The Face of a Stranger (45 page)

"You mean invent it for yourself?"

Evan's eyes came up quickly and met Monk's. They were devastatingly
clear.

"You don't honestly believe he did it, do you, sir?"

How could he know so quickly? Rapidly Monk flew in his mind through all
the possible things he might say. Would Evan know a lie? Had he seen all the
lies already?

Was he clever enough, subtle enough, to be leading Monk gently into
trapping himself? Was it conceivable the whole police department knew, and were
simply waiting for him to uncover his own proof, his own condemnation? For a
moment fear engulfed him and the cheerful rattle of the alehouse became a din
like bedlam— witless, formless and persecutory. They all knew; they were merely
waiting for him to know, to betray himself, and then the mystery would end.
They would come out in the open, with laughter, handcuffs, questions,
congratulations at another murder solved; there would be a trial, a brief
imprisonment, and then the tight, strong rope, a quick pain—and nothing.

But why? Why had he killed Joscelin Grey? Surely not because Grey had
escaped the crash of the tobacco company—probably even profited from it?

"Sir? Sir, are you all right?" It was Evan's voice cutting
across his panic, Evan's face peering at him anxiously. "You look a little
pale, sir. Are you sure you are all right?"

Monk forced himself to sit upright and meet Evan's eyes. If he were to
be given one wish now, it would be that Evan would not have to know. Imogen
Latterly had never really been more than a dream, a reminder of the softer
self, the part of him that could be wounded and could care for something better
than ambition—but Evan had been a friend. Maybe there had been others, but he
could not remember them now.

"Yes," he said carefully. "Yes, thank you. I was just
thinking. No, you are right; I am not at all sure it was Shelburne."

Evan leaned forward a little, his face eager.

"I'm glad you say that, sir. Don't let Mr. Runcorn push you."
His long fingers were playing with the bread, too excited to eat. "I think
it's someone here in London. In fact I have been looking at Mr. Lamb's notes
again, and ours, and the more I read them the more I think it could have something
to do with money, with business.

"Joscelin Grey seems to have lived fairly comfortably,

better than the allowance from his family supported." He put down
his spoon and abandoned all pretense of the meal. "So either he was
blackmailing someone, or else he gambled very successfully, or, most likely of
all, he had some business we know nothing about. And if it were honest, we
ought to have found some record of it, and the other people concerned should
have come forward. Similarly, if he borrowed money, the lenders would have put
in some claim against the estate."

"Unless they were sharks," Monk said automatically, his mind
cold with fear, watching Evan draw closer and closer to the thread that must
lead him to the truth. Any moment now and his fine, sensitive hands would grasp
it.

"But if they were sharks," Evan said quickly, his eyes alight,
"they would not have lent to someone like Grey. Sharks are exceedingly
careful about their investments. That much I've learned. They don't lend a
second sum out before they have the first back, and with interest, or a
mortgage on property." A lock of his heavy hair fell forward over, his
brow and he ignored it. "Which brings us back to the same question: Where
did Grey get the repayment, not to mention the interest? He was the third
brother, remember, and he had no property of his own. No sir, he had some
business, I'm sure of it. And I have some thoughts where to start looking for
it."

He was coming closer with every new idea.

Monk said nothing; his mind was racing for a thought, any thought to put
Evan off. He could not avoid it forever, the time would come; but before that
he must know why. There was something vital so close, a finger's length out of
his reach.

"Do you not agree, sir?" Evan was disappointed; his eyes were
shadowed with it. Or was it disappointment that Monk had lied?

Monk jerked himself back, dismissing his pain. He must think clearly
just a little longer.

"I was turning it over," he said, trying to keep the
desperation out of his voice. "Yes, I think you may very

well be right. Dawlish spoke of a business venture. I don't recall how
much I told you of it; I gathered it had not yet begun, but there may easily
have been others already involved." How he hated lying. Especially to
Evan—this betrayal was the worst of all. He could not bear to think what Evan
would feel when he knew. "It would be a good thing if we investigated it
far more thoroughly."

Evan's face lit up again.

"Excellent. You know I really believe we could yet catch Joscelin
Grey's murderer. I think we are near it; it will only take just one or two more
clues and it will all fell into place."

Did he know how appallingly near he was to the truth?

"Possibly," Monk agreed, keeping his voice level with an
effort. He looked down at the plate in front of him, anything to avoid Evan's
eyes. "You will still have to be discreet, though. Dawlish is a man of
considerable standing."

"Oh I will, sir, I will. Anyway, I do not especially suspect him.
What about the letter we saw from Charles Latterly? That was pretty chilly, I
thought. And I found out quite a lot more about him." He took a spoonful
of his stew at last. "Did you know his father committed suicide just a
few weeks before Grey was killed? Dawlish is a business affair in the future,
but Latterly could have been one from the past. Don't you think so, sir?"
He was ignoring the taste and texture of the food, almost swallowing it whole
in his preoccupation. "Perhaps there was something not quite right there,
and the elder Mr. Latterly took his life when he was implicated, and young Mr.
Charles Latterly, the one who sent the letter, was the one who killed Grey in
revenge?"

Monk took a deep breath. He must have just a little more time.

"That letter sounded too controlled for a man passionate enough to
kill in revenge," he said carefully, beginning to eat his own stew.
"But I will look into it. You try Dawlish, and you might try the
Fortescues as well. We

don't know very much about their connection either." He could not
let Evan pursue Charles for his, Monk's, crime; also the truth was too close
for Charles to deny it easily. He had no liking for him, but there was
something of honor left to cling to—and he was Hester's brother.
"Yes," he added, "try the Fortescues as well."

