The Face of a Stranger (47 page)

Now it all made obvious and tragic sense—it was not George Latterly's
death, or the abuse of it, which had spurred Joscelin Grey's murder, it was
Edward Daw-lish's—and Joscelin's own betrayal of every ideal his brother
believed.

And then the joy vanished just as suddenly as it had come, the relief
evaporated, leaving him shivering cold. How could he prove it? It was his word
against Menard's. Grimwade had been up the stairs answering the bell, and seen
nothing. Menard had gone in the door Monk had left open in the gale. There was
nothing material, no evidence—only Monk's memory of Menard's face for a moment
in the gaslight.

They would hang him. He could imagine the trial now, himself standing in
the dock, the ridiculousness of trying to explain what manner of man Joscelin
Grey had been, and that it was not Monk, but Joscelin's own brother Menard who
had killed him. He could see the disbelief in their faces, and the contempt for
a man who would try to escape justice by making such a charge.

Despair closed around him like the blackness of the night, eating away
strength, crushing with the sheer weight of it. And he began to be afraid.
There would be the few

short weeks in the stone cell, the stolid warders, at once pitying and
contemptuous, then the last meal, the priest, and the short walk to the
scaffold, the smell of rope, the pain, the fighting for breath—and oblivion.

He was still drowned and paralyzed by it when he heard the sound on the
stairs. The latch turned and Evan stood in the doorway. It was the Worst moment
of all. There was no point in lying, Evan's face was full of knowledge, and
pain. And anyway, he did not want to.

"How did you know?" Monk said quietly.

Evan came in and closed the door. "You sent me after Dawlish. I
found an officer who'd served with Edward Dawlish. He didn't gamble, and
Joscelin Grey never paid any debts for him. Everything he knew about him he
learned from Menard. He took a hell of a chance lying to the family like
that—but it worked. They'd have backed him financially, if he hadn't died. They
blamed Menard for Edward's fall from honor, and forbade him in the house. A
nice touch on Joscelin's part."

Monk stared at him. It made perfect sense. And yet it would never even
raise a reasonable doubt in a juror's mind.

"I think that is where Grey's money came from—cheating the families
of the dead," Evan continued. "You were so concerned about the
Latterly case, it wasn't a great leap of the imagination to assume he cheated
them too—and that is why Charles Latterly's father shot himself." His eyes
were soft and intense with distress. "Did you come this far the first time
too--before the accident?"

So he knew about the memory also. Perhaps it was all far more obvious
than he believed; the fumbling for words, the unfamiliarity with streets,
public houses, old haunts-even Runcorn's hatred of him. It did not matter
anymore.

"Yes." Monk spoke very slowly, as if letting the words fall
one by one would make them believable. "But I did not kill Joscelin Grey.
I fought with him, I probably hurt him—he certainly hurt me—but he was alive
and swearing at me when I left." He searched Evan's countenance feature by
feature. "I saw Menard Grey go in as I turned in the street. He was facing
the light and I was going away from it. The outer door was still open in the
wind."

A desperate, painful relief flooded Evan's face, and he looked bony and
young, and very tired. "So it was Menard who killed him." It was a
statement.

"Yes." A blossom of gratitude opened wide inside Monk, filling
him with sweetness. Even without hope, it was to be treasured immeasurably.
"But there is no proof."

"But—" Evan began to argue, then the words died on his lips as
he realized the truth of it. In all their searches they had found nothing.
Menard had motive, but so had Charles Latterly, or Mr. Dawlish, or any other
family Jos-celin had cheated, any friend he had dishonored—or Lovel Grey, whom
he might have betrayed in the crudest way of all—or Monk himself. And Monk had
been there. Now that they knew it, they also knew how easily provable it was,
simply find the shop where he had bought that highly distinctive stick—such a
piece of vanity. Mrs. Worley would remember it, and its subsequent absence.
Lamb would recall seeing it in Grey's flat the moming after the murder. Imogen
Latterly would have to admit Monk had been working on the case of her father's
death.

