kill him? One did not follow a complete stranger to his
house and then beat him to death for no reason. Unless one were insane?

Could that be it—he was mad? His brain had been damaged even before the
accident? He had forgotten what he

had done because it was another self which had enacted such a
hideousness, and the self he was in now knew nothing of it, was unaware even
of its lusts and compulsions, its very existence? And mere had been
feeling—inescapable, consuming, and appalling feeling—a passion of hate. Was it
possible?

He must think. Thought was the only possible way of dealing with this,
making some sense, finding an escape back into reason and an understandable
world again, following and examining it, piece by piece—but he could not
believe it. But then perhaps no clever, ambitious man truly believes he is mad?
He turned that over in his mind too.

Minutes turned into hours, dragging through the night. At first he paced
restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, till his legs ached, then he threw
himself into the chair and sat motionless, his hands and feet so cold he lost
all sensation in them, and still the nightmare was just as real, and just as
senseless. He tormented his memory, scrambling after tiny fragments, retelling
himself everything he could remember from the schoolroom onward, but there was
nothing of Joscelin Grey, not even his face. There was no reason to it, no
pattern, no vestige of anger left, no jealousy, no hatred, no fear—only the
evidence. He had been there; he must have gone up when Grimwade had taken
Bartholomew Stubbs up to see Yeats and been absent for a moment on his other
errand.

He had been in Joscelin Grey's flat for three quarters of an hour, and
Grimwade had seen him going out and presumed he was Stubbs leaving, whereas in
truth Stubbs must have passed him on the stair, as Stubbs left and he arrived.
Grimwade had said that the man leaving had seemed heavier, a little taller, and
he had especially noticed his eyes. Monk remembered the eyes he had seen
staring back at him from the bedroom mirror when he had first come from the
hospital. They were unusual, as Grimwade had said, level, dark, clear gray;
clever, almost hypnotic eyes. But he had been trying to find the mind beyond,
a flash of the memory—the shade was irrelevant. He had

made no connection of thought between his grave policeman's gaze—and
the stare of the man that night—any more than had Grimwade.

He had been there, inside Grey's flat; it was incontrovertible. But he
had not followed Grey; he had gone afterwards, independently, knowing where to
find him. So he had known Grey, known where he lived. But why? Why in God's
name did he hate him enough to have lost all reason, ignored all his adult
life's training and beliefs and beaten the man to death, and gone on beating
him when even a madman must have seen he was dead?

He must have known fear before, of the sea when he was young. He could
dimly remember its monumental power when the bowels of the deep opened to
engulf men, ships, even the shore itself. He could still feel its scream like
an echo of all childhood.

And later he must have known fear on the dark streets of London, fear in
the rookeries; even now his skin crawled at the memory of the anger and the
despair in them, the hunger and the disregard for life in the fight to survive.
But he was too proud and too ambitious to be a coward. He had grasped what he
wanted without flinching.

But how do you face the unknown darkness, the monstrosity inside your
own brain, your own soul?

He had discovered many things in himself he did not like: insensitivity,
overpowerful ambition, a ruthlessness. But they were bearable, things for which
he could make amends, improve from now on—indeed he had started.

But why should he have murdered Joscelin Grey? The more he struggled
with it the less did it make any sense. Why should he have cared enough? There
was nothing in his life, no personal relationship that called up such passion.

And he could not believe he was simply mad. Anyway, he had not attacked
a stranger in the street, he had deliberately sought out Grey, taken trouble
to go to his home; and even madmen have some reason, however distorted.

He must find it, for himself—and he must find the reason before Runcorn
found it.

Only it would not be Runcorn, it would be Evan.

The cold inside him grew worse. That was one of the most painful
realizations of all, the time when Evan must know that it was he who had killed
Grey, he was the murderer who had raised such horror in both of them, such
revulsion for the mad appetite, the bestiality. They had looked upon the
murderer as being another kind of creature, alien, capable of some darkness
beyond their comprehension. To Evan it would still be such a creature, less
than quite human—whereas to Monk it was not outward and foreign, where he could
sometimes forget it, bar it out, but the deformed and obscene within himself.

Tonight he must sleep; the clock on the mantel said thirteen minutes
past four. But tomorrow he would begin a new investigation. To save his own
mind, he must discover why he had killed Joscelin Grey; and he must discover it
before Evan did.

* * * * *

He was not ready to see Evan when he went into his office in the
morning, not prepared; but then he would never be.

"Good morning, sir," Evan said cheerfully.

Monk replied, but kept his face turned away, so Evan could not read his
expression. He found lying surprisingly hard; and he must lie all the time,
every day in every contact from now on.

"I've been thinking, sir." Evan did not appear to notice
anything unusual. "We should look into all these other people before we
try to charge Lord Shelburne. You know, Joscelin Grey may well have had affairs
with other women. We should try the Dawlishes; they had a daughter. And there's
Fortescue's wife, and Charles Latterly may have a wife."

Monk froze. He had forgotten that Evan had seen Charles's letter in
Grey's desk. He had been supposing blithely that Evan knew nothing of the
Latterlys.

Evan's voice cut across him, low and quite gentle. It

sounded as though there were nothing more than concern in it.

"Sir?"

"Yes," Monk agreed quickly. He must keep control, speak
sensibly. "Yes I suppose we had better." What a hypocrite he was,
sending Evan off to pry the secret hurts out of people in the search for a
murderer. What would Evan think, feel, when he discovered that the murderer was
Monk?

"Shall I start with Latterly, sir?" Evan was still talking.
"We don't know much about him."

"No!"

Evan looked startled.

Monk mastered himself; when he spoke his voice was quite calm again, but
still he kept his face away.

"No, I'll try the people here: I want you to go back to Shelburne
Hall." He must get Evan out of the city for a while, give himself time.
"See if you can learn anything more from the servants," he
elaborated. "Become friendly with the upstairs maids, if you can, and the
parlor maid. Parlor maids are on in the morning; they observe all sorts of
things when people are off their guard. It may be one of the other families,
but Shelburne is still the most likely. It can be harder to forgive a brother
for cuckolding you than it would be a stranger—it's not just an offense, it's a
betrayal—and he's constantly there to remind you of it."

"You think so, sir?" There was a lift of surprise in Evan's
voice.

Oh God. Surely Evan could not know, could not suspect anything so soon?
Sweat broke out on Monk's body, and chilled instantly, leaving him shivering.

"Isn't that what Mr. Runcorn thinks?" he asked, his voice
husky with the effort of seeming casual. What isolation this was. He felt cut
off from every human contact by his fearful knowledge.

"Yes sir." He knew Evan was staring at him, puzzled, even
anxious. "It is, but he could be wrong. He wants to see you arrest Lord
Shelburne—" That was an understanding he had not committed to words
before. It was the first time he had acknowledged that he understood Runcorn's
envy, or his intention. Monk was startled into looking up, and instantly
regretted it. Evan's eyes were anxious and appallingly direct.

"Well he won't—unless I have evidence," Monk said slowly.
"So go out to Shelburne Hall and see what you can find. But tread softly,
listen rather than speak. Above all, don't make any implications."