The Face of a Stranger

chapter 10
Monk sent Evan to try pawnshops for the pink jade, and then himself went to look for Josiah Wigtight. He had no trouble finding the address. It was half a mile east of Whitechapel off the Mile End Road. The building was narrow and almost lost between a seedy lawyer's office and a sweatshop where in dim light and heavy, breathless air women worked eighteen hours a day sewing shirts for a handful of pence. Some felt driven to walk the street at night also, for the extra dreadfully and easily earned silver coins that meant food and rent. A few were wives or daughters of the poor, the drunken or the inadequate; many were women who had in the past been in domestic service, and had lost their "character" one way or another-for impertinence, dishonesty, loose morals, or because a mistress found them "uppity," or a master had taken advantage of them and been discovered, and in a number of cases they had become with child, and thus not only unemployable but a disgrace and an affront.

Inside, the office was dim behind drawn blinds and smelled of polish, dust and ancient leather. A black-dressed clerk sat at a high stool in the first room. He looked up as Monk came in.

"Good morning, sir; may we be of assistance to you?"

His voice was soft, like mud. "Perhaps you have a little problem?" He rubbed his hands together as though the cold bothered him, although it was summer. "A temporary problem, of course?" He smiled at his own hypocrisy.

"I hope so." Monk smiled back.

The man was skilled at his job. He regarded Monk with caution. His expression had not the nervousness he was accustomed to; if anything it was a little wolfish. Monk realized he had been clumsy. Surely in the past he must have been more skilled, more attuned to the nuances of judgment?

"That rather depends on you," he added to encourage the man, and allay any suspicion he might unwittingly have aroused.

"Indeed," the clerk agreed. "That's what we're in business for: to help gentlemen with a temporary embarrassment of funds. Of course there are conditions, you understand?" He fished out a clean sheet of paper and held his pen ready. "If I could just have the details, sir?"

"My problem is not a shortage of funds," Monk replied with the faintest smile. He hated moneylenders; he hated the relish with which they plied their revolting trade. "At least not pressing enough to come to you. I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Wigtight."

"Quite." The man nodded with a smirk of understanding. "Quite so. All matters of business are referred to Mr. Wigtight, ultimately, Mr.-er?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I do not want to borrow any money,'' Monk said rather more tartly. "Tell Mr. Wigtight it is about something he has mislaid, and very badly wishes to have returned to him."

"Mislaid?" The man screwed up his pallid face. "Mislaid? What are you talking about, sir? Mr. Wigtight does not mislay things." He snifled in offended disapproval.

Monk leaned forward and put both hands on the counter, and the man was obliged to face him.

"Are you going to show me to Mr. Wigtight?" Monk said very clearly. "Or do I take my information elsewhere?" He did not want to tell the man who he was, or Wigtight would be forewarned, and he needed the slight advantage of surprise.

"Ah-" The man made up his mind rapidly. "Ah- yes; yes sir. I'll take you to Mr. Wigtight, sir. If you'll come this way." He closed his ledger with a snap and slid it into a drawer. With one eye still on Monk he took a key from his waistcoat pocket and locked the drawer, then straightened up. "Yes sir, this way."

The inner office of Josiah Wigtight was quite a different affair from the drab attempt at anonymous respectability of the entrance. It was frankly lush, everything chosen for comfort, almost hedonism. The big armchairs were covered in velvet and the cushions were deep in both color and texture; the carpet muffled sound and the gas lamps hissing softly on the walls were mantled in rose-colored glass which shed a glow over the room, obscuring outlines and dulling glare. The curtains were heavy and drawn in folds to keep out the intrusion and the reality of daylight. It was not a matter of taste, not even of vulgarity, but purely the uses of pleasure. After a moment or two the effect was curiously soporific. Immediately Monk's respect for Wigtight rose. It was clever.

"Ah." Wigtight breathed out deeply. He was a portly man, swelling out like a giant toad behind his desk, wide mouth split into a smile that died long before it reached his bulbous eyes. "Ah," he repeated. "A matter of business somewhat delicate, Mr.-er?"

"Somewhat," Monk agreed. He decided not to sit down in the soft, dark chair; he was almost afraid it would swallow him, like a mire, smother his judgment. He felt he would be at a disadvantage in it and not able to move if he should need to.

"Sit down, sit down!" Wigtight waved. "Let us talk about it. I'm sure some accommodation can be arrived at."

"I hope so." Monk perched on the arm of the chair. It was uncomfortable, but in this room he preferred to be uncomfortable.

"You are temporarily embarrassed?" Wigtight began. "You wish to take advantage of an excellent investment? You have expectations of a relative, in poor health, who favors you-"

"Thank you, I have employment which is quite sufficient for my needs."

"You are a fortunate man." There was no belief in his smooth, expressionless voice; he had heard every lie and excuse human ingenuity could come up with.

"More fortunate than Joscelin Grey!" Monk said baldly.

Wigtight's face changed in only the minutest of ways- a shadow, no more. Had Monk not been watching for it he would have missed it altogether.

"Joscelin Grey?" Wigtight repeated. Monk could see in his face the indecision whether to deny knowing him or admit it as a matter of common knowledge. He decided the wrong way.

"I know no such person, sir."

"YouVe never heard of him?" Monk tried not to press too hard. He hated moneylenders with far more anger than reason could tell him of. He meant to trap this soft, fat man in his own words, trap him and watch the bloated body struggle.

But Wigtight sensed a pitfall.

"I hear so many names," he added cautiously.

"Then you had better look in your books," Monk suggested. "And see if his is there, since you don't remember."

