The Face of a Stranger (48 page)

"Certainly not." Had he been able to see her face there might
have been the faintest of smiles on it.

"Thank you. Then do you wish to take this hansom back home again,
and I shall alight here and go and tell Mr. Monk?"

"That would be the most practical thing," she agreed. "I
shall see you at the railway station in the morning."

He wanted to say something more, but all that came to his mind was either
repetitious or vaguely condescending. He simply thanked her again and climbed
out into the cold and teeming rain. It was only when the cab had disappeared
into the darkness and he was halfway up the stairs to Monk's rooms that he
realized with acute embarrassment that he had left her to pay the cabby.

* * * * *

The journey to Shelburne was made at first with heated conversation and
then in silence, apart from the small politenesses of travel. Monk was furious
that Hester was present. He refrained from ordering her home again only
because the train was already moving when she entered the carriage from the
corridor, bidding them good-morning and seating herself opposite.

"I asked Miss Latterly to come," Evan explained without a blush,
"because her additional testimony will carry great weight with Lady Fabia,
who may well not believe us, since we have an obvious interest in claiming
Joscelin was a cad. Miss Latterly's experience, and that of her family, is
something she cannot so easily deny." He did not make the mistake of
claiming that Hester had any moral right to be there because of her own loss,
or her part in the solution. Monk wished he had, so he could lose his temper
and accuse him of irrelevance. The argument he had presented was extremely
reasonable—in fact he was right. Hester's corroboration would be very likely to
tip the balance of decision, which otherwise the Greys together might rebut.

"I trust you will speak only when asked?" Monk said to her
coldly. "This is a police operation, and a very delicate one." That
she of all people should be the one whose assistance he needed at this point
was galling in the extreme, and yet it was undeniable. She was in many ways
everything he loathed in a woman, the antithesis of the gentleness that still
lingered with such sweetness in his memory; and yet she had rare courage, and a
force of character which would equal Fabia Grey's any day.

"Certainly, Mr. Monk," she replied with her chin high and her
eyes unflinching, and he knew in that instant that she had expected precisely
this reception, and come to the carriage late intentionally to circumvent the
possibility of being ordered home. Although of course it was highly debatable
as to whether she would have gone. And Evan would never countenance leaving her
on the station platform at Shelburne. And Monk did care what Evan felt.

He sat and stared across at Hester, wishing he could think of something
else crushing to say.

She smiled at him, clear-eyed and agreeable. It was not so much
friendliness as triumph.

They continued the rest of the journey with civility, and gradually each
became consumed in private thoughts, and a dread of the task ahead.

When they arrived at Shelburne they alighted onto the

platform. The weather was heavy and dark with the presage of winter. It
had stopped raining, but a cold wind stirred in gusts and chilled the skin even
through heavy coats.

They were obliged to wait some fifteen minutes before a trap arrived,
which they hired to take them to the hall. This journey, too, they made huddled
together and without speaking. They were all oppressed by what was to come,
and the trivialities of conversation would have been grotesque.

They were admitted reluctantly by the footman, but no persuasion would
cause him to show them into the withdrawing room. Instead they were left
together in the morning room, neither cheered nor warmed by the fire
smoldering in the grate, and required to wait until Her Ladyship should decide
whether she would receive them or not.

After twenty-five minutes the footman returned and conducted them to the
boudoir, where Fabia was seated on her favorite settee, looking pale and
somewhat strained, but perfectly composed.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. Constable." She nodded at Evan. Her
eyebrows rose and her eyes became icier. “Good morning, Miss Latterly. I assume
you can explain your presence here in such curious company?''

Hester took the bull by the horns before Monk had time to form a reply.

"Yes, Lady Fabia. I have come to inform you of the truth about my
family's tragedy—and yours."

"You have my condolences, Miss Latterly." Fabia looked at her
with pity and distaste. "But I have no desire to know the details of your
loss, nor do I wish to discuss my bereavement with you. It is a private matter.
I imagine your intention is good, but it is entirely misplaced. Good day to
you. The footman will see you to the door."

Monk felt the first flicker of anger stir, in spite of the consuming
disillusion he knew this woman was shortly going to feel. Her willful blindness
was monumental, her ability to disregard other people total.

Hester's face set hard with resolve, as granite hard as Fabia's own.

“It is the same tragedy, Lady Fabia. And I do not discuss it out of
good intentions, but because it is a truth we are all obliged to face. It gives
me no pleasure at all, but neither do I plan to run away from it—"

Fabia's chin came up and the thin muscles tightened in her neck,
suddenly looking scraggy, as if age had descended on her in the brief moments
since they entered the room.

"I have never run from a truth in my life, Miss Latterly, and I do
not care for your impertinence in suggesting I might. You forget
yourself."

"I would prefer to forget everything and go home." A ghost of
a smile crossed Hester's face and vanished. "But I cannot. I think it
would be better if Lord Shelburne and Mr. Menard Grey were to be present,
rather than repeat the story for them later. There may be questions they wish
to ask—Major Grey was their brother and they have some rights in knowing how
and why he died."

Fabia sat motionless, her face rigid, her hands poised halfway towards
the bell pull. She had not invited any of them to be seated, in fact she was on
the point of asking again that they leave. Now, with the mention of Joscelin's
murderer, everything was changed. There was not the slightest sound in the room
except the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

"You know who killed Joscelin?" She looked at Monk, ignoring
Hester.

"Yes ma'am, we do." He found his mouth dry and the pulse
beating violently in his head. Was it fear, or pity— or both?

