The Face of a Stranger

chapter 5
Monk and Evan saw Grimwade only briefly, then went straight up to visit Yeats. It was a little after eight in the morning and they hoped to catch him at breakfast, or possibly even before.

Yeats opened the door himself; he was a small man of about forty, a trifle plump, with a mild face and thinning hair which fell forward over his brow. He was startled and there was still a piece of toast and orange preserve in his hand. He stared at Monk with some alarm.

"Good morning, Mr. Yeats," Monk said firmly. "We are from the police; we would like to speak to you about the murder of Major Joscelin Grey. May we come in please?" He did not step forward, but his height seemed to press over Yeats and vaguely threaten him, and he used it deliberately.

"Y-yes, y-yes of course," Yeats stuttered, backing away, still clutching the toast. "But I assure you I d-don't know anything I haven't already t-told you. Not you-at least-a Mr. Lamb who was-a-"

"Yes I know." Monk followed him in. He knew he was being oppressive, but he could not afford to be gentle.

Yeats must have seen the murderer face-to-face, possibly even been in collusion with him, willingly or unwillingly.

"But we have learned quite a few new facts," he went on, "since Mr. Lamb was taken ill and I have been put on the case."

"Oh?" Yeats dropped the toast and bent to pick it up, ignoring the preserve on the carpet. It was a smaller room than Joscelin Grey's and overpoweringly furnished in heavy oak covered in photographs and embroidered linen. There were antimacassars on both the chairs.

"Have you-" Yeats said nervously. "Have you? I still don't think I can-er-could-"

"Perhaps if you were to allow a few questions, Mr. Yeats." Monk did not want him so frightened as to be incapable of thought or memory.

"Well-if you think so. Yes-yes, if..." He backed away and sat down sharply on the chair closest to the table.

Monk sat also and was conscious of Evan behind him doing the same on a ladder-back chair by the wall. He wondered fleetingly what Evan was thinking, if he found him harsh, overconscious of his own ambition, his need to succeed. Yeats could so easily be no more than he seemed, a frightened little man whom mischance had placed at the pivot of a murder.

Monk began quietly, thinking with an instant's self-mockery that he might be moderating his tone not to reassure Yeats but to earn Evan's approval. What had led him to such isolation that Evan's opinion mattered so much to him? Had he been too absorbed in learning, climbing, polishing himself, to afford friendship, much less love? Indeed, had anything at all engaged his higher emotions?

Yeats was watching him like a rabbit seeing a stoat, and too horrified to move.

"You yourself had a visitor that night," Monk told him quite gently. "Who was he?"

"I don't know!" Yeats's voice was high, almost a squeak. "I don't know who he was! I told Mr. Lamb that! He came here by mistake; he didn't even really want me!"

Monk found himself holding up his hand, trying to calm him as one would with an overexcited child, or an animal.

"But you saw him, Mr. Yeats." He kept his voice low. "No doubt you have some memory of his appearance, perhaps his voice? He must have spoken to you?" Whether Yeats was lying or not, he would achieve nothing by attacking his statement now; Yeats would only entrench himself more and more deeply into his ignorance.

Yeats blinked.

"I-I really can hardly say, Mr.-Mr.-"

"Monk-I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or small?"

"Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad night-wet-terribly."

"Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?" Monk stood up helpfully.

Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same, as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head unhappily.

Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.

"He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested, still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death." He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks, does it not?"

Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.

"You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.

"Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any thought of social arrogance-or involvement. "Only to pass the time of day, you understand? But he was very civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."

"And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you said."

"Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."

"And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"

Yeats looked surprised.

"He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business, you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or another."

"He was English then?"

"I beg your pardon?''

"He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known, even had he been in the business?"

"Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was English."

"And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"

"I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air. "He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''

"I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."

"Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled inside him and he slid backwards and down into his chair. Behind Monk, Evan moved as if to help, then changed his mind and sat down again.

"That surprises you?" Monk inquired.

Yeats was gasping, beyond speech.

"Are you sure this man was not known to you?" Monk persisted, giving him no time to regather his thoughts. This was the time to press.

"Yes, yes I am. Quite unknown." He covered his face with his hands. "Oh my dear heaven!"

Monk stared at Yeats. The man was useless now, either reduced to abject horror, or else very skillfully affecting to be. He turned and looked at Evan. Evan's face was stiff with embarrassment, possibly for their presence and their part in the man's wretchedness, possibly merely at being witness to it.

Monk stood up and heard his own voice far away. He knew he was risking a mistake, and that he was doing it because of Evan.

"Thank you, Mr. Yeats. I'm sorry for distressing you. Just one more thing: was this man carrying a stick?"

Yeats looked up, his face sickly pale; his voice was no more than a whisper.

"Yes, quite a handsome one; I noticed it."

"Heavy or light?"

"Oh heavy, quite heavy. Oh no!" He shut his eyes, screwing them up to hide even his imagination.

"There is no need for you to be frightened, Mr. Yeats," Evan said from behind. "We believe he was someone who knew Major Grey personally, not a chance lunatic. There is no reason to suppose he would have harmed you. I daresay he was looking for Major Grey in the first place and found the wrong door."

It was not until they were outside that Monk realized Evan must have said it purely to comfort the little man. It could not have been true. The visitor had asked for Yeats by name. He looked sideways at Evan, now walking silently beside him in the drizzling rain. He made no remark on it.

Grimwade had proved no further help. He had not seen the man come down after leaving Yeats's door, nor seen him go to Joscelin Grey's. He had taken the opportunity to attend the call of nature, and then had seen the man leave at a quarter past ten, three quarters of an hour later.

