The Silent Cry

chapter 3
As soon as Monk was out in the street he felt better, but he could not completely shake the impression that had come to him so violently. For an instant it had been real enough to bring his body out in hot, drenching sweat, and then leave him shivering and nauseous at the sheer bestiality of it.

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

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

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

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

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

"Recheck the statements," he answered, stopping on the corner curb as a hansom sped past them, its wheels spraying filth. "That's the only place I know to begin. I'll do the least promising first. The street sweeper boy is there." He indicated the child a few yards from them, busy shoveling dung and at the same time seizing a penny that had been thrown him. "Is he the same one?"

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

Monk and Evan stepped out onto the street towards him.

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

Evan nodded.

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

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

The boy took the twopence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was the street busy?"

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

"How long have you been at this crossing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What time?"

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

"About half past seven?''

"S' right."

"How about earlier?"

"Only wot goes inter Number Six, like?"

"Yes."

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

"Astrakhan?" Monk offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monk turned to face the drizzling east wind. "Not unless he's ill," he agreed. "Good evening for trade. No one will walk in this weather if they can ride." He was pleased with that-it sounded intelligent, and it was the merest common sense. "We'll send a message and have him call at the police station. I don't suppose he can add anything to what he's already said anyway." He smiled sarcastically. "Unless, of course, he killed Grey himself!"

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

Evan was still looking at him, not entirely sure.

Monk spoke his last thoughts aloud.

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

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

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

The local tavern turned out to be a pleasant, noisy place which served them ale and a sandwich with civility, but something of a wary eye, knowing them to be strangers and perhaps guessing from their clothes that they were police. One or two ribald comments were offered, but apparently Grey had not patronized the place and there was no particular sympathy for him, only the communal interest in the macabre that murder always wakens.

Afterwards Evan went back to the police station, and Monk returned to Mecklenburg Squarer and Grimwade. He began at the beginning.

"Yes sir," Grimwade said patiently. "Major Grey came in about quarter after six, or a bit before, and 'e looked 'is usual self to me."

"He came by cab?" Monk wanted to be sure he had not led the man, suggested the answer he wanted.

"Yes sir."

"How do you know? Did you see the cab?"

"Yes sir, I did." Grimwade wavered between nervousness and affront. "Stopped right by the door 'ere; not a night to walk a step as you didn't 'ave to."

"Did you see the cabby?"

" 'Ere, I don't understand what you're getting after." Now the affront was definitely warning.

"Did you see him?" Monk repeated.

Grimwade screwed up his face. "Don't recall as I did," he conceded.

"Did he get down off the box, help Major Grey with a parcel, or a case or anything?"

"Not as I remember; no, 'e didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I am sure. 'E never got through that door."

That theory at least was gone. He should have been too old at this to be disappointed, but he had no experience to call on. It seemed to come to him easily enough, but possibly most of it was common sense.

"He went upstairs alone?" He tried a last time, to remove every vestige of doubt.

"Yes sir, 'e did."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nothing special, as I can think of. I don't remember nothin', so I reckon it can't 'ave bin. 'E never said nothin' about bein' afraid, or as 'e was expecting anyone."

"But there were visitors to the buildings that afternoon and evening?"

"Nobody as would be a-murderin' anyone."

"Indeed?" Monk raised his eyebrows. "You're not suggesting Major Grey did that to himself in some kind of bizarre accident, are you? Or of course there is the other alternative-that the murderer was someone already here?"

Grimwade's face changed rapidly from resignation through extreme offense to blank horror. He stared at Monk, but no words came to his brain.

"You have another idea? I thought not-neither have I." Monk sighed. "So let us think again. You said there were two visitors after Major Grey came in: one woman at about seven o'clock, and a man later on at about quarter to ten. Now, who did the woman come to see, Mr. Grim-wade, and what did she look like? And please, no cosmetic alterations for the sake of discretion!"

"No wot?"

"Tell me the truth, man!" Monk snapped. "It could become very embarrassing for your tenants if we have to investigate it for ourselves."

Grimwade glared at him, but he took the point perfectly.

"A local lady of pleasure, sir; called Mollie Ruggles," he said between his teeth. " 'Andsome piece, with red 'air. I know where she lives, but I expec' you understand it would come real gratify in' if you could see your way clear to bein' discreet about 'oo told yef she was 'ere?" His expression was comical in its effort to expunge his dislike and look appealing.