"I don't keep books, after debts are paid." Wigtight's wide, pale eyes assumed a blandness. "Matter of discretion, you know. People don't like to be reminded of their hard times."

"How civil of you," Monk said sarcastically. "How about looking through the lists of those who didn't repay you?"

"Mr. Grey is not among them."

"So he paid you." Monk allowed only a little of his triumph to creep through.

"I have not said I lent him anything."

"Then if you lent him nothing, why did you hire two men to deceive their way into his flat and ransack it? And incidentally, to steal his silver and small ornaments?" He saw with delight that Wigtight flinched. "Clumsy, that, Mr. Wigtight. You're hiring a very poor class of ruffian these days. A good man would never have helped himself on the side like that. Dangerous; brings, another charge into it-and those goods are so easy to trace."

"You're police!" Wigtight's understanding was sudden and venomous.

"That's right."

"I don't hire thieves." Now Wigtight was hedging, trying to gain time to think, and Monk knew it.

"You hire collectors, who turned out to be thieves as well," Monk said immediately. "The law doesn't see any difference."

"I hire people to do my collecting, of-course," Wigtight agreed. "Can't go out into the streets after everybody myself."

"How many do you call on with forged police papers, two months after you've murdered them?"

Every vestige of color drained out of Wigtight's face, leaving it gray, like a cold fish skin. Monk thought for a moment he was having some kind of a fit, and he felt no concern at all.

It was long seconds before Wigtight could speak, and Monk merely waited.

"Murdered!" The word when it came was hollow. "I swear on my mother's grave, I never had anything to do with that. Why should I? Why should I do that? It's insane. You're crazed."

"Because you're a usurer," Monk said bitterly, a well of anger and scalding contempt opening up inside him.

"And usurers don't allow people not to pay their debts, with all the interest when they're due.'' He leaned forward toward the man, threatening by his movement when Wig-tight was motionless in the chair. "Bad for business if you let them get away with it," he said almost between his teeth. "Encourages other people to do the same. Where would you be if everyone refused to pay you back? Bleed themselves white to satisfy your interest. Better one goose dead than the whole wretched flock running around free and fat, eh?"

"I never killed him!" Wigtight was frightened, not only by the facts, but by Monk's hatred. He knew unreason when he saw it; and Monk enjoyed his fear.

"But you sent someone-it comes to the same thing," Monk pursued.

"No! It wouldn't make sense!" Wigtight's voice was growing higher, a new, sharp note on it. The panic was sweet to Monk's ear. "All right." Wigtight raised his hands, soft and fat. "I sent them to see if Grey had kept any record of borrowing from me. I knew he'd been murdered and I thought he might have kept the cancelled IOU. I didn't want to have anything to do with him. That's all, I swear!" There was sweat on his face now, glistening in the gaslight. "He paid me back. Mother of God, it was only fifty pounds anyway! Do you think I'd send out men to murder a debtor for fifty pounds? It would be mad, insane. They'd have a hold over me for the rest of my life. They'd bleed me dry-or see me to the gibbet."

Monk stared at him. Painfully the truth of it conquered him. Wigtight was a parasite, but he was not a fool. He would not have hired such clumsy chance help to murder a man for a debt, of whatever size. If he had intended murder he would have been cleverer, more discreet about it. A little violence might well have been fruitful, but not this, and not in Grey's own house.

But he might well have wanted to be sure there was no trace of the association left, purely to avoid inconvenience.

"Why did you leave it so long?" Monk asked, his voice flat again, without the hunting edge. "Why didn't you go and look for the IOU straightaway?"

Wigtight knew he had won. It was there gleaming in his pallid, globular face, like pond slime on a frog.

"At first there were too many real police about," he answered. "Always going in and out." He spread his hands in reasonableness. Monk would have liked to call him a liar, but he could not, not yet. "Couldn't get anyone prepared to take the risk," Wigtight went on. "Pay a man too much for a job, and immediately he begins to wonder if there's more to it than you've told him. Might start thinking I had something to be afraid of. Your lot was looking for thieves, in the beginning. Now it's different; you're asking about business, money-"

"How do you know?" Monk believed him, he was forced to, but he wanted every last ounce of discomfort he could drag out.

"Word gets about; you asked his tailor, his wine merchant, looking into the paying of his bills-"

Monk remembered he had sent Evan to do these things. It would seem the usurer had eyes and ears everywhere. He realized now it was to be expected: that was how he found his customers, he learned weaknesses, sought out vulnerability. God, how he loathed this man and his kind.

"Oh." In spite of himself his face betrayed his defeat. "I shall have to be more discreet with my inquiries."

Wigtight smiled coldly.

"I shouldn't trouble yourself. It will make no difference." He knew his success; it was a taste he was used to, like a ripe Stilton cheese and port after dinner.

There was nothing more to say, and Monk could not stomach more of Wigtight's satisfaction. He left, going out past the oily clerk in the front office; but he was determined to take the first opportunity to charge Josiah Wigtight with something, preferably something earning a good long spell on the prison treadmill. Perhaps it was hate of usury and all its cancerous agonies eating away the hearts of people, or hate for Wigtight particularly, for his fat belly and cold eyes; but more probably it was the bitterness of disappointment because he knew it was not the moneylender who had killed Joscelin Grey.

All of which brought him back again to facing the only other avenue of investigation. Joscelin Grey's friends, the people whose secrets he might have known. He was back to Shelburne again-and Runcorn's triumph.

But before he began on that course to one of its inevitable conclusions-either the arrest of Shelburne, and his own ruin after it; or else the admission that he could not prove his case and must accept failure; and Runcorn could not lose-Monk would follow all the other leads, however faint, beginning with Charles Latterly.

