The Face of a Stranger (9 page)

"Well I haven't any—" Scarsdale began, retreating as if to
close the door.

Monk stepped forward. "For example, the name of the

young woman who visited you the evening Major Grey was killed, and why
you lied to us about her."

It had the result Monk had wished. Scarsdale stopped dead. He fumbled
for words, trying to decide whether to bluff it out or attempt a little late
conciliation. Monk watched him with contempt.

"I—er," Scarsdale began. "I—think you have misunderstood—er
. . ."He still had not made the decision.

Monk's face tightened. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it
somewhere more discreet than the hallway?" He looked towards the stairs,
and the landing where other doorways led off—including Grey's.

"Yes—yes I suppose so." Scarsdale was now acutely
uncomfortable, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. "Although I really
cannot tell you anything germane to the issue, you know." He backed into
his own entranceway and Monk followed. "The young lady who visited me has
no connection with poor Grey, and she neither saw nor heard anyone else!"

Monk closed the main door, then followed him into the sitting room.

"Then you asked her, sir?" He allowed his face to register
interest.

"Yes, of course I did!" Scarsdale was beginning to regain his
composure, now that he was among his own possessions. The gas was lit and
turned up; it glowed gently on polished leather, old Turkey carpet and
silver-framed photographs. He was a gentleman, facing a mere member of Peel's
police. "Naturally, if there had been anything that could have assisted
you in your work, I should have told you." He used the word
work
with
a vague condescension, a mark of the gulf between them. He did not invite Monk
to sit, and remained standing himself, rather awkwardly between the sideboard
and the sofa.

"And this young lady, of course, is well known to you?" Monk
did not try to keep his own sarcastic contempt out of his voice.

Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult

or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing.
He chose the latter.

"I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly.

"You can vouch for her truthfulness," Monk elaborated, his
eyes meeting Scarsdale's with a bitter smile. "Apart from her . . .
work"
—he
deliberately chose the same word—"she is a person of perfect
probity?"

Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of
cooperation from him.

"You exceed your authority!" Scarsdale snapped. "And you
are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue,
or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors." He looked at Monk
and decided this was not a good idea. "The woman in question has no reason
to lie," he said stiffly. "She came up alone and left alone, and saw
no one at either time, except Grim-wade, the porter; and you can ascertain that
from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know."
He sniffed very slightly. "This is not a common rooming house!" His
eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.

"Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer,"
Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale's face.

Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps
bigoted, but he was not stupid.

Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.

"You are a gentleman of similar social standing"—he winced
inwardly at his own hypocrisy—"and an immediate neighbor of Major Grey's;
you must be able to tell me something about him personally. I know
nothing."

Scarsdale was happy enough to change the subject, and in spite of his
irritation, flattered.

"Yes, of course," he agreed quickly. "Nothing at
all?"

"Nothing at all," Monk conceded.

"He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?"
Scarsdale's eyes widened, and at last he walked

to the center of the room and sat down on a hard-backed, carved chair.
He waved his arm vaguely, giving Monk permission to do so too.

"Indeed?" Monk chose another hard-backed chair so as not to be
below Scarsdale.

"Oh yes, a very old family," Scarsdale said with relish.
"The Dowager Lady Shelburne, his mother, of course, was the eldest
daughter of the Duke of Ruthven, at least I think it was he; certainly the duke
of somewhere."

"Joscelin Grey," Monk reminded him.

"Oh. Very pleasant fellow; officer in the Crimea, forgotten which
regiment, but a very distinguished record." He nodded vigorously.
"Wounded at Sebastopol, I think he said, then invalided out. Walked with a
limp, poor devil. Not that it was disfiguring. Very good-looking fellow, great
charm, very well liked, you know."

"A wealthy family?"

"Shelburne?" Scarsdale was faintly amused by Monk's ignorance
and his confidence was beginning to return. "Of course. But I suppose you
know, or perhaps you don't." He looked Monk up and down disparagingly.
"But naturally all the money went to the eldest son, the present Lord
Shelburne. Always happens that way, everything to the eldest, along with the
title. Keeps the estates whole, otherwise everything would be in bits and
pieces, d'you understand? All the power of the land gone!"

Monk controlled his sense of being patronized; he was perfectly aware of
the laws of primogeniture.

"Yes, thank you. Where did Joscelin Grey's money come from?"

Scarsdale waved his hands, which were small, with wide knuckles and very
short nails. "Oh business interests, I presume. I don't believe he had a
great deal, but he didn't appear in any want. Always dressed well. Tell a lot
from a fellow's clothes, you know." Again he looked at Monk with a faint
curl of his lip, then saw the quality of Monk's jacket and the portion of his
shirt that was visible, and changed his mind, his eyes registering confusion.

"And as far as you know he was neither married nor betrothed?''
Monk kept a stiff face and hid at least most of his satisfaction.

Scarsdale was surprised at his inefficiency.

"Surely you know that?"

"Yes, we know there was no official arrangement," Monk said,
hastening to cover his mistake. "But you are in a position to know if
there was any other relationship, anyone in whom he—had an interest?"

Scarsdale's rather full mouth turned down at the corners.

"If you mean an arrangement of convenience, not that I am aware of.
But then a man of breeding does not inquire into the personal tastes—or
accommodations—of another gentleman."

"No, I didn't mean a financial matter," Monk answered with
the shadow of a sneer. "I meant some lady he might have—admired—or even
been courting."

