The Face of a Stranger (7 page)

"Oh yes, sir, and we ain't let nobody in. Lock's still as Mr. Lamb
left it."

"Good, thank you." Monk had been preparing to show some proof of
his identity, but the porter was apparently quite satisfied with his
recognition of Evan, and turned back to his cubbyhole to fetch the key.

He came with it a moment later and led them upstairs with the solemnity
due the presence of the dead, especially those who had died violently. Monk had
the momentarily unpleasant impression that they would find Joscelin Grey's
corpse still lying there, untouched and waiting for them.

It was ridiculous, and he shook it off fiercely. It was beginning to
assume the repetitive quality of a nightmare, as if events could happen more
than once.

"Here we are, sir." Evan was standing at the door, the
porter's key in his hand. "There's a back door as well, of course, from
the kitchen, but it opens onto the same landing, about twelve yards along, for
services, errands, and the like."

Monk recalled his attention.

"But one would still have to pass the porter at the gate?"

"Oh yes, sir. I suppose there's not much point in having a porter
if there's a way in without passing him. Then any beggar or peddler could
bother you." He pulled an extraordinary face as he pondered the habits of
his betters. "Or creditors!" he added lugubriously.

"Quite." Monk was sardonic.

Evan turned and put the key in the lock. He seemed reluctant, as if a memory
of the violence he had seen there still clung to the place, repelling him. Or
was Monk projecting his own fancies onto someone else?

The hallway inside was exactly as Evan had described it: neat, blue
Georgian with white paint and trims, very clean and elegant. He saw the hat
stand with its place for sticks and umbrellas, the table for calling cards and
so forth. Evan was ahead of him, his back stiff, opening the door to the main
room.

Monk walked in behind him. He was not sure what he was expecting to see;
his body was tight also, as if waiting for an attack, for something startling
and ugly on the senses.

The decoration was elegant, and had originally been expensive, but in
the flat light, without gas or fire, it looked bleak and commonplace enough.
The Wedgwood-blue walls seemed at a glance immaculate, the white trims without
scar, but there was a fine rime of dust over the polished wood of the
chiffonier and the desk and a film dulling colors of the carpet. His eyes
traveled automatically to the window first, then around the other furniture—
ornate side table with piecrust edges, a jardiniere with a Japanese bowl on it,
a mahogany bookcase—till he came to the overturned heavy chair, the broken
table, companion to the other, the pale inner wood a sharp scar against its
mellowed satin skin. It looked like an animal with legs in the air.

Then he saw the bloodstain on the floor. There was not a lot of it, not
widespread at all, but very dark, almost black. Grey must have bled a lot in
that one place. He looked away from it, and noticed then that much of what
seemed pattern on the carpet was probably lighter, spattered blood. On the far
wall there was a picture crooked, and when he walked over to it and looked more
carefully, he saw a bruise in the plaster, and the paint was faintly scarred.
It was a bad watercolor of the Bay of Naples, all harsh blues with a conical
Mount Vesuvius in the background.

"It must have been a considerable fight," he said quietly.

"Yes sir," Evan agreed. He was standing in the middle of the
floor, not sure what to do. "There were several bruises on the body, arms
and shoulders, and one knuckle was skinned. I should say he put up a good
fight."

Monk looked at him, frowning.

"I don't remember that in the medical report."

"I think it just said 'evidences of a struggle’, sir. But that's
pretty obvious from the room here, anyway." His eyes glanced around at it
as he spoke. "There's blood on that chair as well." He pointed to the
heavy stuffed one lying on its back. "That's where he was, with his head
on the floor. We're looking for a violent man, sir." He shivered
slightly.

"Yes." Monk stared around, trying to visualize what must have
happened in this room nearly six weeks ago, the fear and the impact of flesh on
flesh, shadows moving, shadows because he did not know them, furniture crashing
over, glass splintering. Then suddenly it became real, a flash sharper and more
savage than anything his imagination had called up, red moments of rage and
terror, the thrashing stick; then it was gone again, leaving him trembling and
his stomach sick. What in God's name had happened in this room that the echo
of it still hung here, like an agonized ghost, or a beast of prey?