He called in the late afternoon, when he felt it most likely Imogen would be at home, and he could reasonably ask to see Charles.

He was greeted civilly, but no more than that. The parlor maid was too well trained to show surprise. He was kept waiting only a few minutes before being shown into the withdrawing room and its discreet comfort washed over him again.

Charles was standing next to a small table in the window bay.

"Good afternoon, Mr.-er-Monk," he said with distinct chill. "To what do we owe this further attention?"

Monk felt his stomach sink. It was as if the smell of the rookeries still clung to him. Perhaps it was obvious what manner of man he was, where he worked, what he dealt with; and it had been all the time. He had been too busy with his own feelings to be aware of theirs.

"I am still inquiring into the murder of Joscelin Grey," he replied a little stiltedly. He knew both Imogen and Hester were in the room but he refused to look at them. He bowed very slightly, without raising his eyes. He made a similar acknowledgment in their direction.

"Then it's about time you reached some conclusion, isn't it?" Charles raised his eyebrows. "We are very sorry, naturally, since we knew him; bat we do not require a day-by-day account of your progress, or lack of it."

"It's as well," Monk answered, stirred to tartness m his hurt, and the consciousness that he did not, and would never, belong in this faded and gracious room with its padded furniture and gleaming walnut. "Because I could not afford it. It is because you knew Major Grey that I wish to speak to you again." He swallowed. "We naturally first considered the possibility of his having been attacked by some chance thief, then of its being over a matter of debt, perhaps gambling, or borrowing. We have exhausted these avenues now, and are driven back to what has always, regrettably, seemed the most probable-"

"I thought I had explained it to you, Mr. Monk." Charles's voice was sharper. "We do not wish to know! And quite frankly, I will not have my wife or my sister distressed by hearing of it. Perhaps the women of your-" He searched for the least offensive word. "Your background-are less sensitive to such things: unfortunately they may be more used to violence and the sordid aspects of life. But my sister and my wife are gentlewomen, and do not even know of such things. I must ask you to respect their feelings."

Monk could sense the color burning up his face. He ached to be equally rude in return, but his awareness of Imogen, only a few feet from him, was overwhelming. He did not care in the slightest what Hester thought; in fact it would be a positive pleasure to quarrel with her, like the sting in the face of clean, icy water-invigorating.

"I had no intention of distressing anyone unnecessarily, sir." He forced the words out, muffled between his teeth. "And I have not come for your information, but to ask you some further questions. I was merely trying to give you the reason for them, that you might feel freer to answer."

Charles blinked at him. He was half leaning against the mantel shelf, and he stiffened.

"I know nothing whatsoever about the affair, and naturally neither do my family."

"I am sure we should have helped you if we could," Imogen added. For an instant Monk thought she looked abashed by Charles's so open condescension.

Hester stood up and walked across the room opposite Monk.

"We have not been asked any questions yet," she pointed out to Charles reasonably. "How do we know whether we could answer them or not? And I cannot speak for Imogen, of course, but I am not in the least offended by being asked; indeed if you are capable of considering the murder, then so am I. We surely have a duty."

"My dear Hester, you don't know what you are speaking of." Charles's face was sharp and he put his hand out towards her, but she avoided it. "What unpleasant things may be involved, quite beyond your experience!"

"Balderdash!" she said instantly. "My experience has included a multitude of things you wouldn't have in your nightmares. I've seen men hacked to death by sabers, shot by cannon, frozen, starved, wasted by disease-"

"Hester!" Charles exploded. "For the love of heaven!"

"So don't tell me I cannot survive the drawing room discussion of one wretched murder," she finished.

Charles's face was very pink and he ignored Monk. "Has it not crossed your very unfeminine mind that Imogen has feelings, and has led a considerably more decorous life than you have chosen for yourself?" he demanded. "Really, sometimes you are beyond enduring!''

"Imogen is not nearly as helpless as you seem to imagine," Hester retorted, but there was a faint blush to her cheeks. "Nor, I think, does she wish to conceal truth because it may be unpleasant to discuss. You do her courage little credit."

Monk looked at Charles and was perfectly sure that had they been alone he would have disciplined his sister in whatever manner was open to him-which was probably not a great deal. Personally Monk was very glad it was not his problem.

Imogen took the matter into her own hands. She turned towards Monk.

"You were saying that you were driven to an inevitable conclusion, Mr. Monk. Pray tell us what it is." She stared at him and her eyes were angry, almost defensive. She seemed more inwardly alive and sensitive to hurt than anyone else he had ever seen. For seconds he could not think of words to answer her. The moments hung in the air. Her chin came a little higher, but she did not look away.

"I-" he began, and failed. He tried again. "That- that it was someone he knew who killed him." Then his voice came mechanically. "Someone well known to him, of his own position and social circle."

"Nonsense!" Charles interrupted him sharply, coming into the center of the room as if to confront him physically. "People of Joscelin Grey's circle do not go around murdering people. If that's the best you can do, then you had better give up the case and hand it over to someone more skilled."

"You are being unnecessarily rude, Charles." Imogen's eyes were bright and there was a touch of color in her face. "We have no reason to suppose that Mr. Monk is not skilled at his job, and quite certainly no call to suggest it."

Charles's whole body tightened; the impertinence was intolerable.

"Imogen," he began icily; then remembering the feminine frailty he had asserted, altered his tone. "The matter is naturally upsetting to you; I understand that. Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave us. Retire to your room and rest for a little while. Return when you have composed yourself. Perhaps a tisane?"