"There's only one conclusion," Evan said unhappily, striding along with his head down. "He must have left

Yeats's door and gone straight along the hallway to Grey, spent half an hour or so with him, then killed him, and left when Grimwade saw him go."

"Which doesn't tell us who he was," Monk said, stepping across a puddle and passing a cripple selling bootlaces. A rag and bone cart trundled by, its driver calling out almost unintelligibly in a singsong voice. "I keep coming back to the one thing," Monk resumed. "Why did anyone hate Joscelin Grey so much? There was a passion of hate in that room. Someone hated him so uncontrollably he couldn't stop beating him even after he was dead."

Evan shivered and the rain ran off his nose and chin. He pulled his collar up closer around his ears and his face was pale.

"Mr. Runcorn was right," he said miserably. "It's going to be extremely nasty. You have to know someone very well to hate them as much as that."

"Or have been mortally wronged," Monk added. "But you're probably right; it'll be in the family, these things usually are. Either that, or a lover somewhere."

Evan looked shocked. "You mean Grey was-?"

"No." Monk smiled with a sharp downward twist. "That wasn't what I meant, although I suppose it's possible; in fact it's distinctly possible. But I was thinking of a woman, with a husband perhaps."

Evan's faced relaxed a fraction.

"I suppose it's too violent for a simple debt, gambling or something?" he said without much hope.

Monk thought for a moment.

"Could be blackmail," he suggested with genuine belief. The idea had only just occurred to him seriously, but he liked it.

Evan frowned. They were walking south along Grey's Inn Road.

"Do you think so?" He looked sideways at Monk. "Doesn't ring right to me. And we haven't found any unaccounted income yet. Of course, we haven't really looked. And blackmail victims can be driven to a very deep hatred indeed, for which I cannot entirely blame them. When a man has been tormented, stripped of all he has, and then is still threatened with ruin, mere comes a point when reason breaks."

"We'll have to check on the social company he kept," Monk replied. "Who might have made mistakes damaging enough to be blackmailed over, to the degree that ended in murder."

"Perhaps if he was homosexual?" Evan suggested it with returning distaste, and Monk knew he did not believe his own word. "He might have had a lover who would pay to keep him quiet-and if pushed too for, kill him?"

"Very nasty." Monk stared at the wet pavement. "Run-corn was right." And thought of Runcorn set his mind on a different track.

He sent Evan to question all the local tradesmen, people at the club Grey had been at the evening he was killed, anything to learn about his associates.

***

Evan began at the wine merchant's whose name they had found on a bill head in Grey's apartments. He was a fat man with a drooping mustache and an unctuous manner. He expressed desolation over the loss of Major Grey. What a terrible misfortune. What an ironic stroke of fete that such a fine officer should survive the war, only to be struck down by a madman in his own home. What a tragedy. He did not know what to say-and he said it at considerable length while Evan struggled to get a word in and ask some useful question.

When at last he did, the answer was what he had guessed it would be. Major Grey-the Honorable Joscelin Grey- was a most valued customer. He had excellent taste-but what else would you expect from such a gentleman? He knew French wine, and he knew German wine. He liked the best. He was provided with it from this establishment. His accounts? No, not always up to date-but paid in due course. The nobility were that way with-money-one had to learn to accommodate it. He could add nothing-but nothing at all. Was Mr. Evan interested in wine? He could recommend an excellent Bordeaux.

No, Mr. Evan, reluctantly, was not interested in wine; he was a country parson's son, well educated in the gentilities of life, but with a pocket too short to indulge in more than the necessities, and a few good clothes, which would stand him in better stead than even the best of wines. None of which he explained to the merchant.

Next he tried the local eating establishments, beginning with the chophouse and working down to the public alehouse, which also served an excellent stew with spotted dick pudding, full of currants, as Evan could attest.

"Major Grey?" the landlord said ruminatively. "Yer mean 'im as was murdered? 'Course I knowed 'im. Come in 'ere reg'lar, 'e did."

Evan did not know whether to believe him or not. It could well be true; the food was cheap and filling and the atmosphere not unpleasant to a man who had served in the army, two years of it in the battlefields of the Crimea. On the other hand it could be a boost to his business- already healthy-to say that a famous victim of murder had dined here. There was a grisly curiosity in many people which would give the place an added interest to them.

"What did he look like?" Evan asked.

" 'Ere!" The landlord looked at him suspiciously. "You on the case-or not, then? Doncher know?"

"I never met him alive," Evan replied reasonably. "It makes a lot of difference, you know.''

The landlord sucked his teeth. " 'Course it do-sorry, guv, a daft question. 'E were tall, an' not far from your build, kind o' slight-but 'e were real natty wiv it! Looked like a gennelman, even afore 'e opened 'is mouf. Yer can tell. Fair 'air, 'e 'ad; an' a smile as was summat luv'ly."

"Charming," Evan said, more as an observation than a question.

"Not 'alf," the landlord agreed.

"Popular?" Evan pursued.

"Yeah. Used ter tell a lot o' stories. People like that- passes the time."

"Generous?" Evan asked.

"Gen'rous?" The landlord's eyebrows rose. "No-not gen'rous. More like 'e took more'n 'e gave. Reckon as 'e din't 'ave that much. An' folk liked ter treat 'im-like I said, 'e were right entertainin'. Flash sometimes. Come in 'ere of an occasion an' treat everyone 'andsome- but not often, like-mebbe once a monf."

