by Anne Perry
"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 w
ait 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?