Scarsdale colored angrily. "Not as far as I know."

"Was he a gambler?"

"I have no idea. I don't gamble myself, except with friends, of
course, and Grey was not among them. I haven't heard anything, if that's what
you mean."

Monk realized he would get no more this evening, and he was tired. His
own mystery was heavy at the back of his mind. Odd, how emptiness could be so
intrusive. He rose to his feet.

"Thank you, Mr. Scarsdale. If you should hear anything to throw
light on Major Grey's last few days, or who might have wished him harm, I am
sure you will let us know. The sooner we apprehend this man, the safer it will
be for everyone."

Scarsdale rose also, his face tightening at the subtle and unpleasant
reminder that it had happened just across the hall from his own flat,
threatening his security even as he stood there.

"Yes, naturally," he said a little sharply. "Now if you

will be good enough to permit me to change—I have a dinner engagement,
you know."

* * * * *

Monk arrived at the police station to find Evan waiting for him. He was
surprised at the sharpness of his pleasure at seeing him. Had he always been a
lonely person, or was this just the isolation from memory, from all that might
have been love or warmth in himself? Surely there was a friend
somewhere—someone with whom he had shared pleasure and pain, at least common
experience? Had there been no woman—in the past, if not now—some stored-up
memory of tenderness, of laughter or tears? If not he must have been a cold fish.
Was there perhaps some tragedy? Or some wrong?

The nothingness was crowding in on him, threatening to engulf the
precarious present. He had not even the comfort of habit.

Evan's acute face, all eyes and nose, was infinitely welcome.

"Find out anything, sir?" He stood up from the wooden chair in
which he had been sitting.

"Not a lot," Monk answered with a voice that was suddenly
louder, firmer than the words warranted. "I don't see much chance of
anyone having got in unseen, except the man who visited Yeats at about quarter
to ten. Grim-wade says he was a biggish man, muffled up, which is reasonable on
a night like that. He says he saw him leave at roughly half past ten. Took him
upstairs, but didn't see him closely, and wouldn't recognize him again."

Evan's face was a mixture of excitement and frustration.

"Damn!" he exploded. "Could be almost anyone then!"
He looked at Monk quickly. "But at least we have a fair idea how he got
in. That's a great step forward; congratulations, sir!"

Monk felt a quick renewal of his spirits. He knew it was not justified;
the step was actually very small. He sat down in the chair behind the desk.

"About six feet," he reiterated. "Dark and probably
clean-shaven. I suppose that does narrow it a little."

"Oh it narrows it quite a lot, sir," Evan said eagerly,
resuming his own seat. "At least we know that it wasn't a chance thief. If
he called on Yeats, or said he did, he had planned it, and taken the trouble to
scout the building. He knew who else lived there. And of course there's Yeats
himself. Did you see him?"

"No, he wasn't in, and anyway I'd rather find out a little about
him before I face him with it."

"Yes, yes of course. If he knew anything, he's bound to deny it, I
suppose." But the anticipation was building in Evan's face, his voice;
even his body was tightening under the elegant coat as if he expected some
sudden action here in the police station. "The cabby was no good, by the
way. Perfectly respectable fellow, worked this area for twenty years, got a wife
and seven or eight children. Never been any complaints against him."

"Yes," Monk agreed. "Grimwade said he hadn't gone into
the building, in fact doesn't think he even got off the box."

"What do you want me to do about this Yeats?" Evan asked, a
very slight smile curling his lips. "Sunday tomorrow, a bit hard to turn
up much then."

Monk had forgotten.

"You're right. Leave it till Monday. He's been there for nearly
seven weeks; it's hardly a hot trail."

Evan's smile broadened rapidly.

"Thank you, sir. I did have other ideas for Sunday." He stood
up. "Have a good weekend, sir. Good night."

Monk watched him go with a sense of loss. It was foolish. Of course
Evan would have friends, even family, and interests, perhaps a woman. He had
never thought of that before. Somehow it added to his own sense of isolation.
What did he normally do with his own time? Had he friends outside duty, some
pursuit or pastime he enjoyed? There had to be more than this single-minded,
ambitious man he had found so far.

He was still searching his imagination uselessly when there was a knock
on the door, hasty, but not assertive, as though the person would have been
pleased enough had there been no answer and he could have left again.

"Come in!" Monk said loudly.

The door opened and a stout young man came in. He wore a constable's
uniform. His eyes were anxious, his rather homely face pink.

"Yes?" Monk inquired.

The young man cleared his throat. "Mr. Monk, sir?"

"Yes?" Monk said again. Should he know this man? From his wary
expression there was some history in their past which had been important at
least to him. He stood in the middle of the floor, fidgeting his weight from
one foot to the other. Monk's wordless stare was making him worse.

"Can I do something for you?" Monk tried to sound reassuring.
"Have you something to report?" He wished he could remember the man's
name.

"No sir—I mean yes sir, I 'ave something to ask you." He took
a deep breath. "There's a report of a watch turned up at a pawnbroker's
wot I done this arternoon, sir, an'— an' I thought as it might be summink ter
do with your gennelman as was murdered—seein' as 'e didn't 'ave no watch, just
a chain, like? Sir." He held a piece of paper with copperplate handwriting
on it as if it might explode.

Monk took it and glanced at it. It was the description of a gentleman's
gold pocket watch with the initials J.G. inscribed ornately on the cover. There
was nothing written inside.

He looked up at the constable.