"Regularly?"

"Wotcher mean?"

"At a set time in the month?"

"Oh no-could be any time, twice a monf, or not fer two monfs."

Gambler, Evan thought to himself. "Thank you," he said aloud. "Thank you very much." And he finished the cider and placed sixpence on the table and left, going out reluctantly into the fading drizzle.

He spent the rest of the afternoon going to bootmakers, hatters, shirtmakers and tailors, from whom he learned precisely what he expected-nothing that his common sense had not already told him.

He bought a fresh eel pie from a vendor on Guilford Street outside the Foundling Hospital, then took a hansom all the way to St. James's, and got out at Boodles, where Joscelin Grey had been a member.

Here his questions had to be a lot more discreet. It was one of the foremost gentlemen's clubs in London, and servants did not gossip about members if they wished to retain their very agreeable and lucrative positions. All he acquired in an hour and a half of roundabout questions was confirmation that Major Grey was indeed a member, that he came quite regularly when he was in town, that of course, like other gentlemen, he gambled, and it was possible his debts were settled over a period of time, but most assuredly they were settled. No gentleman welshed on his debts of honor-tradesmen possibly, but never other gentlemen. Such a question did not arise.

Might Mr. Evan speak with any of Major Grey Is associates?

Unless Mr. Evan had a warrant such a thing was out of the question. Did Mr. Evan have such a warrant?

No Mr. Evan did not.

He returned little wiser, but with several thoughts running through his head.

***

When Evan had gone, Monk walked briskly back to the police station and went to his own room. He pulled out the records of all his old cases, and read. It gave him little cause for comfort.

If his fears for this case proved to be real-a society scandal, sexual perversion, blackmail and murder-then his own path as detective in charge lay between the perils of a very conspicuous and well-publicized failure and the even more dangerous task of probing to uncover the tragedies that had precipitated the final explosion. And a man who would beat to death a lover, turned blackmailer, to keep his secret, would hardly hesitate to ruin a mere policeman. "Nasty" was an understatement.

Had Runcorn done this on purpose? As he looked through the record of his own career, one success after another, he wondered what the price had been; who else had paid it, apart from himself? He had obviously devoted everything to work, to improving his skill, his knowledge, his manners, his dress and his speech. Looking at it as a stranger might, his ambition was painfully obvious: the long hours, the meticulous attention to detail, the flashes of sheer intuitive brilliance, the judgment of other men and their abilities-and weaknesses, always using the right man for any task, then when it was completed, choosing another. His only loyalty seemed to be the pursuit of justice. Could he have imagined it had all gone unnoticed by Runcorn, who lay in its path?

His rise from country boy from a Northumbrian fishing village to inspector in the Metropolitan Police had been little short of meteoric. In twelve years he had achieved more than most men in twenty. He was treading hard on Runcorn's heels; at this present rate of progress he could shortly hope for another promotion, to Runcorn's place- or better.

Perhaps it all depended on the Grey case?

He could not have risen so far, and so fast, without treading on a good many people as he passed. There was a growing fear in him that he might not even have cared. He had read through the cases, very briefly. He had made a god of truth, and-where the law was equivocal, or silent-of what he had believed to be justice. But if there was anything of compassion and genuine feeling for the victims, he had so far failed to find it. His anger was impersonal: against the forces of society that produced poverty and bred helplessness and crime; against the monstrosity of the rookery slums, the sweatshops, extortion, violence, prostitution and infant mortality.

He admired the man he saw reflected in the records, admired his skill and his brain, his energy and tenacity, even his courage; but he could not like him. There was no warmth, no vulnerability, nothing of human hopes or fears, none of the idiosyncracies that betray the dreams of the heart. The nearest he saw to passion was the ruthlessness with which he pursued injustice; but from the bare written words, it seemed to him that it was the wrong itself he hated, and the wronged were not people but the byproducts of the crime.

Why was Evan so keen to work with him? To learn? He felt a quick stab of shame at the thought of what he might teach him; and he did not want Evan turned into a copy of himself. People change, all the time; every day one is a little different from yesterday, a little added, a little forgotten. Could he learn something of Evan's feeling instead and teach him excellence without his accompanying ambition?

It was easy to believe Runcorn's feelings for him were ambivalent, at best. What had he done to him, over the years of climbing; what comparisons presented to superiors? What small slights made without sensitivity-had he ever even thought of Runcorn as a man rather than an obstacle between him and the next step up the ladder?

He could hardly blame Runcorn if now he took this perfect opportunity to present him with a case he had to lose; either in failure to solve, or in too much solving, and the uncovering of scandals for which society, and therefore the commissioner of police, would never excuse him.

Monk stared at the paper files. The man in them was a stranger to him, as one-dimensional as Joscelin Grey; in fact more so, because he had spoken to people who cared for Grey, had found charm in him, with whom he had shared laughter and common memories, who missed him with a hollowness of pain.

His own memories were gone, even of Beth, except for the one brief snatch of childhood that had flickered for a moment at Shelburne. But surely more would return, if he did not try to force them and simply let them come?

And the woman in the church, Mrs. Latterly; why had he not remembered her? He had only seen her twice since the accident, and yet her face seemed always at the back of his mind with a sweetness that never quite let him go. Had he spent much time on the case, perhaps questioned her often? It would be ridiculous to have imagined anything personal-the gulf between them was impassable, and if he had entertained ideas, then his ambition was indeed overweening, and indefensible. He blushed hot at the imagination of what he might have betrayed to her in his speech, or his manner. And the vicar had addressed her as "Mrs."-was she wearing black for her father-in-law, or was she a widow? When he saw her again he must correct it, make it plain he dreamed no such effrontery.

