The Face of a Stranger (5 page)

"Yes sir."

"And how far is your home from Mecklenburg Square?"

"About a mile, I reckon."

"Where do you live?"

"Off the Pentonville Road, sir."

"Half an hour's walk?"

"Bless you, no sir, more like quarter. A sight too wet to be
hanging around, it was. Besides, girls as hang around that time of an evening
gets themselves misunderstood, or worse."

"Quite. So you left Mecklenburg Square about seven o'clock."

"Reckon so."

"Did you see anyone else go into Number Six, after Mr. Grey?"

"Yes sir, one other gentleman in a black coat with a big fur
collar."

There was a note in brackets after the last statement to say it had been
established that this person was a resident of the apartments, and no suspicion
attached to him.

The name of Mary Ann Brown was written in the same hand at the bottom,
and a rough cross placed beside it.

Monk put it down. It was a statement of only negative value; it made it
highly unlikely that Joscelin Grey had been followed home by his murderer. But
then the crime had happened in July, when it was light till nine in the
evening. A man with murder, or even robbery, on his mind would not wish to be
seen so close to his victim.

By the window Evan stood still, watching him, ignoring the clatter in
the street beyond, a drayman shouting as he backed his horse, a coster calling
his wares and the hiss and rattle of carriage wheels.

Monk picked up the next statement, in the name of Alfred Cressent, a
boy of eleven who swept a crossing at the corner of Mecklenburg Square and
Doughty Street, keeping it clear of horse droppings principally, and any other
litter that might be let fall.

His contribution was much the same, except that he had not left Doughty
Street until roughly half an hour after the ribbon girl.

The cabby claimed to have picked Grey up at a regimental club a little
before six o'clock, and driven him straight to Mecklenburg Square. His fare had
done no more than pass the time of day with him, some trivial comment about the
weather, which had been extraordinarily unpleasant, and wished him a good
night upon leaving. He could recall nothing more, and to the best of his knowledge
they had not been followed or especially remarked by anyone. He had seen no
unusual or suspicious characters in the neighborhood of Guilford Street or
Mecklenburg Square, either on the way there or on his departure, only the
usual peddlers, street sweepers, flower sellers and a few gentlemen of
unobtrusive appearance who might

have been clerks returning home after a long day's work, or pickpockets
awaiting a victim, or any of a hundred other things. This statement also was of
no real help.

Monk put it on top of the other two, then looked up and found Evan's
gaze still on him, shyness tinged with a faint, self-deprecating humor.
Instinctively he liked Evan—or could it be just loneliness, because he had no
friend, no human companionship deeper than the courtesies of office or the
impersonal kindness of Mrs. Worley fulfilling her "Christian duty."
Had he had friends before, or wanted them? If so, where were they? Why had no
one welcomed him back? Not even a letter. The answer was unpleasant, and
obvious: he had not earned such a thing. He was clever, ambitious—a rather
superior ratcatcher. Not appealing. But he must not let Evan see his weakness.
He must appear professional, in command.

"Are they all like this?" he asked.

"Pretty much," Evan replied, standing more upright now that he
was spoken to. "Nobody saw or heard anything that has led us even to a
time or a description. For that matter, not even a definitive motive."

Monk was surprised; it brought his mind back to the business. He must
not let it wander. It would be hard enough to appear efficient without
woolgathering.

"Not robbery?" he asked.

Evan shook his head and shrugged very slightly. Without effort he had
the elegance Monk strove for, and Run-corn missed absolutely.

"Not unless he was frightened off," he answered. "There
was money in Grey's wallet, and several small, easily portable ornaments of
value around the room. One fact that might be worth something, though: he had
no watch on. Gentlemen of his sort usually have rather good watches, engraved,
that sort of thing. And he did have a watch chain."

Monk sat on the edge of the table.

"Could he have pawned it?" he asked. "Did anyone see him
with a watch?" It was an intelligent question, and

it came to him instinctively. Even well-to-do men sometimes ran short
of ready money, or dressed and dined beyond their means and were temporarily
embarrassed. How had he known to ask that? Perhaps his skill was so deep it was
not dependent on memory?

Evan flushed faintly and his hazel eyes looked suddenly awkward.

"I'm afraid we didn't find out, sir. I mean, the people we asked
didn't seem to recall clearly; some said they remembered something about a
watch, others that they didn't. We couldn't get a description of one. We
wondered if he might have pawned it too; but we didn't find a ticket, and we
tried the local pawnshops."

"Nothing?"

Evan shook his head. "Nothing at all, sir."

"So we wouldn't know it, even if it turned up?" Monk said
disappointedly, jerking his hand at the door. "Some miserable devil could
walk in here sporting it, and we should be none the wiser. Still, I daresay if
the killer took it, he will have thrown it into the river when the hue and cry
went up anyway. If he didn't he's too daft to be out on his own." He
twisted around to look at the pile of papers again and riffled through them
untidily. "What else is there?"

The next was the account of the neighbor opposite, one Albert SCarsdale,
very bare and prickly. Obviously he had resented the inconsideration, the
appalling bad taste of Grey in getting himself murdered in Mecklenburg Square,
and felt the less he said about it himself the sooner it would be forgotten,
and the sooner he might dissociate himself from the whole sordid affair.

He admitted he thought he had heard someone in the hallway between his
apartment and that of Grey at about eight o'clock, and possibly again at about
quarter to ten. He could not possibly say whether it was two separate visitors
or one arriving and then later leaving; in fact he was not sure beyond doubt
that it had not been a stray animal, a cat, or the porter making a round—from
his

choice of words he regarded the two as roughly equal. It might even have
been an errand boy who had lost his way, or any of a dozen other things. He had
been occupied with his own interests, and had seen and heard nothing of remark.
The statement was signed and affirmed as being true with an ornate and
ill-natured signature.