"I am not tired, and I do not wish for a tisane. I am perfectly composed, and the police wish to question me." She swung around. "Don't you, Mr. Monk?"

He wished he could remember what he knew of them, but although he strained till his brain ached, he could recall nothing. All his memories were blurred and colored by the overwhelming emotion she aroused in him, the hunger for something always just out of reach, like a great music that haunts the senses but cannot quite be caught, disturbingly and unforgettably sweet, evocative of a whole life on the brink of remembrance.

But he was behaving like a fool. Her gentleness, something in her face had woken in him the memory of a time when he had loved, of the softer side of himself which he had lost when the carriage had crashed and obliterated the past. There was more in him than the detective, brilliant, ambitious, sharp tongued, solitary. There had been those who loved him, as well as the rivals who hated, the subordinates who feared or admired, the villains who knew his skill, the poor who looked for justice-or vengeance. Imogen reminded him that he had a humanity as well, and it was too precious for him to drown in reason. He had lost his balance, and if he were to survive this nightmare- Runcorn, the murder, his career-he must regain it.

"Since you knew Major Grey," he tried again, "it is possible he may have confided in you any anxieties he may have had for his safety-anyone who disliked him or was harassing him for any reason." He was not being as articulate as he wished, and he cursed himself for it.

"Did he mention any envies or rivalries to you?''

"None at all. Why would anyone he knew kill him?" she asked. "He was very charming; I never knew of him picking a quarrel more serious than a few sharp words. Perhaps his humor was a little unkind, but hardly enough to provoke more than a passing irritation."

"My dear Imogen, they wouldn't!" Charles snapped. "It was robbery; it must have been."

Imogen breathed in and out deeply and ignored her husband, still regarding Monk with solemn eyes, waiting for his reply.

"I believe blackmail," Monk replied. "Or perhaps jealousy over a woman."

"Blackmail!" Charles was horrified and his voice was thick with disbelief. "You mean Grey was blackmailing someone? Over what, may I ask?"

"If we knew that, sir, we should almost certainly know who it was," Monk answered. "And it would solve the case."

"Then you know nothing." There was derision back again in Charles's voice.

"On the contrary, we know a great deal. We have a suspect, but before we charge him we must have eliminated all the other possibilities." That was overstating the case dangerously, but Charles's smug face, his patronizing manner roused Monk's temper beyond the point where he had complete control. He wanted to shake him, to force him but of his complacency and his infuriating superiority.

"Then you are making a mistake." Charles looked at him through narrow eyes. "At least it seems most likely you are."

Monk smiled dryly. "I am trying to avoid that, sir, by exploring every alternative first, and by gaining all the information anyone can give. I'm sure you appreciate that!"

From the periphery of his vision Monk could see Hester smile and was distinctly pleased.

Charles grunted.

"We do really wish to help you," Imogen said in the silence. "My husband is only trying to protect us from unpleasantness, which is most delicate of him. But we were exceedingly fond of Joscelin, and we are quite strong enough to tell you anything we can."

" 'Exceedingly fond' is overstating it, my dear," Charles said uncomfortably. "We liked him, and of course we felt an extra affection for him for George's sake."

"George?" Monk frowned, he had not heard George mentioned before.

"My younger brother," Charles supplied.

"He knew Major Grey?" Monk asked keenly. "Then may I speak with him also?"

"I am afraid not. But yes, he knew Grey quite well. I believe they were very close, for a while."

"For a while? Did they have some disagreement?"

"No, George is dead."

"Oh." Monk hesitated, abashed. "I am sorry."

"Thank you." Charles coughed and cleared his throat. "We were fond of Grey, but to say we were extremely so is too much. My wife is, I think, quite naturally transferring some of our affection for George to George's friend."

"I see." Monk was not sure what to say. Had Imogen seen in Joscelin only her dead brother-in-law's friend, or had Joscelin himself charmed her with his wit and talent to please? There had been a keenness in her face when she had spoken of him. It reminded him of Rosamond Shelburne: there was the same gentleness in it, the same echo of remembered times of happiness, shared laughter and grace. Had Charles been too blind to see it-or too conceited to understand it for what it was?

An ugly, dangerous thought came to his mind and refused to be ignored. Was the woman not Rosamond, but Imogen Latterly? He wanted intensely to disprove it. But how? If Charles had been somewhere else at the time, provably so, then the whole question was over, dismissed forever.

He stared at Charles's smooth face. He looked irritable, but totally unconscious of any guilt. Monk tried frantically to think of an oblique way to ask him. His brain was like glue, heavy and congealing. Why in God's name did Charles have to be Imogen's husband?

Was there another way? If only he could remember what he knew of them. Was this fear unreasonable, the result of an imagination free of the sanity of memory? Or was it memory slowly returning, hi bits and pieces, that woke that very fear?

The stick in Joscelin Grey's hall stand. The image of it was so clear in his head. If only he could enlarge it, see the hand and the arm, the man who held it. That was the knowledge that lay like a sickness in his stomach; he knew the owner of the stick, and he knew with certainty that Lovel Grey was a complete stranger to him. When he had been to Shelbume not one member of the household had greeted him with the slightest flicker of recognition. And why should they pretend? In fact to do so would in itself have been suspicious, since they had no idea he had lost his memory. Lovel Grey could not be the owner of that stick with the brass chain embossed around the top.

But it could be Charles Latterly.

"Have you ever been to Major Grey's flat, Mr. Latterly?" The question was out before he realized it. It was like a die cast, and he did not now want to know the answer. Once begun, he would have to pursue it; even if only for himself he would have to know, always hoping he was wrong, seeking the one more fact to prove himself so.

Charles looked slightly surprised.