But before then he had to discover what on earth the case was about, beyond that her father-in-law had died recently.

He searched all his papers, all the files and everything in his desk, and found nothing with the name Latterly on it. A wretched thought occurred to him, and now an obvious one-the case had been handed on to someone else. Of course it would be, when he had been ill. Runcorn would hardly abandon it, especially if there really was a question of suspicious death involved.

Then why had the new person in charge not spoken to Mrs. Latterly-or more likely her husband, if he were alive? Perhaps he was not. Maybe that was the reason it was she who had asked? He put the files away and went to Runcorn's office. He was startled in passing an outside window to notice that it was now nearly dusk.

Runcorn was still in his office, but on the point of leaving. He did not seem in the least surprised to see Monk.

"Back to your usual hours again?" he said dryly. "No wonder you never married; you've taken a job to wife. Well, cold comfort it'll get you on a winter night," he added with satisfaction. "What is it?"

"Latterly." Monk was irritated by the reminder of what he could now see of himself. Before the accident it must have been there, all his characteristics, habits, but then he was too close to see them. Now he observed them dispassionately, as if they belonged to someone else.

"What?" Runcorn was staring at him, his brow furrowed into lines of incomprehension, his nervous gesture of the left eye more pronounced.

"Latterly," Monk repeated. "I presume you gave the case to someone else when I was ill?"

"Never heard of it," Runcorn said sharply.

"I was working on the case of a man called Latterly. He either committed suicide, or was murdered-"

Runcorn stood up and went to the coat stand and took his serviceable, unimaginative coat off the hook.

"Oh, that case. You said it was suicide and closed it, weeks before the accident. What's the matter with you? Are you losing your memory?"

"No I am not losing my memory!" Monk snapped, feeling a tide of heat rising up inside him. Please heaven it did not show in his face. "But the papers are gone from my files. I presumed something must have occurred to reopen the case and you had given it to someone."

"Oh." Runcorn scowled, proceeding to put on his coat and gloves. "Well, nothing has occurred, and the file is closed. I haven't given it to anyone else. Perhaps you didn't write up anything more? Now will you forget about Latterly, who presumably killed himself, poor devil, and get back to Grey, who most assuredly did not. Have you got anything further? Come on, Monk-you're usually better than this! Anything from this fellow Yeats?"

"No sir, nothing helpful." Monk was stung and his voice betrayed it.

Runcorn turned from the hat stand and smiled fully at him, his eyes bright.

"Then you'd better abandon that and step up your inquiries into Grey's family and friends, hadn't you?" he said with ill-concealed satisfaction. "Especially women friends. There may be a jealous husband somewhere. Looks like that kind of hatred to me. Take my word, there's something very nasty at the bottom of this." He tilted his hat slightly on his head, but it simply looked askew rather than rakish. "And you, Monk, are just the man to uncover it. You'd better go and try Shelburne again!" And with that parting shot, ringing with jubilation, he swung his scarf around his neck and went out.

***

Monk did not go to Shelburne the next day, or even that week. He knew he would have to, but he intended when he went to be as well armed as possible, both for the best chance of success in discovering the murderer of Joscelin Grey, whom he wanted with an intense and driving sense of justice, and-fast becoming almost as important-to avoid all he could of oflFense in probing the very private lives of the Shelburnes, or whoever else might have been aroused to such a rage, over whatever jealousies, passions or perversions. Monk knew that the powerful were no less frail than the rest of men, but they were usually far fiercer in covering those frailties from the mockery and the delight of the vulgar. It was not a matter of memory so much as instinct, the same way he knew how to shave, or to tie his cravat.

Instead he set out with Evan the following morning to go back to Mecklenburg Square, this time not to find traces of an intruder but to learn anything he could about Grey himself. Although they walked with scant conversation, each deep in his own thoughts, he was glad not to be alone. Grey's flat oppressed him and he could never free his mind from the violence that had happened there. It was not the blood, or even the death that clung to him, but the hate. He must have seen death before, dozens, if not scores of times, and he could not possibly have been troubled by it like this each time. It must usually have been casual death, pathetic or brainless murder, the utter selfishness of the mugger who wants and takes, or murder by the thief who finds his escape blocked. But in the death of Grey there was a quite different passion, something intimate, a bond of hatred between the killer and the killed.

He was cold in the room, even though the rest of the building was warm. The light through the high windows was colorless as if it would drain rather than illuminate. The furniture seemed oppressive and shabby, too big for the place, although in truth it was exactly like any other. He looked at Evan to see if he felt it also, but Evan's sensitive face was puckered over with the distaste of searching another man's letters, as he opened the desk and began to go through the drawers.

Monk walked past him into the bedroom, a little stale smelling from closed windows. There was a faint film of dust, as last time. He searched cupboards and clothes drawers, dressers, the tallboy. Grey had an excellent wardrobe; not very extensive, but a beautiful cut and quality. He had certainly possessed good taste, if not the purse to indulge it to the full. There were several sets of cuff links, all gold backed, one with his family crest engraved, two with his own initials. There were three stickpins, one with a fair-sized pearl, and a set of silver-backed brushes, a pigskin toilet kit. Certainly no burglar had come this far. There were many fine pocket handkerchiefs, mono-grammed, silk and linen shirts, cravats, socks, clean underwear. He was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find he knew to within a few shillings the price one would pay for each article, and wondered what aspirations had led him to such knowledge.