Monk hid a sour amusement-it would only alienate the man.

"I will," he agreed. It would be in his own interest also. Prostitutes could be useful informants, if well treated. "Who did she come to see?"

"Mr. Taylor, sir; 'e lives in flat number five. She comes to see 'im quite reg'lar."

"And it was definitely her?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you take her to Mr. Taylor's door?"

"Oh no, sir. Reckon as she knows 'er way by now. And Mr. Taylor-well..." He hunched his shoulders. "It wouldn't be tactful, now would it, sir? Not as I suppose you 'as ter be tactful, in your callin'!" he added meaningfully.

"No." Monk smiled slightly. "So you didn't leave your position when she came?"

"No sir."

"Any other women come, Mr. Grimwade?" He looked at him very directly.

Grimwade avoided his eyes.

"Do I have to make my own inquiries?" Monk threatened. "And leave detectives here to follow people?"

Grimwade was shocked. His head came up sharply.

"You wouldn't do that, sir! They're gentlemen as lives 'ere! They'd leave. They won't put up with that kind o' thing!"

"Then don't make it necessary."

"You're an 'ard man, Mr. Monk." But there was a grudging respect behind the grievance in his voice. That was small victory in itself.

"I want to find the man who killed Major Grey," Monk answered him. "Someone came into these buildings, found his way upstairs into that flat and beat Major Grey with a stick, over and over until he was dead, and then went on beating him afterwards." He saw Grimwade wincing, and felt the revulsion himself. He remembered the horror he had felt when actually standing in the room. Did walls retain memory? Could violence or hatred remain in the air after a deed was finished, and touch the sensitive, the imaginative with a shadow of the horror?

No, that was ridiculous. It was not the imaginative, but the nightmare-ridden who felt such things. He was letting his own fear, the horror of his still occasionally recurring dreams and the hollowness of his past extend into the present and warp his judgment. Let a little more time pass, a little more identity build, learn to know himself, and he would grow firmer memories in reality. His sanity would come back; he would have a past to root himself in, other emotions, and people.

Or could it be-could it possibly be that it was some sort of mixed, dreamlike, distorted recollection coming back to him? Could he be recalling snatches of the pain and fear he must have felt when the coach turned over on him, throwing him down, imprisoning him, the scream of terror as the horse fell, the cab driver flung headlong, crushed to death on the stones of the street? He must have known violent fear, and in the instant before unconsciousness, have felt sharp, even blinding pain as his bones broke. Was that what he had sensed? Had it been nothing to do with Grey at all, but his own memory returning, just a flash, a sensation, the fierceness of the feeling long before the clarity of actual perception came back?

He must learn more of himself, what he had been doing that night, where he was going, or had come from. What manner of man had he been, whom had he cared for, whom wronged, or whom owed? What had mattered to him? Every man had relationships, every man had feelings, even hungers; every man who was alive at all stirred some sort of passions in others. There must be people somewhere who had feelings about him-more than professional rivalry and resentment-surely? He could not have been so negative, of so little purpose that his whole life had left no mark on another soul.

As soon as he was off duty, he must leave Grey, stop building the pattern piece by piece of his life, and take up the few clues to his own, place them together with whatever skill he possessed.

Grimwade was still waiting for him, watching curiously, knowing that he had temporarily lost his attention.

Monk looked back at him.

"Well, Mr. Grimwade?" he said with sudden softness. "What other women?"

Grimwade mistook the lowering tone for a further threat.

"One to see Mr. Scarsdale, sir; although 'e paid me 'andsome not to say so."

"What time was it?"

"About eight o'clock.''

Scarsdale had said he had heard someone at eight. Was it his own visitor he was talking about, trying to play safe, in case someone else had seen her too?

"Did you go up with her?" He looked at Grimwade.

"No sir, on account o' she'd bin 'ere before, an' knew 'er way, like. An' I knew as she was expected." He gave a slight leer, knowingly, as man to man.

Monk acknowledged it. "And the one at quarter to ten?" he asked. "The visitor for Mr. Yeats, I think you said? Had he been here before too?"

"No sir. I went up with 'im, 'cos 'e didn't know Mr. Yeats very well an' 'adn't called 'ere before. I said that to Mr. Lamb."

"Indeed." Monk forbore from criticizing him over the omission of Scarsdale's woman. He would defeat his own purpose if he antagonized him any further. "So you went up with this man?"