"No. Why? Surely you have been there yourself? I cannot tell you anything about it!"

"You have never been there?"

"No, I have told you so. I had no occasion."

"Nor, I take it, have any of your family?" He did not look at either of the women. He knew the question would be regarded as indelicate, if not outrightly impertinent.

"Of course not!" Charles controlled his temper with some difficulty. He seemed about to add something when Imogen interrupted.

"Would you care for us to account for our whereabouts on the day Joscelin was killed, Mr. Monk?"

He looked carefully, but he could see no sarcasm in her. She regarded him with deep, steady eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Charles snapped with mounting fury. "If you cannot treat this matter with proper seriousness, Imogen, then you had better leave us and return to your room."

"I am being perfectly serious," she replied, turning away from Monk. "If it was one of Joscelin's friends who killed him, then there is no reason why we should not be suspected. Surely, Charles, it would be better to clear ourselves by the simple fact of having been elsewhere at the time than it would be to have Mr. Monk satisfy himself we had no reason to, by investigating our affairs?"

Charles paled visibly and looked at Imogen as if she were some venomous creature that had come out of the carpeting and bitten him. Monk felt the tightness in his stomach grip harder.

"I was at dinner with friends," Charles said thinly.

Considering he had just supplied what seemed to be an alibi, he looked peculiarly wretched. Monk could not avoid it; he had to press. He stared at Charles's pale face.

"Where was that, sir?"

"Doughty Street."

Imogen looked at Monk blandly, innocently, but Hester had turned away.

"What number, sir?"

"Can that matter, Mr. Monk?" Imogen asked innocently.

Hester's head came up, waiting.

Monk found himself explaining to her, guilt surprising him.

"Doughty Street leads into Mecklenburg Square, Mrs. Latterly. It is no more than a two- or three-minute walk from one to the other."

"Oh." Her voice was small and flat. She turned slowly to her husband.

"Twenty-two," he said, teeth clenched. "But I was there all evening, and I had no idea Grey lived anywhere near."

Again Monk spoke before he permitted himself to think, or he would have hesitated.

"I find that hard to believe, sir, since you wrote to him at that address. We found your letter among his effects."

"God damn it-I-" Charles stopped, frozen.

Monk waited. The silence was so intense he imagined he could hear horses' hooves in the next street. He did not look at either of the women.

"I mean-" Charles began, and again stopped.

Monk found himself unable to avoid it any longer. He was embarrassed for them, and desperately sorry. He looked at Imogen, wanting her to know that, even if it meant nothing to her at all.

She was standing very still. Her eyes were so dark he could see nothing in mem, but there did not seem to be the hate he feared. For a wild moment he felt that if only he could have talked to her alone he could have explained, made her understand the necessity for all this, the compulsion.

"My friends will swear I was there all evening." Charles's words cut across them. "I'll give you their names. This is ridiculous; I liked Joscelin, and our misfortunes were as much his. There was no reason whatever to wish him harm, and you will find none!"

"If I could have their names, Mr. Latterly?"

Charles's head came up sharply.

"You're not going to go 'round asking them to account for me at the time of a murder, for God's sake! I'll only give you their names-"

"I shall be discreet, sir."

Charles snorted with derision at the idea of so delicate a virtue as discretion in a policeman.

Monk looked at him patiently.

"It will be easier if you give me their names, sir, than if I have to discover them for myself.''

"Damn you!" Charles's face was suffused with blood.

"Their names, please sir?"

Charles strode over to one of the small tables and took out a sheet of paper and a pencil. He wrote for several moments before folding it and handing it to Monk.

Monk took it without looking and put it in his pocket.

"Thank you, sir."

"Is that all?"

"No, I'm afraid I would still like to ask you anything further you might know about Major Grey's other friends, • anyone with whom he stayed, and could have known well enough to be aware, even accidentally, of some secret damaging to them."

"Such as what, for God's sake?" Charles looked at him with extreme distaste.

Monk did not wish to be drawn into speaking of the sort of things his imagination feared, especially in Imogen's hearing. In spite of the irrevocable position he was now in, every vestige of good opinion she might keep of him mattered, like fragments of a broken treasure.

"I don't know, sir; and without strong evidence it would be unseemly to suggest anything."

"Unseemly," Charles said sarcastically, his voice grating with the intensity of his emotion. "You mean that matters to you? I'm surprised you know what the word means."

Imogen turned away in embarrassment, and Hester's face froze. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then realized she would be wiser to keep silent.

Charles colored faintly in the silence that followed, but he was incapable of apology.

"He spoke of some people named Dawlish," he said irritably. "And I believe he stayed with Gerry Fortescue once or twice."

Monk took down such details as they could remember of the Dawlishes, the Fortescues and others, but it sounded useless, and he was aware of Charles's heavy disbelief, as if he were humoring an uncaged animal it might be dangerous to annoy. He stayed only to justify himself, because he had said to them that it was his reason for having come.

When he left he imagined he could hear the sigh of relief behind him, and his mind conjured up their quick looks at each other, then the understanding in their eyes, needing no words, that an intruder had gone at last, an extreme unpleasantness was over. All the way along the street his thoughts were in the bright room behind him -and on Imogen. He considered what she was doing, what she thought of him, if she saw him as a man at all, or only the inhabiter of an office that had become suddenly more than usually offensive to her.

And yet she had looked so directly at him. That seemed a timeless moment, recurring again and again-or was it simply that he dwelt in it? What had she asked of him originally? What had they said to one another?

What a powerful and ridiculous thing the imagination was-had he not known it so foolish, he could have believed there must have been deep memories between them.