He had hoped to find letters in the top drawers, perhaps those too personal to mix with bills and casual correspondence in the desk, but there was nothing, and eventually he went back to the main room. Evan was still at the desk, standing motionless. The place was totally silent, as though both of them were aware that it was a dead man's room, and felt intrusive.

Far down in the street there was a rumble of wheels, the sharper sound of hooves, and a street seller's cry which sounded like "Ole clo'-ole clo'!"

"Well?" He found his voice sunk to a near whisper.

Evan looked up, startled. His face was tight.

"Rather a lot of letters here, sir. I'm not sure really what to make of them. There are several from his sister-in-law, Rosamond Grey; a rather sharp one from his brother Lovel-that's Lord Shelburne, isn't it? A very recent note from his mother, but only one, so it looks as if he didn't keep hers. There are several from a Dawlish family, just prior to his death; among them an invitation to stay at their home for a week. They seem to have been friendly." He puckered his mouth slightly. "One is from Miss Amanda Dawlish, sounds quite eager. In fact there are a number of invitations, all for dates after his death. Apparently he didn't keep old ones. And I'm afraid there's no diary. Funny." He looked up at Monk. "You'd think a man like that would have a social diary, wouldn't you?"

"Yes you would!" Monk moved forward. "Perhaps the murderer took it. You're quite sure?"

"Not in the desk." Evan shook his head. "And IVe checked for hidden drawers. But why would anyone hide a social diary anyway?"

"No idea," Monk said honestly, taking a step nearer to the desk and peering at it. "Unless it was the murderer who took it. Perhaps his name figures heavily. We'll have to try these Dawlishes. Is there an address on the letters?"

"Oh yes, I've made a note of it."

"Good. What else?"

"Several bills. He wasn't very prompt in paying up, but I knew that already from talking to the tradesmen. Three from his tailor, four or five from a shirtmaker, the one I visited, two from the wine merchant, a rather terse letter from the family solicitor in reply to a request for an increased allowance.''

"In the negative, I take it?"

"Very much so."

"Anything from clubs, gambling and so on?"

"No, but then one doesn't usually commit gambling debts to paper, even at Boodles, unless you are the one who is collecting, of course." Then he smiled suddenly. "Not that I can afford to know-except by hearsay!"

Monk relaxed a little. "Quite," he agreed. "Any other letters?"

"One pretty cool one from a Charles Latterly, doesn't say much-"

"Latterly?" Monk froze.

"Yes. You know him?" Evan was watching him.

Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs. Latterly at St. Marylebone had said "Charles," and he had feared it might have been her husband.

"I was working on a Latterly case some time ago," he said, struggling to keep his voice level. "It's probably coincidence. I was looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn't find it."

"Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some scandal to hush up, or-"

"No!" He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying his feelings. He moderated his tone. "No, not at all. Poor man is dead anyway. Died before Grey did."

"Oh." Evan turned back to the desk. "That's about all, I'm afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from these, and they'll lead us to more."

"Yes, yes quite. I'll take Latterly's address, all the same."

"Oh, right." Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.

Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.

They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.

"Lunch," Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent, obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of daily life.

"Right." Evan fell in step beside him. "There's a good public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent dumplings. That is-" he stopped suddenly. "It's very ordinary-don't know if you-"

"Fine," Monk agreed. "Sounds just what we need. I'm frozen after being in that place. I don't know why, but it seems cold, even inside."

Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. "It might be imagination, but it always chills me. I'm not used to murder yet. I suppose you're above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven't got that far-"

"Don't!" Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to. "Don't get used to it!" He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden sensitivity, but he did not care. "I mean," he said more softly, aware that he had startled Evan by his vehemence, "keep your brain clear, by all means, but don't let it cease to shock you. Don't be a detective before you're a man." Now that he had said it it sounded sententious and extremely trite. He was embarrassed.

Evan did not seem to notice.

"I've a long way to go before I'm efficient enough to do that, sir. I confess, even that room up there makes me feel a little sick. This is the first murder like this I've been on." He sounded self-conscious and very young. "Of course I've seen bodies before, but usually accidents, or paupers who died in the street. There are quite a few of them in the winter. That's why I'm so pleased to be on this case with you. I couldn't learn from anyone better."

Monk felt himself color with pleasure-and shame, because he did not deserve it. He could not think of anything at all to say, and he strode ahead through the thickening rain searching for words, and not finding them. Evan walked beside him, apparently not needing an answer.

***

The following Monday Monk and Evan got off the train at Shelburne and set out towards Shelbume Hall. It was one of the summer days when the wind is fresh from the east, sharp as a slap in the face, and the sky is clear and cloudless. The trees were huge green billows resting on the bosom of the earth, gently, incessantly moving, whispering. There had been rain overnight, and under the shadows the smell of damp earth was sweet where their feet disturbed it.

They walked in silence, each enjoying it in his own way. Monk was not aware of any particular thoughts, except perhaps a sense of pleasure in the sheer distance of the sky, the width across the fields. Suddenly memory flooded back vividly, and he saw Northumberland again: broad, bleak hills, north wind shivering in the grass. The milky sky was mackerel shredded out to sea, and white gulls floated on the currents, screaming.

He could remember his mother, dark like Beth, standing in the kitchen, and the smell of yeast and flour. She had been proud of him, proud that he could read and write.