"Yes sir." Grimwade was firm. "Saw Mr. Yeats open the door to 'im,"

"What did he look like, this man?"

Grimwade screwed up his eyes. "Oh, big man, 'e was, solid and-'ere!" His face dropped. "You don't think it was 'im wot done it, do yer?" He breathed out slowly, his eyes wide. "Gor'-it must 'a' bin. When I thinks of it now!"

"It might have," Monk agreed cautiously. "It's possible. Would you know him if you saw him again?"

Grimwade's face fell. "Ah, there you 'ave me, sir; I don't think as I would. Yer see, I didn't see 'im close, like, when 'e was down 'ere. An' on the stairs I only looked where I was goin', it bein' dark. 'E 'ad one o' them 'eavy coats on, as it was a rotten night an' rainin' somethin' wicked. A natural night for anyone to 'ave 'is coat turned up an' 'is 'at drawn down. I reckon 'e were dark, that's about all I could say fer sure, an' if 'e 'ad a beard, it weren't much of a one."

"He was probably clean-shaven, and probably dark." Monk tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He must not let irritation push the man into saying something to please him, something less than true.

" 'E were big, sir," Grimwade said hopefully. "An' 'e were tall, must 'ave bin six feet. That lets out a lot o' people, don't it?"

"Yes, yes it does," Monk agreed. "When did he leave?"

"I saw 'im out o' the corner o' me eye, sir. 'E went past me window at about 'alf past ten, or a little afore."

"Out of the corner of your eye? You're sure it was him?"

" 'Ad ter be; 'e didn't leave before, ner after, an' 'e looked the same. Same coat, and 'at, same size, same 'eight. Weren't no one else like that lives 'ere."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No, 'e looked like 'e was in a bit of an 'urry. Maybe 'e wanted ter get 'ome. It were a beastly rotten night, like I said, sir; not fit fer man ner beast."

"Yes I know. Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. If you remember anything more, tell me, or leave a message for me at the police station. Good day."

"Good day, sir," Grimwade said with intense relief.

Monk decided to wait for Scarsdale, first to tax him with his lie about the woman, then to try and learn something more about Joscelin Grey. He realized with faint surprise that he knew almost nothing about him, except the manner of his death. Grey's life was as blank an outline as his own, a shadow man, circumscribed by a few physical facts, without color or substance that could have induced love or hate. And surely there had been hate in whoever had beaten Grey to death, and then gone on hitting and hitting him long after there was any purpose? Was there something in Grey, innocently or knowingly, that had generated such a passion, or was he merely the catalyst of something he knew nothing of-and its victim?

He went back outside into the square and found a seat from which he could see the entrance of Number 6.

It was more than an hour before Scarsdale arrived, and already beginning to get darker and colder, but Monk was compelled by the importance it had for him to wait.

He saw him arrive on foot, and followed a few paces after him, inquiring from Grimwade in the hall if it was indeed Scarsdale.

"Yes sir," Grimwade said reluctantly, but Monk was not interested in the porter's misfortunes.

"D' yer need me ter take yer up?"

"No thank you; I'll find it." And he took the stairs two at a time and arrived on the landing just as the door was closing. He strode across from the stair head and knocked briskly. There was a second's hesitation, then the door opened. He explained his identity and his errand tersely.

Scarsdale was not pleased to see him. He was a small, wiry man whose handsomest feature was his fair mustache, not matched by slightly receding hair and undistinguished features. He was smartly, rather fussily dressed.

"I'm sorry, I can't see you this evening," he said brusquely. "I have to change to go out for dinner. Call again tomorrow, or the next day."

Monk was the bigger man, and in no mood to be summarily dismissed.

"I have other people to call on tomorrow," he said, placing himself half in Scarsdale's way. "I need certain information from you now."

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

Monk stepped forward. "For example, the name of the young woman who visited you the evening Major Grey was killed, and why you lied to us about her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing. He chose the latter.

"I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing at all," Monk conceded.

"He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?" Scarsdale's eyes widened, and at last he walked to the center of the room and sat down on a hard-backed, carved chair. He waved his arm vaguely, giving Monk permission to do so too.

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

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

"Joscelin Grey," Monk reminded him.

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

"A wealthy family?"

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

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

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

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

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

Scarsdale was surprised at his inefficiency.

"Surely you know that?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Was he a gambler?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, naturally," he said a little sharply. "Now if you will be good enough to permit me to change-I have a dinner engagement, you know."