***

When Monk had gone, Hester, Imogen and Charles were left standing in the withdrawing room, the sun streaming in from the French windows into the small garden, bright through the leaves in the silence.

Charles drew in his breath as if to speak, looked first at his wife, then at Hester, and let out a sigh. He said nothing. His face was tight and unhappy as he walked to the door, excused himself perfunctorily, and went out.

A torrent of thoughts crowded Hester's mind. She disliked Monk, and he angered her, yet the longer she watched him the less did she think he was as incompetent as he had first seemed. His questions were erratic, and he appeared to be no nearer finding Joscelin Grey's killer than he had been when he began; and yet she was keenly aware both of an intelligence and a tenacity in him. He cared about it, more than simply for vanity or ambition. For justice sake he wanted to know and to do something about it.

She would have smiled, did it not wound so deep, but she had also seen in him a startling softness towards Imogen, an admiration and a desire to protect-something which he certainly did not feel for Hester. She had seen that look on several men's faces; Imogen had woken precisely the same emotions in Charles when they first met, and in many men since. Hester never knew if Imogen herself was aware of it or not.

Had she stirred Joscelin Grey as well? Had he fallen in love with her, the gentleness, those luminous eyes, the quality of innocence which touched everything she did?

Charles was still in love with her. He was quiet, admittedly a trifle pompous, and he had been anxious and shorter tempered than customarily since his father's death; but he was honorable, at times generous, and sometimes fun-at least he had been. Lately he had become more sober, as though a heavy weight could never be totally forgotten.

Was it conceivable that Imogen had found the witty, charming, gallant Joscelin Grey more interesting, even if only briefly? If that had been so, then Charles, for all his seeming self-possession, would have cared deeply, and the hurt might have been something he could not control.

Imogen was keeping a secret. Hester knew her well enough, and liked her, to be aware of the small tensions, the silences where before she would have confided, the placing of a certain guard on her tongue when they were together. It was not Charles she was afraid might notice and suspect; he was not perceptive enough, he did not expect to understand any woman-it was Hester. She was still as affectionate, as generous with small trinkets, the loan of a kerchief or a silk shawl, a word of praise, gratitude for a courtesy-but she was careful, she hesitated before she spoke, she told the exact truth and the impetuosity was gone.

What was the secret? Something in her attitude, an extra awareness, made Hester believe it had to do with Joscelin Grey, because Imogen both pursued and was afraid of the policeman Monk.

"You did not mention before that Joscelin Grey had known George," she said aloud.

Imogen looked out of the window. "Did I not? Well, it was probably a desire not to hurt you, dear. I did not wish to remind you of George, as well as Mama and Papa."

Hester could not argue with that. She did not believe it, but it was exactly the sort of thing Imogen would have done.

"Thank you," she replied. "It was most thoughtful of you, especially since you were so fond of Major Grey."

Imogen smiled, her far-off gaze seeing beyond the dappled light through the window, but to what Hester thought it unfair to guess.

"He was fun," Imogen said slowly. "He was so different from anyone else I know. It was a very dreadful way to die-but I suppose it was quick, and much less painful than many you have seen."

Again Hester did not know what to say.

***

When Monk returned to the police station Runcorn was waiting for him, sitting at his desk looking at a sheaf of papers. He put them down and pulled a face as Monk came in.

"So your thief was a moneylender," he said dryly. "And the newspapers are not interested in moneylenders, I assure you."

"Then they should be!" Monk snapped back. "They're a filthy infestation, one of the more revolting symptoms of poverty-"

"Oh for heaven's sake, either run for Parliament or be a policeman," Runcorn said with exasperation. "But if you value your job, stop trying to do both at once. And policemen are employed to solve cases, not make moral commentary.''

Monk glared at him.

"If we got rid of some of the poverty, and its parasites, we might prevent the crime before it came to the stage of needing a solution," he said with heat that surprised himself. A memory of passion was coming back, even if he could not know anything of its cause.

'' Joscelin Grey,'' Runcorn said flatly. He was not going to be diverted.

"I'm working," Monk replied.

"Then your success has been embarrassingly limited!"

"Can you prove it was Shelburne?" Monk demanded. He knew what Runcorn was trying to do, and he would fight him to the very last step. If Runcorn forced him to arrest Shelburne before he was ready, he would see to it that it was publicly Runcorn's doing.

But Runcorn was not to be drawn.

"It's your job," he said acidly. "I'm not on the case."

"Perhaps you should be." Monk raised his eyebrows as if he were really considering it. "Perhaps you should take over?"

Runcorn's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you cannot manage?" he asked very softly, a lift at the end of his words. "That it is too big for you?"

Monk called his bluff.

"If it is Shelburne, then perhaps it is. Maybe you should make the arrest; a senior officer, and all that."

Runcorn's face fell blank, and Monk tasted a certain sweetness; but it was only for a moment.

"It seems you've lost your nerve, as well as your memory," Runcorn answered with a faint sneer. "Are you giving up?"

Monk took a deep breath.

"I haven't lost anything," he said deliberately. "And I certainly haven't lost my head. I don't intend to go charging in to arrest a man against whom I have a damn good suspicion, but nothing else. If you want to, then take this case from me, officially, and do it yourself. And God help you when Lady Fabia hears about it. You'll be beyond anyone else's help, I promise you."

"Coward! By God you've changed, Monk."

"If I would have arrested a man without proof before, then I needed to change. Are you taking the case from me?"

"I'll give you another week. I don't think I can persuade the public to give you any more than that."

"Give us," Monk corrected him. "As far as they know, we are all working for the same end. Now have you anything helpful to say, like an idea how to prove it was Shelburne, without a witness? Or would you have gone ahead and done it yourself, if you had?"