He must have been very young then. He remembered a room with sun in it, the vicar's wife teaching him letters, Beth in a smock staring at him in awe. She could not read. He could almost feel himself teaching her, years after, slowly, outline by outline. Her writing still carried echoes of those hours, careful, conscious of the skill and its long learning. She had loved him so much, admired him without question. Then the memory disappeared and it was as if someone had drenched him in cold water, leaving him startled and shivering. It was the most acute and powerful memory he had recaptured and its sharpness left him stunned. He did not notice Evan's eyes on him, or the quick glance away as he strove to avoid what he realized would be intrusion.

Shelburne Hall was in sight across the smooth earth, less than a thousand yards away, framed in trees.

"Do you want me to say anything, or just listen?" Evan asked. "It might be better if I listened."

Monk realized with a start that Evan was nervous. Perhaps he had never spoken to a woman of title before, much less questioned her on personal and painful matters. He might not even have seen such a place, except from the distance. He wondered where his own assurance came from, and why he had not ever thought of it before. Run-corn was right, he was ambitious, even arrogant-and insensitive.

"Perhaps if you try the servants," he replied. "Servants notice a lot of things. Sometimes they see a side of their masters that their lordships manage to hide from their equals."

"I'll try the valet," Evan suggested. "I should imagine you are peculiarly vulnerable in the bath, or in your underwear." He grinned suddenly at the thought, and perhaps in some amusement at the physical helplessness of his social superiors to need assistance in such common matters. It offset his own fear of proving inadequate to the situation.

Lady Fabia Shelburne was somewhat surprised to see

Monk again, and kept him waiting nearly half an hour, this time in the butler's pantry with the silver polish, a locked desk for the wine book and the cellar keys, and a comfortable armchair by a small grate. Apparently the housekeeper's sitting room was already in use. He was annoyed at the casual insolence of it, and yet part of him was obliged to admire her self-control. She had no idea why he had come. He might even have been able to tell her who had murdered her son, and why.

When he was sent for and conducted to the rosewood sitting room, which seemed to be peculiarly hers, she was cool and gracious, as if he had only just arrived and she had no more than a courteous interest in what he might say.

At her invitation he sat down opposite her on the same deep rose-pink chair as before.

"Well, Mr. Monk?" she inquired with slightly raised eyebrows. "Is there something further you want to say to me?"

"Yes ma'am, if you please. We are even more of the opinion thai whoever killed Major Grey did so for some personal reason, and that he was not a chance victim. Therefore we need to know everything further we can about him, his social connections-"

Her eyes widened. "If you imagine his social connections are of a type to indulge in murder, Mr. Monk, then you are extraordinarily ignorant of society."

"I am afraid, ma'am, that most people are capable of murder, if they are hard-pressed enough, and threatened in what they most value-"

"I think not." Her voice indicated the close of the subject and she turned her head a little away from him.

"Let us hope they are rare, ma'am." He controlled his impulse to anger with difficulty. "But it would appear there is at least one, and I am sure you wish to find him, possibly even more than I do."

"You are very slick with words, young man." It was grudgingly given, even something of a criticism. "What is it you imagine I can tell you?"

"A list of his closest friends," he answered. "Family friends, any invitations you may know of that he accepted in the last few months, especially for weeks or weekends away. Perhaps any lady in whom he may have been interested." He saw a slight twitch of distaste cross her immaculate features. "I believe he was extremely charming." He added the flattery in which he felt was her only weakness.

"He was." There was a small movement in her lips, a change in her eyes as for a moment grief overtook her. It was several seconds till she smoothed it out again and was as perfect as before.

Monk waited in silence, for the first time aware of the force of her pain.

"Then possibly some lady was more attracted to him than was acceptable to her other admirers, or even her husband?" he suggested at last, and in a considerably softer tone, although his resolve to find the murderer of Joscelin Grey was if anything hardened even further, and it allowed of no exceptions, no omissions for hurt.

She considered this thought for a moment before deciding to accept it. He imagined she was seeing her son again as he had been in life, elegant, laughing, direct of gaze.

"It might have been," she conceded. "It could be that some young person was indiscreet, and provoked jealousy."

"Perhaps someone who had a little too much to drink?" He pursued it with a tact that did not come to him naturally. "And saw in it more than there was?"

"A gentleman knows how to conduct himself." She looked at Monk with a slight turn downwards at the corners of her mouth. The word gentleman was not lost on him. "Even when he has had too much to drink. But unfortunately some people are not as discriminating in their choice of guests as they should be."

"If you would give me some names and addresses, ma'am; I shall conduct my inquiries as cautiously as I can, and naturally shall not mention your name. I imagine all persons of good conscience will be as keen to discover who murdered Major Grey as you are yourself."

It was a well-placed argument, and she acknowledged it with a momentary glance directly into his eyes.

"Quite," she agreed. "If you have a notebook I shall oblige you." She reached across to the rosewood table almost at her side and opened a drawer. She took out a leather-bound and gold-tooled address book.

He made ready and was well started when Lovel Grey came in, again dressed in casual clothes-this time breeches and a Norfolk jacket of well-worn tweed. His face darkened when he saw Monk.

"I really think, Mr. Monk, that if you have something to report, you may do so to me!" he said with extreme irritation. "If you have not, then your presence here serves no purpose, and you are distressing my mother. I am surprised you should come again."

Monk stood up instinctively, annoyed with himself for the necessity.

"I came, my lord, because I needed some further information, which Lady Shelburne has been kind enough to give me." He could feel the color hot in his face.