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monk had forgotten.

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

Evan's smile broadened rapidly.

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

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

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

"Come in!" Monk said loudly.

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

"Yes?" Monk inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up at the constable.

"Thank you," he said with a smile. "It might well be-right initials. What do you know about it?"

The constable blushed scarlet. "Nufflnk much, Mr. Monk. 'E swears blind as it was one of 'is reg'lars as brought it in. But you can't believe anyfink 'e says 'cause 'e would say that, wouldn't 'e? He don't want ter be mixed up in no murder."

Monk glanced at the paper again. The pawnbroker's name and address were there and he could follow up on it any time he chose.

"No, he'd doubtless lie," he agreed. "But we might learn something all the same, if we can prove this was Grey's watch. Thank you-very observant of you. May I keep it?"

"Yes sir. We don't need it; we 'as lots more agin 'im." Now his furious pink color was obviously pleasure, and considerable surprise. He still stood rooted to the spot.

"Was there anything else?" Monk raised his eyebrows.

"No sir! No there in't. Thank you, sir." And the constable turned on his heel and marched out, tripping on the doorsill as he went and rocketing out into the passage.

Almost immediately the door was opened again by a wiry sergeant with a black mustache.

"You o'right, sir?" he asked, seeing Monk's frown.

"Yes. What's the matter with-er." He waved his hand towards the departing figure of the constable, wishing desperately that he knew the man's name.

" 'Arrison?"

"Yes."

"Nothin'-just afeared of you, that's all. Which in't 'ardly surprisin', seein' as 'ow you tore 'im off such a strip in front o' the 'ole station, w'en that macer slipped through 'is fingers-which weren't 'ardly 'is fault, seein' as the feller were a downright contortionist. 'Arder to 'old then a greased pig, 'e were. An' if we'd broke 'is neck we'd be the ones for the 'igh jump before breakfast!"

Monk was confused. He did not know what to say. Had he been unjust to the man, or was there cause for whatever he had said? On the face of it, it sounded as if he had been gratuitously cruel, but he was hearing only one side of the story-there was no one to defend him, to explain, to give his reasons and say what he knew and perhaps they did not.

And rack and tear as he might, there was nothing in his mind, not even Harrison's face-let alone some shred about the incident.

He felt a fool sitting staring up at the critical eyes of the sergeant, who plainly disliked him, for what he felt was fair cause.

Monk ached to explain himself! Even more he wanted to know for his own understanding. How many incidents would come up like this, things he had done that seemed ugly from the outside, to someone who did not know his side of the story?

"Mr. Monk, sir?"

Monk recalled his attention quickly. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Thought you might like to know as we got the mags-man wot snuffed ol' Billy Marlowe. They'll swing 'im for sure. Right villain."

"Oh-thank you. Well done." He had no idea what the sergeant was talking about, but obviously he was expected to. "Very well done," he added.

"Thank you, sir." The sergeant straightened up, then turned and left, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.

Monk bent to his work again.

***

An hour later he left the police station and walked slowly along the dark, wet pavements and found the way back to Grafton Street.

Mrs. Worley's rooms were at least becoming familiar. He knew where to find things, and better than that, they offered privacy: no one would disturb him, intrude on his time to think, to try again to find some thread.

After his meal of mutton stew and dumplings, which were hot and filling, if a little heavy, he thanked Mrs. Worley when she collected the tray, saw her down the stairs, and then began once more to go through the desk. The bills were of little use; he could hardly go to his tailor and say "What kind of man am I? What do I care about? Do you like, or dislike me, and why?" One small comfort he could draw from his accounts was that he appeared to have been prompt in paying them; there were no demand notices, and the receipts were all dated within a few days of presentation. He was learning something, a crumb: he was methodical.

The personal letters from Beth told him much of her: of simplicity, an unforced affection, a life of small detail. She said nothing of hardships or of bitter winters, nothing even of wrecks or the lifeboatmen. Her concern for him was based on her feelings, and seemed to be without knowledge; she simply translated her own affections and interests to his life, and assumed his feelings were the same. He knew without needing deeper evidence that it was because he had told her nothing; perhaps he had not even written regularly. It was an unpleasant thought, and he was harshly ashamed of it. He must write to her soon, compose a letter which would seem rational, and yet perhaps elicit some answer from her which would tell him more.