* * * * *

In the afternoon when Evan set off full of enthusiasm after Dawlish and
Fortescue, Monk went back to the police station and again sought out the man
who had given him Marner's address. The man's face lit up as soon as Monk came
in.

"Ah, Monk, I owe you something. Good old Zebedee at last." He
waved a book in the air triumphantly. "Went down to his place on the
strength of the ledger you brought, and searched the whole building. The
rackets he was running." He positively chortled with delight and
hiccupped very slightly. "Swindling left and right, taking a rake-off from
half the crime and vice in Limehouse—and the Isle of Dogs. God knows how many
thousands of pounds must have gone through his hands, the old blackguard."

Monk was pleased; it was one career other than his own he had helped.

"Good," he said sincerely. "I always like to imagine that
particular kind of bloodsucker running his belly off in the treadmills for a
few years."

The other man grinned.

"Me too, and that one especially. By the way, the tobacco
importing company was a sham. Did you know that?" He hiccupped again and
excused himself. "There was a company, but there was never any practical
chance it could have done any trading, let alone make a profit. Your fellow
Grey took his money out at precisely the right moment. If he wasn't dead I
should be wishing I could charge him as well."

Charge Grey? Monk froze. The room vanished except for a little whirling
light in front of him, and the man's face.

"Wishing? Why only wishing?" He hardly dared ask. Hope hurt
like a physical thing.

"Because there's no proof," the man replied, oblivious of
Monk's ecstasy. "He did nothing actually illegal. But I'm as sure as I am
that Hell's hot, he was part of it; just too damned clever to step over the
law. But he set it up— and brought in the money."

"But he was taken in the fraud," Monk protested, afraid to
believe. He wanted to grab the man and shake him; he resisted only with
difficulty. "You're sure beyond doubt?"

"Of course I am." The other raised his eyebrows. "I may
not be as brilliant a detective as you are, Monk, but I know my job. And I
certainly know a fraud when I see one. Your friend Grey was one of the best,
and very tidy about it." He hitched himself more comfortably in his seat.
"Not much money, not enough to cause suspicion, just a small profit, and
no guilt attached to him. If he made a habit of it he must have done quite
nicely. Although how he got all those people to trust him with their money I
don't know. You should see the names of some of those who invested."

"Yes," Monk said slowly. "I also should like to know how
he persuaded them. I think I want to know that almost as much as I want to know
anything." His brain was racing, casting for clues, threads anywhere.
"Any other names in that ledger, any partners of Marner's?"

"Employees—just the clerk in the outer office."

"No partners; were there no partners? Anyone else who might know
the business about Grey? Who got most of the money, if Grey didn't?"

The man hiccupped gently and sighed. "A rather nebulous 'Mr.
Robinson,' and a lot of money went on keeping it secret, and tidy, covering
tracks. No proof so far that this Robinson actually knew exactly what was going
on. We've got a watch on him, but nothing good enough to arrest him yet."

"Where is he?" He had to find out if he had seen this

Robinson before, the first time he had investigated Grey. If Marner did
not know him, then perhaps Robinson did?

The man wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

Monk took it: it was just above the Elephant Stairs in Rotherhithe,
across the river. He folded it and put it in his pocket.

"I won't spoil your case," he promised. "I only want to
ask him one question, and it's to do with Grey, not the tobacco fraud."

"It's all right," the other man said, sighing happily.
"Murder is always more important than fraud, at least it is when it's a
lord's son that's been killed." He sighed and hiccupped together. "Of
course if he'd been some poor shopkeeper or chambermaid it would be different.
Depends who's been robbed, or who's been killed, doesn't it?"

Monk gave a hard little grimace for the injustice of it, ' then thanked
him and left.

Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon
to find him, eventually running him down in a gin mill in Seven Dials, but he
learned everything he wanted to know almost before Robinson spoke. The man's
face tightened as soon as Monk came in and a cautious look came into his eyes.

"Good day, Mr. Monk; I didn't expect to see you again. What is it
this time?"

Monk felt the excitement shiver through him. He swallowed hard.

"Still the same thing—"

Robinson's voice was low and sibilant, and there was a timber in it that
struck Monk with an almost electric familiarity. The sweat tingled on his
skin. It was real memory, actual sight and feelings coming back at last. He
stared hard at the man.

Robinson's narrow, wedge-shaped face was stiff.

"IVe already told you everything I know, Mr. Monk. Anyway, what
does it matter now Joscelin Grey is dead?"

"And you told me everything you knew before? You swear it?"

Robinson snorted with a faint contempt.

"Yes I swear it," he said wearily. "Now will you please
go away? You're known around 'ere. It don't do me no good to 'ave the police
nosing around and asking questions. People think I 'ave something to
'ide."

Monk did not bother to argue with him. The fraud detective would catch
up with him soon enough.

"Good," he said simply. "Then I don't need to trouble you
again." He went out into the hot, gray street milling with peddlers and
waifs, his feet hardly feeling the pavement beneath. So he had known about
Grey before he had been to see him, before he had killed him.

But why was it he had hated Grey so much? Marner was the principal, the
brains behind the fraud, and the greatest beneficiary. And it seemed he had
made no move against Marner.

He needed to think about it, sort out his ideas, decide where at least
to look for the last missing piece.

It was hot and close, the air heavy with the humidity coming up from the
river, and his mind was tired, staggering, spinning with the burden of what he
had learned. He needed food and something to drink away this terrible thirst,
to wash the stench of the rookeries from his mouth.