Monk looked across at Evan, still waiting by the window.

"Mr. Scarsdale sounds like an officious and unhelpful little
beggar," he observed dryly.

"Very, sir," Evan agreed, his eyes shining but no smile
touching his lips. "I imagine it's the scandal in the buildings; attracts
notice from the wrong kind of people, and very bad for the social
reputation."

"Something less than a gentleman." Monk made an immediate and
cruel judgment.

Evan pretended not to understand him, although it was a patent lie.

"Less than a gentleman, sir?" His face puckered.

Monk spoke before he had time to think, or wonder why he was so sure.

"Certainly. Someone secure in his social status would not be
affected by a scandal whose proximity was only a geographical accident, and
nothing to do with him personally. Unless, of course, he knew Grey well?"

"No sir," Evan said, but his eyes showed his total comprehension.
Obviously Scarsdale still smarted under Grey's contempt, and Monk could imagine
it vividly. "No, he disclaimed all personal acquaintance with him. And
either that's a lie or else it's very odd. If he were the gentleman he pretends
to be, he would surely know Grey, at least to speak to. They were immediate neighbors,
after all."

Monk did not want to court disappointment.

"It may be no more than social pretension, but worth inquiring
into." He looked at the papers again. "What else is there?" He
glanced up at Evan. "Who found him, by the way?"

Evan came over and sorted out two more reports from the bottom of the
pile. He handed them to Monk.

"Cleaning woman and the porter, sir. Their accounts agree, except
that the porter says a bit more, because naturally we asked him about the
evening as well."

Monk was temporarily lost. "As well?"

Evan flushed faintly with irritation at his own lack of clarity.

"He wasn't found until the following morning, when the woman who
cleans and cooks for him arrived and couldn't get in. He wouldn't give her a
key, apparently didn't trust her; he let her in himself, and if he wasn't there
then she just went away and came another time. Usually he leaves some message
with the porter."

"I see. Did he go away often? I assume we know where to?"
There was an instinctive edge of authority to his voice now, and impatience.

"Occasional weekend, so for as the porter knows; sometimes longer,
a week or two at a country house, in the season," Evan answered.

"So what happened when Mrs.—what's her name?— arrived?"

Evan stood almost to attention. "Huggins. She knocked as usual, and
when she got no answer after the third attempt, she went down to see the
porter, Grimwade, to find out if there was a message. Grimwade told her he'd
seen Grey arrive home the evening before, and he hadn't gone out yet, and to go
back and try again. Perhaps Grey had been in the bathroom, or unusually soundly
asleep, and no doubt he'd be standing at the top of the stairs by now, wanting
his breakfast."

"But of course he wasn't," Monk said unnecessarily.

"No. Mrs. Huggins came back a few minutes later all fussed and
excited—these women love a little drama—and demanded that Grimwade do something
about it. To her endless satisfaction"—Evan smiled bleakly—"she said
that he'd be lying there murdered in his own blood, and they should do
something immediately, and call the police. She

must have told me that a dozen times." He pulled a small face.
"She's now convinced she has the second sight, and I spent a quarter of an
hour persuading her that she should stick to cleaning and not give it up in
favor of fortune-telling—although she's already a heroine, of sorts, in the
local newspaper—and no doubt the local pub!"

Monk found himself smiling too.

"One more saved from a career in the fairground stalls— and still
in the service of the gentry," he said. "Heroine for a day—and free
gin every time she retells it for the next six months. Did Grimwade go back
with her?"

"Yes, with a master key, of course."

"And what did they find, exactly?" This was perhaps the most
important single thing: the precise facts of the discovery of the body.

Evan concentrated till Monk was not sure if he was remembering the
witness's words or his own sight of the rooms.

"The small outer hall was perfectly orderly," Evan began.
"Usual things you might expect to see, stand for coats and things, and
hats, rather a nice stand for sticks, umbrellas and so forth, box for boots, a
small table for calling cards, nothing else. Everything was neat and tidy. The
door from that led directly into the sitting room; and the bedroom and
utilities were off that." A shadow passed over his extraordinary face. He
relaxed a little and half unconsciously leaned against the window frame.

"That next room was a different matter altogether. The curtains
were drawn and the gas was still burning, even though it was daylight outside.
Grey himself was lying half on the floor and half on the big chair, head
downward. There was a lot of blood, and he was in a pretty dreadful
state." His eyes did not waver, but it was with an effort, and Monk could
see it. "I must admit," he continued, "I've seen a few deaths,
but this was the most brutal, by a long way. The man had been beaten to death
with something quite thin—I mean not a bludgeon—hit a great many times. There
had pretty obviously been a fight. A small

table had been knocked over and one leg broken off, several ornaments
were on the floor and one of the heavy stuffed chairs was on its back, the one
he was half on." Evan was frowning at the memory, and his skin was pale.
"The other rooms hadn't been touched." He moved his hands in a
gesture of negation. "It was quite a while before we could get Mrs.
Huggins into a sane state of mind, and then persuade her to look at the kitchen
and bedroom; but eventually she did, and said they were just as she had left
them the previous day."

Monk breathed in deeply, thinking. He must say something intelligent,
not some fatuous comment on the obvious. Evan was watching him, waiting. He
found himself self-conscious.

"So it would appear he had a visitor some time in the evening,"
he said more tentatively than he had wished. "Who quarreled with him, or
else simply attacked him. There was a violent light, and Grey lost."