The implication was not lost on Runcorn. Surprisingly, his face flushed hotly in anger, perhaps even guilt.

"It's your case," he said angrily. "I shan't take it from you till you come and admit you've failed or I'm asked to remove you."

"Good. Then I'll get on with it."

"Do that. Do that, Monk; if you can!"

Outside the sky was leaden and it was raining hard. Monk thought grimly as he walked home that the newspapers were right in their criticism; he knew little more now than he had when Evan had first showed him the material evidence. Shelburne was the only one for whom he knew a motive, and yet that wretched walking stick clung in his mind. It was not the murder weapon, but he knew he had seen it before. It could not be Joscelin Grey's, because Imogen had said quite distinctly that Grey had not been back to the Latterlys' house since her father-in-law's death, and of course Monk had never been to the house before then.

Then whose was it?

Not Shelburne's.

Without realizing it his feet had taken him not towards his own rooms but to Mecklenburg Square.

Grimwade was in the hallway.

"Evenin', Mr. Monk. Bad night, sir. I dunno wot summer's comin' ter-an' that's the truth. 'Ailstones an' all! Lay like snow, it did, in July. An' now this. Cruel to be out in, sir." He regarded Monk's soaking clothes with sympathy. "Can I 'elp yer wif summink, sir?"

"The man who came to see Mr. Yeats-"

"The murderer?" Grimwade shivered but there was a certain melodramatic savoring in his thin face.

"It would seem so," Monk conceded. "Describe him again, will you?"

Grimwade screwed up his eyes and ran his tongue around his lips.

"Well that's 'ard, sir. It's a fair while ago now, an' the more I tries to remember 'im, the fainter 'e gets. 'E were tallish, I know vat, but not outsize, as you might say. 'Aid ter say w'en somebody's away from yer a bit. W'en 'e came in 'e seemed a good couple o' hinches less than you are, although 'e seemed bigger w'en 'e left. Can be de-ceivin', sir."

"Well that's something. What sort of coloring had he: fresh, sallow, pale, swarthy?"

"Kind o' fresh, sir. But then that could 'a' bin the cold. Proper wicked night it were, somethin' cruel for July. Shockin' unseasonal. Rainin' 'ard, an' east wind like a knife."

"And you cannot remember whether he had a beard or not?"

"I think as 'e 'adn't, leastways if 'e 'ad, it were one o' vem very small ones wot can be 'idden by a muffler."

"And dark hair? Or could it have been brown, or even fair?"

"No sir, it couldn't 'a' bin fair, not yeller, like; but it could 'a' bin brahn. But I do remember as 'e 'ad very gray eyes. I noticed that as 'e were goin' out, very piercin' eyes 'e 'ad, like one o' vem fellers wot puts people inter a trance."

"Piercing eyes? You're sure?" Monk said dubiously, skeptical of Grimwade's sense of melodrama in hindsight.

"Yes sir, more I fink of it, more I'm sure. Don't remember 'is face, but I do remember 'is eyes w'en 'e looked at me. Not w'en 'e was comin' in, but w'en 'e was a-goin' out. Funny thing, that. Yer'd fink I'd a noticed vem w'en 'e spoke ter me, but sure as I'm standin' 'ere, I didn't." He looked at Monk ingenuously.

"Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. Now I'll see Mr. Yeats, if he's in. If he isn't then I'll wait for him."

"Oh 'e's in, sir. Bin in a little while. Shall I take you up, or do you remember the way?"

"I remember the way, thank you." Monk smiled grimly and started up the stairs. The place was becoming wretchedly familiar to him. He passed Grey's entrance quickly, still conscious of the horror inside, and knocked sharply at Yeats's door, and a moment later it opened and Yeats's worried little face looked up at him.

"Oh!" he said in some alarm. "I-I was going to speak to you. I-I, er-I suppose I should have done it before." He wrung his hands nervously, twisting them in front of him, red knuckled. "But I heard all about the-er-the burglar-from Mr. Grimwade, you know-and I rather thought you'd, er-found the murderer-so-"

"May I come in, Mr. Yeats?" Monk interrupted. It was natural Grimwade should have mentioned the burglar, if only to warn the other tenants, and because one could hardly expect a garrulous and lonely old man to keep to himself such a thrilling and scandalous event, but Monk was irritated by the reminder of its uselessness.

"I'm-I'm sorry," Yeats stammered as Monk moved past him. "I-I do realize I should have said something to you before."

"About what, Mr. Yeats?" Monk exercised his patience with an effort. The poor little man was obviously much upset.

"Why, about my visitor, of course. I was quite sure you knew, when you came to the door." Yeats's voice rose to a squeak in amazement.

"What about him, Mr. Yeats? Have you recalled something further?" Suddenly hope shot up inside him. Could this be the beginning of proof at last?

"Why sir, I discovered who he was."

"What?" Monk did not dare to believe. The room was singing around him, bubbling with excitement. In an instant this funny little man was going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible, dazzling.

"I discovered who he was," Yeats repeated. "I knew I should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought-"

The moment of paralysis was broken.

"Who?" Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. "Who was it?"

Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.

"Who was it?'' Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his own voice was rising to a shout.

"Why-why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it-is it important, Mr. Monk?"

Monk was stunned.

"Bartholomew Stubbs?" he repeated foolishly.

"Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I thought I would ask him." His hands fluttered. "I was quite shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that because my friend was there also." He moved from one foot to the other in his agitation. "He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs's arrival, because the first speaker had just commenced his address."

Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen leaving later?