The following morning he woke late to find Mrs. Wor-ley knocking on the door. He let her in and she put his breakfast on the table with a sigh and a shake of her head. He was obliged to eat it before dressing or it would have grown cold. Afterwards he resumed the search, and again it was fruitless for any sharpening of identity, anything of the man behind the immaculate, rather expensive possessions. They told him nothing except that he had good taste, if a little predictable-perhaps that he liked to be admired? But what was admiration worth if it was for the cost and discretion of one's belongings? A shallow man? Vain? Or a man seeking security he did not feel, making his place in a world that he did not believe accepted him?

The apartment itself was impersonal, with traditional furniture, sentimental pictures. Surely Mrs. Worley's taste rather than his own?

After luncheon he was reduced to the last places to seek: the pockets of his other clothes, jackets hanging in the cupboard. In the best of them, a well-cut, rather formal coat, he found a piece of paper, and on unfolding it carefully, saw that it was a printed sheet for a service of Evensong at a church he did not know.

Perhaps it was close by. He felt a quickening of hope. Maybe he was a member of the congregation. The minister would know him. He might have friends there, a belief, even an office or a calling of some sort. He folded up the paper again carefully and put it in the desk, then went into the bedroom to wash and shave again, and change into his best clothes, and the coat from which the sheet had come. By five o'clock he was ready, and he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Worley where St. Marylebone Church might be.

His disappointment was shattering when she showed complete ignorance, Temper boiled inside him at the frustration. She must know. But her placid, blunt face was expressionless.

He was about to argue, to shout at her that she must know, when he realized how foolish it would be. He would only anger her, drive from himself a friend he sorely needed.

She was staring at him, her face puckered.

"My, you are in a state. Let me ask Mr. Worley for yer; he's a rare fine understanding o' the city. O' course I expect it's on the Marylebone Road, but ezac'ly where I'm sure I wouldn't know. It's a long street, that is."

"Thank you," he said carefully, feeling foolish. "It's rather important."

"Going to a wedding, are yer?" She looked at his carefully brushed dark coat. "What you want is a good cabby, what knows 'is way, and'll get you there nice and prompt, like."

It was an obvious answer, and he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. He thanked her, and when Mr. Worley had been asked, and given his opinion that it might be opposite York Gate, he went out to look for a cab.

Evensong had already begun when he hurried up the steps and into the vestry. He could hear the voices lifted rather thinly in the first hymn. It sounded dutiful rather than joyous. Was he a religious man; or, it would be truer to ask, had he been? He felt no sense of comfort or reverence now, except for the simple beauty of the stonework.

He went in as quickly as he could, walking almost on the sides of his polished boots to make no noise. One or two heads turned, sharp with criticism. He ignored them and slid into a back pew, fumbling for a hymnbook.

Nothing sounded familiar; he followed the hymn because the tune was trite, full of musical cliches. He knelt when everyone else knelt, and rose as they rose. He missed the responses.

When the minister stepped into the pulpit to speak, Monk stared at him, searching his face for some nicker of memory. Could he go to this man and confide in him the truth, ask him to tell him everything he knew? The voice droned on in one platitude after another; his intention was benign, but so tied in words as to be almost incomprehensible. Monk sank deeper and deeper into a feeling of helplessness. The man did not seem able to remember his own train of thought from one sentence to the next, let alone the nature and passions of his flock.

When the last amen had been sung, Monk watched the people file out, hoping someone would touch his memory, or better still, actually speak to him.

He was about to give up even that when he saw a young woman in black, slender and of medium height, dark hair drawn softly back from a face almost luminous, dark eyes and fragile skin, mouth too generous and too big for it. It was not a weak face, and yet it was one that could have moved easily to laughter, or tragedy. There was a grace in the way she walked that compelled him to watch her.

As she drew level she became aware of him and turned. Her eyes widened and she hesitated. She drew in her breath as if to speak.

He waited, hope surging up inside him, and a ridiculous excitement, as if some exquisite realization were about to come.

Then the moment vanished; she seemed to regain a mastery of herself, her chin lifted a little, and she picked up her skirt unnecessarily and continued on her way.

He went after her, but she was lost in a group of people, two of whom, also dressed in black, were obviously accompanying her. One was a tall, fair man in his mid-thirties with smooth hair and a long-nosed, serious face; the other was a woman of unusual uprightness of carriage and features of remarkable character. The three of them walked towards the street and waiting vehicles and none of them turned their heads again.

Monk rode home in a rage of confusion, fear, and wild, disturbing hope.