The darkness was growing closer, tighter around them, the light
guttering.

"We'll have to get Menard to confess," Evan said at last.

Monk laughed harshly. "And how do you propose we should do that?
There's no evidence, and he knows it. No one would take my word against his
that I saw him, and kept silent about it till now. It will look like a rather
shabby and very stupid attempt to shift the blame from myself."

That was true, and Evan racked his mind in vain for a rebuttal. Monk was
still sitting in the big chair, limp and exhausted with emotions from terror
through joy and back to fear and despair again.

"Go home," Evan said gently. "You can't stay here.

There may be—" Then the idea came to him with a flutter of hope,
growing and rising. There was one person who might help. It was a chance, but
there was nothing left to lose. "Yes," he repeated. "Go
home—I'll be there soon. I've just got an errand. Someone to see—" And he
swung on his heel and went out of the door, leaving it ajar behind him.

He ran down the stairs two at a time—he never knew afterwards how he did
not break his neck—shot past Grim-wade, and plunged out into the rain. He ran
all the way along the pavement of Mecklenburg Square along Doughty Street and
accosted a hansom as it passed him, driver's coat collar up around his neck and
stovepipe hat jammed forward over his brow.

"I ain't on duty, guv!" the driver said crossly. "Finished,
I am. Goin' 'ome terme supper."

Evan ignored him and climbed in, shouting the Latter-lys' address in
Thanet Street at him.

"I told you, I ain't goin' nowhere!" the cabby repeated,
louder this time. " 'Ceptin 'ome fer me supper. You'll 'ave ter get
someone else!"

"You're taking me to Thanet Street!" Evan shouted back at him.
"Police! Now get on with it, or I'll have your badge!"

"Bleedin’ rozzers," the cabby muttered sullenly, but he
realized he had a madman in the back, and it would be quicker in the long run
to do what he said. He lifted the reins and slapped them on the horse's soaking
back, and they set off at a brisk trot.

At Thanet Street Evan scrambled out and commanded the cabby to wait, on
pain of his livelihood.

Hester was at home when Evan was shown in by a startled maid. He was
streaming water everywhere and his extraordinary, ugly, beautiful face was
white. His hair was plastered crazily across his brow and he stared at her with
anguished eyes.

She had seen hope and despair too often not to recognize both.

"Can you come with me!" he said urgently. "Please? I'll
explain as we go. Miss Latterly—I—"

"Yes." She did not need time to decide. To refuse was an
impossibility. And she must leave before Charles or Imogen came from the
withdrawing room, impelled by curiosity, and discovered the drenched and
frantic policeman in the hall. She could not even go back for her cloak—what
use would it be in this downpour anyway? "Yes—I'll come now." She
walked past him and out of the front door. The wall of rain hit her in the face
and she ignored it, continuing across the pavement, over the bubbling gutter
and up into the hansom before either Evan or the driver had time to hand her
up.

Evan scrambled behind her and slammed the door, shouting his
instructions to drive to Grafton Street. Since the cabby had not yet been paid,
he had little alternative.

“What has happened, Mr. Evan?'' Hester asked as soon as they were
moving. "I can see that it is something very terrible. Have you discovered
who murdered Joscelin Grey?"

There was no point in hesitating now; the die was cast.

"Yes, Miss Latterly. Mr. Monk retraced all the steps of his first
investigation—with your help," He took a deep breath. He was cold now that
the moment came; he was wet to the skin and shaking. "Joscelin Grey made
his living by finding the families of men killed in the Crimea, pretending he
had known the dead soldier and befriended him—either lending him money, paying
the debts he left, or giving him some precious personal belonging, like the
watch hcqlaimed to have lent your brother, then when the family could not give
it back to him—which they never could, since it did not exist—they felt in his
debt, which he used to obtain invitations, influence, financial or social
backing. Usually it was only a few hundred guineas, or to be a guest at their
expense. In your father's case it was to his ruin and death. Either way Grey
did not give a damn what happened to his victims, and he had every intention of
continuing."