"There is nothing we can tell you that could be of the least relevance," Lovel snapped. "For heaven's sake, man, can't you do your job without rushing out here every few days?" He moved restlessly, fidgeting with the crop in his hand. "We cannot help you! If you are beaten, admit it! Some crimes are never solved, especially where madmen are concerned."

Monk was trying to compose a civil reply when Lady Shelburne herself intervened in a small, tight voice.

"That may be so, Lovel, but not in this case. Joscelin was killed by someone who knew him, however distasteful that may be to us. Naturally it is also possible it was someone known here. It is far more discreet of Mr. Monk to ask us than to go around inquiring of the whole neighborhood."

"Good God!" Lovel's face fell. "You cannot be serious. To allow him to do that would be monstrous. We'd be ruined."

"Nonsense!" She closed her address book with a snap and replaced it in the drawer. "We do not ruin so easily. There have been Shelburnes on the land for five hundred years, and will continue to be. However I have no intention of allowing Mr. Monk to do any such thing." She looked at Monk coldly. "That is why I am providing him with a list myself, and suitable questions to ask-and to avoid."

"There is no need to do either." Lovel turned furiously from his mother to Monk and back again, his color high. "Whoever killed Joscelin must have been one of his London acquaintances-if indeed it really was someone he knew at all, which I still doubt. In spite of what you say, I believe it was purely chance he was the victim, and not someone else. I daresay he was seen at a club, or some such place, by someone who saw he had money and hoped to rob him."

"It was not robbery, sir," Monk said firmly. "There were all sorts of valuable items quite visible and untouched in his rooms, even the money in his wallet was still there."

"And how do you know how much he had in his wallet?" Lovel demanded. "He may have had hundreds!"

"Thieves do not usually count out change and return it to you," Monk replied, moderating the natural sarcasm in his voice only slightly.

Lovel was too angry to stop. "And have you some reason to suppose this was a 'usual' thief? I did not know you had proceeded so far. In fact I did not know you had proceeded at all."

"Most unusual, thank heaven." Monk ignored the jibe. "Thieves seldom kill. Did Major Grey often walk about with hundreds of pounds in his pocket?''

Lovel's face was scarlet. He threw the crop across the room, intending it to land on the sofa, but it fell beyond and rattled to the floor. He ignored it. "No of course not!" he shouted. "But then this was a unique occasion. He was not simply robbed and left lying, he was beaten to death, if you remember."

Lady Fabia's face pinched with misery and disgust.

"Really, Lovel, the man is doing his best, for whatever that is worth. There is no need to be offensive."

Suddenly his tone changed. "You are upset, Mama; and it's quite natural that you should be. Please leave this to me. If I think there is anything to tell Mr. Monk, I shall do so. Why don't you go into the withdrawing room and have tea with Rosamond?"

"Don't patronize me, Lovel!" she snapped, rising to her feet. "I am not too upset to conduct myself properly, and to help the police find the man who murdered my son."

"There is nothing whatsoever we can do, Mama!" He was fast losing his temper again. "Least of all assist them to pester half the country for personal information about poor Joscelin's life and friends."

"It was one of poor Joscelin's 'friends' who beat him to death!" Her cheeks were ashen white and a lesser woman might well have fainted before now, but she stood ramrod stiff, her white hands clenched.

"Rubbish!" Lovel dismissed it instantly. "It was probably someone he played at cards and who simply couldn't take losing. Joscelin gambled a damned sight more than he led you to believe. Some people play for stakes they can't afford, and then when they're beaten, they lose control of themselves and go temporarily off their heads." He breathed in and out hard. "Gaming clubs are not always as discriminating as they should be as to whom they allow in. That is quite probably what happened to Joscelin. Do you seriously imagine anyone at Shelburne would know anything about it?"

"It is also possible it was someone who was jealous over a woman," she answered icily. "Joscelin was very charming, you know."

Lovel flushed and the whole skin of his face appeared to tighten.

"So I have frequently been reminded," he said in a soft, dangerous little voice. "But not everyone was as susceptible to it as you, Mama. It is a very superficial quality."

She stared at him with something that bordered on contempt.

"You never understood charm, Lovel, which is your great misfortune. Perhaps you would be good enough to order extra tea in the withdrawing room." Deliberately she ignored her son and contravened propriety, as if to annoy him. "Will you join us, Mr. Monk? Perhaps my daughter-in-law may be able to suggest something. She was accustomed to attend many of the same functions as Joscelin, and women are frequently more observant of other women, especially where"-she hesitated-"affairs of the emotions are concerned."

Without waiting for his reply she assumed his compliance and, still ignoring Lovel, turned to the door and stopped. Lovel wavered for only the barest second, then he came forward obediently and opened the door for her. She swept through without looking again at either of them.

In the withdrawing room the atmosphere was stiff. Rosamond had difficulty hiding her amazement at being expected to take tea with a policeman as if he were a gentleman; and even the maid with the extra cups and muffins seemed uncomfortable. Apparently the below-stairs gossip had already told her who Monk was. Monk silently thought of Evan, and wondered if he had made any progress.

When the maid had handed everyone their cups and plates and was gone Lady Fabia began in a level, quiet voice, avoiding Lovel's eyes.

"Rosamond, my dear, the police require to know everything they can about Joscelin's social activities in the last few months before he died. You attended most of the same functions, and are thus more aware of any relationships than I. For example, who might have shown more interest in him than was prudent?"

"I?" Rosamond was either profoundly surprised or a better actress than Monk had judged her to be on their earlier meeting.