Fabia stared at him, demanding he explain everything for her, then
slowly the challenge died. She saw something in his face which she could not
overcome, a knowledge and a finality which touched her with the first breath of
a chill, nameless fear. She pulled the bell, and when the maid came, told her
to send both Menard and Lovel to her immediately. No mention was made of
Rosamond.

She was not a Grey by blood, and apparently Fabia did not consider she
had any place in this revelation.

They waited in silence, each in their separate worlds of misery and
apprehension. Lovel came first, looking irritably from Fabia to Monk, and with
surprise at Hester. He had obviously been interrupted while doing something he
considered of far greater urgency.

"What is it?" he said, frowning at his mother. "Has
something further been discovered?"

"Mr. Monk says he knows at last who killed Joscelin," she
answered with masklike calm.

"Who?"

"He has not told me. He is waiting for Menard."

Lovel turned to Hester, his face puckered with confusion. "Miss
Latterly?"

"The truth involves the death of my father also, Lord
Shelburne," she explained gravely. "There are parts of it which I can
tell you, so you understand it all."

The first shadow of anxiety touched him, but before he could press her
further Menard came in, glanced from one to another of them, and paled.

"Monk finally knows who killed Joscelin," Lovel explained.
"Now for heaven's sake, get on with it. I presume you have arrested
him?"

"It is in hand, sir." Monk found himself more polite to them
all than previously. It was a form of distancing himself, almost a sort of
verbal defense.

"Then what is it you want of us?" Lovel demanded.

It was like plunging into a deep well of ice.

"Major Grey made his living out of his experience in the Crimean
War—" Monk began. Why was he so mealy-mouthed? He was dressing it in
sickening euphemisms.

"My son did not 'make his living' as you put it!" Fabia
snapped. "He was a gentleman—there was no necessity. He had an allowance
from the family estates."

"Which didn't begin to cover the expenses of the way he liked to
live," Menard said savagely. "If you'd ever looked at him closely,
even once, you would have known that."

"I did know it." Lovel glared at his brother. "I assumed
he was successful at cards."

"He was—sometimes. At other times he'd lose—heavily— more than he
had. He'd go on playing, hoping to get it back, ignoring the debts—until I paid
them, to save the family honor."

"Liar," Fabia said with withering disgust. "You were always
jealous of him, even as a child. He was braver, kinder and infinitely more
charming than you." For a moment a brief glow of memory superseded the
present and softened all the lines of anger in her fece—then the rage returned
deeper man before. "And you couldn't forgive him for it."

Dull color burned up Menard's face and he winced as if he had been
struck. But he did not retaliate. There was still in his eyes, in the turn of
his lips, a pity for her which concealed the bitter truth.

Monk hated it. Futilely he tried again to think of any way he could to
avoid exposing Menard even now.

The door opened and Callandra Daviot came in, meeting Hester's eyes,
seeing the intense relief in them, then the contempt in Fabia's eyes and the
anguish in Menard's.

"This is a family concern," Fabia said, dismissing her.
"You need not trouble yourself with it."

Callandra walked past Hester and sat down.

“In case you have forgotten, Fabia, I was born a Grey. Something which
you were not. I see the police are here. Presumably they have learned more
about Joscelin's death—possibly even who was responsible. What are you doing
here, Hester?"

Again Hester took the initiative. Her face was bleak and she stood with
her shoulders stiff as if she were bracing herself against a blow.

"I came because I know a great deal about Joscelin's death, which
you may not believe from anyone else."

"Then why have you concealed it until now," Fabia said with
heavy disbelief. "I think you are indulging in a most vulgar intrusion,
Miss Latterly, which I can only presume is

a result of that same willful nature which drove you to go traipsing off
to the Crimea. No wonder you are unmarried.''

Hester had been called worse things than vulgar, and by people for whose
opinion she cared a great deal more than she did for Fabia Grey's.

"Because I did not know it had any relevance before," she said
levelly. "Now I do. Joscelin came to visit my parents after my brother was
lost in the Crimea. He told them he had lent George a gold watch the night
before his death. He asked for its return, assuming it was found among George's
effects." Her voice dropped a fraction and her back became even stiffer.
"There was no watch in George's effects, and my father was so embarrassed
he did what he could to make amends to Joscelin—with hospitality, money to
invest in Joscelin's business enterprise, not only his own but his friends'
also. The business failed and my father's money, and all that of his friends,
was lost. He could not bear the shame of it, and he took his own life. My
mother died of grief a short while later."

"I am truly sorry for your parents' death," Lovel interrupted,
looking first at Fabia, then at Hester again. "But how can all this have
anything to do with Joscelin's murder? It seems an ordinary enough matter—an
honorable man making a simple compensation to clear his dead son's debt to a
brother officer.''

Hester's voice shook and at last her control seemed in danger of
breaking.

"There was no watch. Joscelin never knew George— any more than he
knew a dozen others whose names he picked from the casualty lists, or whom he
watched die in Scutari—I saw him do it—only then I didn't know why."

Fabia was white-lipped. "That is a most scandalous lie—and beneath
contempt. If you were a man I should have you horsewhipped."

"Mother!" Lovel protested, but she ignored him.

“Joscelin was a beautiful man—brave and talented and full of charm and
wit," she plunged on, her voice thick with emotion, the joy of the past,
and the anguish. "Everyone

loved him—except those few who were eaten with envy." Her eyes
darted at Menard with something close to hatred. “Little men who couldn't bear
to see anyone succeed beyond their own petty efforts." Her mouth trembled.
"Lovel, because Rosamond loved Joscelin; he could make her laugh— and
dream." Her voice hardened. "And Menard, who couldn't live with the
fact that I loved Joscelin more than I loved anyone else in the world, and I
always did."