"What a vile crime," she said quietly. "He was totally

despicable. I am glad that he is dead—and perhaps sorry for whoever killed
him. You have not said who it was?" Suddenly she was cold also. "Mr.
Evan—?"

"Yes ma'am—Mr. Monk went to his flat in Mecklenburg Square and
faced him with it. They fought—Mr. Monk beat him, but he was definitely alive
and not mortally hurt when Mr. Monk left. But as Monk reached the street he
saw someone else arrive, and go towards the door which was still swinging open
in the wind."

He saw Hester's face pale in the glare of the streetlamps through the
carriage window.

"Who?"

"Menard Grey," he replied, waiting in the dark again to judge
from her voice, or her silence, if she believed it. "Probably because
Joscelin dishonored the memory of his friend Edward Dawlish, and deceived
Edward's father into giving him hospitality, as he did your father—and the money
would have followed."

She said nothing for several minutes. They swayed and rattled through
the intermittent darkness, the rain battering on the roof and streaming past in
torrents, yellow where the gaslight caught it.

“How very sad,'' she said at last, and her voice was tight with emotion
as though the pity caused a physical pain in her throat.”Poor Menard. I suppose
you are going to arrest him? Why have you brought me? I can do nothing."

"We can't arrest him," he answered quietly. "There is no
proof."

"There—" She swiveled around in her seat; he felt her rather
than saw her. "Then what are you going to do? They'll think it was Monk.
They'll charge him—they'll—" She swallowed. "They'll hang him."

"I know. We must make Menard confess. I thought you might know how
we could do that? You know the Greys far better than we could, from the
outside. And Joscelin was responsible for your father's death—and your mother's,
indirectly."

Again she sat silent for so long he was afraid he had offended her, or
reminded her of grief so deep she was unable to do anything but nurse its pain
inside her. They were drawing close to Grafton Street, and soon they must leave
the cab and face Monk with some resolution—or admit failure. Then he would be
faced with the task he dreaded so much the thought of it made him sick. He must
either tell Runcorn the truth, that Monk fought with Jos-celin Grey the night
of his death—or else deliberately conceal the fact and lay himself open to
certain dismissal from the police force—and the possible charge of accessory to
murder.

They were in the Tottenham Court Road, lamps gleaming on the wet
pavements, gutters awash. There was no time left.

"Miss Latterly."

"Yes. Yes," she said firmly. "I will come with you to
Shelburne Hall. I have thought about it, and the only way I can see success is
if you tell Lady Fabia the truth about Joscelin. I will corroborate it. My
family were his victims as well, and she will have to believe me, because I
have no interest in lying. It does not absolve my father's suicide in the eyes
of the church." She hesitated only an instant. "Then if you proceed
to tell her about Edward Dawlish as well, I think Menard may be persuaded to
confess. He may see no other avenue open to him, once his mother realizes that
he killed Joscelin—which she will. It will devastate her—it may destroy
her." Her voice was very low. "And they may hang Menard. But we
cannot permit the law to hang Mr. Monk instead, merely because the truth is a
tragedy that will wound perhaps beyond bearing. Joscelin Grey was a man who did
much evil. We cannot protect his mother either from her part in it, or from the
pain of knowing."

"You'll come to Shelburne tomorrow?" He had to hear her say it
again. "You are prepared to tell her your own family's suffering at
Joscelin's hands?"

"Yes. And how Joscelin obtained the names of the dying in Scutari,
as I now realize, so he could use them to cheat their families. At what time
will you depart?"

Again relief swept over him, and an awe for her that she could so commit
herself without equivocation. But then to go out to the Crimea to nurse she
must be a woman of courage beyond the ordinary imagination, and to remain
there, of a strength of purpose that neither danger nor pain could bend.

"I don't know," he said a trifle foolishly. "There was
little purpose in going at all unless you were prepared to come. Lady Shelburne
would hardly believe us without further substantiation from beyond police
testimony. Shall we say the first train after eight o'clock in the
morning?" Then he remembered he was asking a lady of some gentility.
"Is that too early?"