He turned and walked out, oblivious of Evan behind him, fumbling for the
door. He had to get out of here, into the commonplace and grubby street, the
sound of voices, the demanding present. He was not even sure if Evan followed
him.

3

As soon as Monk was out in the street he felt better, but he could not
completely shake the impression that had come to him so violently. For an
instant it had been real enough to bring his body out in hot, drenching sweat,
and then leave him shivering and nauseous at the sheer bestiality of it.

He put up his hand shakily and felt his wet cheek. There was a hard,
angular rain driving on the wind.

He turned to see Evan behind him. But if Evan had felt that savage
presence, there was no sign of it in his face. He was puzzled, a little
concerned, but Monk could read no more in him than that.

"A violent man." Monk repeated Evan's words through stiff
lips.

"Yes sir," Evan said solemnly, catching up to him. He started
to say something, then changed his mind. "Where are you going to begin,
sir?" he asked instead.

It was a moment before Monk could collect his thoughts to reply. They
were walking along Doughty Street to Guil-ford Street.

"Recheck the statements," he answered, stopping on the corner
curb as a hansom sped past them, its wheels spraying filth. "That's the
only place I know to begin. I'll

do the least promising first. The street sweeper boy is there." He
indicated the child a few yards from them, busy shoveling dung and at the same
time seizing a penny that had been thrown him. "Is he the same one?"

"I think so, sir; I can't see his face from here." That was
something of a euphemism; the child's features were hidden by dirt and the
hazards of his occupation, and the top half of his head was covered by an
enormous cloth cap, to protect him from the rain.

Monk and Evan stepped out onto the street towards him.

"Well?" Monk asked when they reached the boy.

Evan nodded.

Monk fished for a coin; he felt obliged to recompense the child for the
earnings he might lose in the time forfeited. He came up with twopence and
offered it.

"Alfred, I am a policeman. I want to talk to you about the
gentleman who was killed in Number Six in the square."

The boy took the twopence.

"Yeah guv, I dunno anyfink what I din't tell ve ovver rozzer as
asked me." He sniffed and looked up hopefully. A man with twopence to
spend was worth pleasing.

"Maybe not," Monk conceded, "but I'd like to talk to you
anyway." A tradesman's cart clattered by them towards Grey's Inn Road,
splashing them with mud and leaving a couple of cabbage leaves almost at their
feet. "Can we go to the footpath?" Monk inquired, hiding his
distaste. His good boots were getting soiled and his trou-ser legs were wet.

The boy nodded, then acknowledging their lack of skill in dodging wheels
and hooves with the professional's condescension for the amateur, he steered
them to the curb again.

"Yers guv?" he asked hopefully, pocketing the twopence
somewhere inside the folds of his several jackets and sniffing hard. He
refrained from wiping his hand across his face in deference to their superior
status.

"You saw Major Grey come home the day he was killed?" Monk
asked with appropriate gravity.

"Yers guv, and vere weren't nob'dy followin' 'im, as fer as I could
see."

"Was the street busy?"

"No, wicked night, it were, for July, raining summink 'orrible.
Nob'dy much abaht, an' everyone goin' as fast as veir legs'd carry 'em."

"How long have you been at this crossing?"

"Couple o' years." His faint fair eyebrows rose with surprise;
obviously it was a question he had not expected.

"So you must know most of the people who live around here?"
Monk pursued.

"Yers, reckon as I do." His eyes sparked with sudden sharp
comprehension. "Yer means did I see anyone as don't belong?"

Monk nodded in appreciation of his sagacity. "Precisely. ''

" 'E were bashed ter deaf, weren't 'e?"

"Yes." Monk winced inwardly at the appropriateness of the
phrase.

"Ven yer in't lookin' fer a woman?"