"Yes you, my dear." Lady Fabia passed her the muffins, which she ignored. "I am talking to you. I shall, of course, also ask Ursula."

"Who is Ursula?" Monk interrupted.

"Miss Ursula Wadham; she is betrothed to my second son, Menard. You may safely leave it to me to glean from her any information that would be of use." She dismissed Monk and turned back to Rosamond. "Well?"

"I don't recall Joscelin having any... relationship in- in particular." Rosamond sounded rather awkward, as if the subject disturbed her. Watching her, Monk wondered for a moment if she had been in love with Joscelin herself, if perhaps that was why Lovel was so reluctant to have the matter pursued.

Could it even have gone further than a mere attraction?

"That is not what I asked," Lady Fabia said with thin patience. "I asked you if anyone else had shown any interest in Joscelin, albeit a one-sided one?"

Rosamond's head came up. For a moment Monk thought she was about to resist her mother-in-law, then the moment died.

"Norah Partridge was very fond of him," she replied slowly, measuring her words. "But that is hardly new; and I cannot see Sir John taking it badly enough to go all the way up to London and commit murder. I do believe he is fond of Norah, but not enough for that."

"Then you are more observant than I thought," Lady Fabia said with acid surprise. "But without much understanding of men, my dear. It is not necessary to want something yourself in order profoundly to resent someone else's having the ability to take it away from you; especially if they have the tactlessness to do it publicly.'' She swiveled to Monk. He was not offered the muffins. "There is somewhere for you to begin. I doubt John Partridge would be moved to murder-or that he would use a stick if he were." Her face flickered with pain again. "But No-rah had other admirers. She is a somewhat extravagant creature, and not possessed of much judgment.''

"Thank you, ma'am. If you think of anything further?"

For another hour they raked over past romances, affairs and supposed affairs, and Monk half listened. He was not interested in the facts so much as the nuances behind their expression. Joscelin had obviously been his mother's favorite, and if the absent Menard was like his elder brother, it was easy to understand why. But whatever her feelings, the laws of primogeniture ruled that not only the title and the lands, but also the money to support them and the way of life that went with them, must pass to Lovel, the firstborn.

Lovel himself contributed nothing, and Rosamond only enough to satisfy her mother-in-law, of whom she seemed in awe far more than of her husband.

Monk did not see Lady Callandra Daviot, rather to his disappointment. He would have liked her candor on the subject, although he was not sure she would have expressed herself as freely in front of the grieving family as she had in the garden in the rain.

He thanked them and excused himself in time to find Evan and walk down to the village for a pint of cider before the train back to London.

"Well?" Monk asked as soon as they were out of sight of the house.

"Ah." Evan could scarcely suppress his enthusiasm; his stride was surprisingly long, his lean body taut with energy, and he splashed through puddles on the road with complete disregard for his soaking boots. "It's fascinating. I've never been inside a really big house before, I mean inside to know it. My father was a clergyman, you know, and I went along to the manor house sometimes when I was a child-but it was nothing like this. Good Lord, those servants see things that would paralyze me with shame-I mean the family treat them as if they were deaf and blind."

"They don't think of them as people," Monk replied. "At least not people in the same sense as themselves. They are two different worlds, and they don't impinge, except physically. Therefore their opinions don't matter. Did you learn anything else?" He smiled slightly at Evan's innocence.

Evan grinned. "I'll say, although of course they wouldn't intentionally tell a policeman, or anyone else, anything they thought confidential about the family. It would be more than their livelihood was worth. Very closemouthed, they thought they were."

"So how did you learn?" Monk asked curiously, looking at Evan's innocent, imaginative features.

Evan blushed very slightly. "Threw myself on Cook's mercy." He looked down at the ground, but did not decrease his pace in the slightest. "Slandered my landlady appallingly, I'm afraid. Spoke very unkindly about her cooking-oh, and I stood outside for some time before going in, so my hands were cold-" He glanced up at Monk, then away again. "Very motherly sort, Lady Shel-burne's cook." He smiled rather smugly. "Daresay I did a lot better than you did."

"I didn't eat at all," Monk said tartly.

"I'm sorry." Evan did not sound it.

"And what did your dramatic debut earn you, apart from luncheon?" Monk asked. "I presume you overheard a good deal-while you were busy being pathetic and eating them out of house and home?"

"Oh yes-did you know that Rosamond comes from a well-to-do family, but a bit come-lately? And she fell for Joscelin first, but her mother insisted she marry the eldest brother, who also offered for her. And she was a good, obedient girl and did as she was told. At least that is what I read between the lines of what the tweeny was saying to the laundry maid-before the parlor maid came in and stopped them gossiping and they were packed off to their duties."

Monk whistled through his teeth.

"And," Evan went on before he could speak, "they had no children for the first few years, then one son, heir to the title, about a year and a half ago. Someone particularly spiteful is said to have observed that he has the typical Shelburne looks, but more like Joscelin than Lovel-so the second footman heard said in the public house. Blue eyes-you see, Lord Shelburne is dark-so is she-at least her eyes are-"

Monk stopped in the road, staring at him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that's what they say, and Lord Shelburne must have heard it-at last-" He looked appalled. "Oh God! That's what Runcorn meant, isn't it? Very nasty, very nasty indeed." He was comical in his dismay, suddenly the enthusiasm gone out of him. "What on earth are we going to do? I can imagine how Lady Fabia will react if you try opening that one up!"

"So can I," Monk said grimly. "And I don't know what we are going to do."