"Did-did he remain at the temperance meeting all evening?" he asked desperately.

"No sir." Yeats shook his head. "He only went there to meet my friend, who is also a collector, a very learned one-"

"He left!" Monk seized on it.

"Yes sir." Yeats danced around in his anxiety, his hands jerking to and fro. "I am trying to tell you! They left together and went to get some supper-"

"Together?"

"Yes sir. I am afraid, Mr. Monk, Mr. Stubbs could not have been the one to have so dreadfully attacked poor Major Grey."

"No." Monk was too shaken, too overwhelmingly disappointed to move. He did not know where to start again.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Monk?" Yeats asked tentatively. "I am so sorry. Perhaps I really should have told you earlier, but I did not think it would be important, since he was not guilty."

"No-no, never mind," Monk said almost under his breath. "I understand."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I thought perhaps I was in error."

Monk muttered something polite, probably meaningless-he did not want to be unkind to the little man-and made his way out onto the landing again. He was hardly aware of going down the stairs, nor did he register the drenching weight of the rain when he passed Grimwade and went outside into the street with its gaslight and swirling gutters.

He began to walk, blindly, and it was not until he was spattered with mud and a cab wheel missed him by less than a foot that he realized he was on Doughty Street.

" 'Ere!" the cabby shouted at him. "Watch w'ere yer going', guv! Yer want ter get yerself killed?"

Monk stopped, staring up at him. "You occupied?"

"No guv. Yer want ter go somewhere? Mebbe yer'd better, afore yer get someb'dy into a haccident."

"Yes," Monk accepted, still without moving.

"Well come on then," the cabby said sharply, leaning forward to peer at him. "Not a night fer man ner beast ter be out in, it ain't. Mate o' mine were killed on a night like this, poor sod. 'Orse bolted and 'is cab turned over. Killed, 'e were. 'It 'is 'ead on the curb an' 'e died, jes' like that. And 'is fare were all smashed abaht too, but they say as 'e were o'right, in the end. Took 'im orf ter 'orspital, o' course. 'Ere, are yer goin' ter stand there all night, guv? Come on now, either get in, or don't; but make up yer mind!"

"This friend of yours." Monk's voice was distorted, as if from far away. "When was he killed, when was this accident, exactly?"

"July it were, terrible weather fer July. Wicked night.

'Ailstorm wot lay like snow. Swear ter Gawd-I don't know wot the wevver's comin' ter."

"What date in July?" Monk's whole body was cold, and idiotically calm.

"Come on now, sir?" the cabby wheedled, as one does a drunk or a recalcitrant animal. "Get in aht o' the rain. It's shockin' wet aht there. Yer'll catch yer death."

"What date?"

"I fink as it were the fourf. Why? We ain't goin' ter 'ave no haccident ternight, I promises yer. I'll be as careful as if you was me muwer. Jus' make up yer mind, sir!"

"Did you know him well?"

"Yes sir, 'e were a good mate o' mine. Did yer know 'im too, sir? Yer live 'rahnd 'ere, do yer? 'E used ter work this patch all ve time. Picked up 'is last fare 'ere, right in vis street, accordin' ter 'is paper. Saw 'im vat very night meself, I did. Nah is yer comin', sir, or ain't yer? 'Cos I 'aven't got all night. I reckon w'en yer goes a henjoyin' yerself, yer oughter take someone wiv yer. Yer in't safe."

On this street. The cabby had picked him, Monk, up on this street, less than a hundred yards from Mecklenburg Square, on the night Joscelin Grey was murdered. What had he been doing here? Why?

"Yer sick, sir?" The cabby's voice changed; he was suddenly concerned. " 'Ere, yer ain't 'ad one too many?" He climbed down off his box and opened the cab door.

"No, no I'm quite well." Monk stepped up and inside obediently and the cabby muttered something to himself about gentlemen whose families should take better care of them, stepped back up onto the box and slapped the reins over his horse's back.

As soon as they arrived at Grafton Street Monk paid the cabby and hurried inside.

"Mrs. Worley!"

Silence.

"Mrs. Worley!" His voice was hard, hoarse.

She came out, rubbing her hands dry on her apron.

"Oh my heavens, you are wet. You'd like an 'ot drink.

You'll 'ave to change them clothes; you've let yourself get soaked through! What 'ave you bin thinking of?"

"Mrs. Worley."

The tone of his voice stopped her.

"Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Monk? You look proper poorly."

"I-" The words were slow, distant. "I can't find a stick in my room, Mrs. Worley. Have you seen it?"

"No, Mr. Monk, I 'aven't, although what you're thinking about sticks for on a night like this, I'm sure I don't know. What you need is an umbrella."

"Have you seen it?"

She stood there in front of him, square and motherly. "Not since you 'ad yer haccident, I 'aven't. You mean that dark reddish brown one with the gold chain like 'round the top as yer bought the day afore? Proper 'andsome it were, although wot yer want one like that fer, I'll never know. I do 'ope as you 'aven't gorn and lorst it. If yer did, it must 'a' bin in yer haccident. You 'ad it with yer, 'cos I remember plain as day. Proud of it. Proper dandy, yer was."

There was a roaring in Monk's ears, shapeless and immense. Through the darkness one thought was like a brilliant stab of light, searingly painful. He had been in Grey's flat the night he was killed; he had left his own stick there in the hall stand. He himself was the man with the gray eyes whom Grimwade had seen leaving at half past ten. He must have gone in when Grimwade was showing Bartholomew Stubbs up to Yeats's door.

There was only one conclusion-hideous and senseless-but the only one left. God knew why, but he himself had killed Joscelin Grey.