"No," Monk agreed. Then it flashed through his mind that a man
might dress as a woman, if perhaps it were not some stranger who had murdered
Grey, but a person known to him, someone who had built up over the years the
kind of hatred that had seemed to linger in that room. "Unless it were a
large woman," he added, "and very strong, perhaps."

The
boy hid a smirk. “Woman as I saw was on the little side. Most women as makes
veir way vat fashion gotta look fetchin' like, or leastways summink as a woman
oughter. Don't see no great big scrubbers 'round 'ere, an' no dollymops."
He sniffed again and pulled his mouth down fiercely to express his disapproval.
"Only the class for gennelmen as 'as money like wot vey got 'ere." He
gestured towards the elaborate house fronts behind him towards the square.

"I see." Monk hid a brief amusement. "And you saw some
woman of that type going into Number Six that evening?" It was probably
not worth anything, but every clue must be followed at this stage.

"No one as don't go vere reg'lar, guv."

"What time?"

"Jus' as I were goin' 'ome."

“About half past seven?''

"S' right."

"How about earlier?"

"Only wot goes inter Number Six, like?"

"Yes."

He shut his eyes in deep concentration, trying to be obliging; there
might be another twopence. "One of ve gennelmen wot lives hi Number Six
came 'ome wiv another gent, little feller wiv one o' vem collars wot looks
like fur, but all curly."

"Astrakhan?" Monk offered.

"I dunno wot yer calls it. Anyway, 'e went in abaht six, an' I
never sawed 'im come aht. Vat any 'elp to yer, guv?"

"It might be. Thank you very much." Monk spoke to him with all
seriousness, gave him another penny, to Evan's surprise, and watched him step
blithely off into the thoroughfare, dodging in between traffic, and take up his
duties again.

Evan's face was brooding, thoughtful, but whether on the boy's answers
or his means of livelihood, Monk did not ask.

"The ribbon seller's not here today." Evan looked up and down
the Guilford Street footpath. "Who do you want to try next?"

Monk thought for a moment. "How do we find the cabby? I presume we
have an address for him?"

"Yes sir, but I doubt he'd be there now."

Monk turned to face the drizzling east wind. "Not unless he's
ill," he agreed. "Good evening for trade. No one will walk in this
weather if they can ride." He was pleased with that—it sounded
intelligent, and it was the

merest common sense. "We'll send a message and have him call at the
police station. I don't suppose he can add anything to what he's already said
anyway." He smiled sarcastically. "Unless, of course, he killed Grey
himself!"

Evan stared at him, his eyes wide, unsure for an instant whether he was
joking or not. Then Monk suddenly found he was not sure himself. There was no
reason to believe the cabby. Perhaps there had been heated words between them,
some stupid quarrel, possibly over nothing more important than the fere. Maybe
the man had followed Grey upstairs, carrying a case or a parcel for him, seen
the flat, the warmth, the space, the ornaments, and in a fit of envy become
abusive. He may even have been drunk; he would not be the first cabby to
bolster himself against cold, rain and long hours a little too generously. God
help them, enough of them died of bronchitis or consumption anyway.

Evan was still looking at him, not entirely sure.

Monk spoke his last thoughts aloud.

"We must check with the porter that Grey actually entered alone.
He might easily have overlooked a cabby carrying baggage, invisible, like a
postman; we become so used to them, the eye sees but the mind doesn't register."

"It's possible." Belief was strengthening in Evan's voice.
"He could have set up the mark for someone else, noted addresses or
wealthy fares, likely-looking victims for someone. Could be a well-paying
sideline?"

"Could indeed." Monk was getting chilled standing on the curb.
"Not as good as a sweep's boy for scouting the inside of a house, but
better for knowing when the victim is out. If that was his idea, he certainly
mistook Grey." He shivered. "Perhaps we'd better call on him rather than
send a message; it might make him nervous. It's late; we'll have a bit of lunch
at the local public house, and see what the gossip is. Then you can go back to
the station this afternoon and find out if anything is known about this cabby,
what sort of reputation he has—if we know him, for example, and who his
associates are. I'll try the porter again, and if possible some of the
neighbors."