The face of a stranger

by Anne Perry

  He smiled broadly and bowed his head in a small salute. Lady Callandra was the only person in Shelburne he liked instinctively.

  "Of course, ma'am; thank you for your . . ."He hesitated, not wanting to be so obvious as to say "honesty." "... time. I wish you a good day."

  She looked at him wryly and with a little nod and strode past and into the harness room calling loudly for the head groom.

  Monk walked back along the driveway again—as she had surmised, through a considerable shower—and out past the gates. He followed the road for the three miles to the village. Newly washed by rain, in the brilliant bursts of sun it was so lovely it caught a longing in him as if once it was out of his sight he would never recall it clearly enough. Here and there a coppice showed dark green, billowing over the sweep of grass and mounded against the sky, and beyond the distant stone walls wheat fields shone dark gold with the wind rippling like waves through their heavy heads.

  It took him a little short of an hour and he found the peace of it turning his mind from the temporary matter of who murdered Joscelin Grey to the deeper question as to what manner of man he himself was. Here no one knew him; at least for tonight he would be able to start anew, no previous act could mar it, or help. Perhaps he would

  learn something of the inner man, unfiltered by expectations. What did he believe, what did he truly value? What drove him from day to day—except ambition, and personal vanity?

  He stayed overnight in the village public hostelry, and asked some discreet questions of certain locals in the morning, without significantly adding to his picture of Jos-celin Grey, but he found a very considerable respect for both Grey's brothers, in their different ways. They were not liked—that was too close a relationship with men whose lives and stations were so different—but they were trusted. They fitted into expectations of their kind, small courtesies were observed, a mutual code was kept.

  Of Joscelin it was different. Affection was possible. Everyone had found him more than civil, remembering as many of the generosities as were consistent with his position as a son of the house. If some had thought or felt otherwise they were not saying so to an outsider like Monk. And he had been a soldier; a certain honor was due the dead.

  Monk enjoyed being polite, even gracious. No one was afraid of him—guarded certainly, he was still a Peeler— but there was no personal awe, and they were as keen as he to find who had murdered their hero.

  He took luncheon in the taproom with several local worthies and contrived to fall into conversation. By the door with the sunlight streaming in, with cider, apple pie and cheese, opinions began to flow fast and free. Monk became involved, and before long his tongue got the better of him, clear, sarcastic and funny. It was only afterwards as he was walking away that he realized that it was also at times unkind.

  He left in the early afternoon for the small, silent station, and took a clattering, steam-belching journey back to London.

  He arrived a little after four, and went by hansom straight to the police station.

  "Well?" Runcorn inquired with lifted eyebrows. "Did

  you manage to mollify Her Ladyship? I'm sure you conducted yourself like a gentleman?"

  Monk heard that slight edge to Runcorn's voice again, and the flavor of resentment. What for? He struggled desperately to recall any wisp of memory, even a guess as to what he might have done to occasion it. Surely not mere abrasiveness of manner? He had not been so stupid as to be positively rude to a superior? But nothing came. It mattered—it mattered acutely: Runcorn held the key to his employment, the only sure thing in his life now, in fact the very means of it. Without work he was not only completely anonymous, but within a few weeks he would be a pauper. Then there would be only the same bitter choice for him as for every other pauper: beggary, with its threat of starvation or imprisonment as a vagrant; or the workhouse. And God knew, there were those who thought the workhouse the greater evil.

  "I believe Her Ladyship understood that we are doing all we can," he answered. "And that we had to exhaust the more likely-seeming possibilities first, like a thief off the streets. She understands that now we must consider that it may have been someone who knew him."

  Runcorn grunted. "Asked her about him, did you? What sort of feller he was?"

  "Yes sir. Naturally she was biased—"

  "Naturally," Runcorn agreed tartly, shooting his eyebrows up. "But you ought to be bright enough to see past that."

  Monk ignored the implication. "He seems to have been her favorite son," he replied. "Considerably the most likable. Everyone else gave the same opinion, even in the village. Discount some of that as speaking no ill of the dead." He smiled twistedly. "Or of the son of the big house. Even so, you're still left with a man of unusual charm, a good war record, and no especial vices or weaknesses, except that he found it hard to manage on his allowance, bit of a temper now and then, and a mocking wit when he chose; but generous, remembered birthdays

  and servants' names—knew how to amuse. It begins to look as if jealousy could have been a motive.''

  Runcorn sighed.

  "Messy," he said decidedly, his left eye narrowing again. "Never like having to dig into family relationships, and the higher you go the nastier you get." He pulled his coat a little straighter without thinking, but it still did not sit elegantly. "That's your society for you; cover their tracks better than any of your average criminals, when they really try. Don't often make a mistake, that lot, but oh my grandfather, when they do!" He poked his finger in the air towards Monk. "Take my word for it, if there's something nasty there, it'll get a lot worse before it gets any better. You may fancy the higher classes, my boy, but they play very dirty when they protect their own; you believe it!"

  Monk could think of no answer. He wished he could remember the things he had said and done to prompt Run-corn to these flavors, nuances of disapproval. Was he a brazen social climber? The thought was repugnant, even pathetic in a way, trying to appear something you are not, in order to impress people who don't care for you in the slightest, and can most certainly detect your origins even before you open your mouth!

  But did not most men seek to improve themselves, given opportunity? But had he been overambitious, and foolish enough to show it?

  The thing lying at the back of his mind, troubling him all the time, was why he had not been back to see Beth in eight years. She seemed the only family he had, and yet he had virtually ignored her. Why?

  Runcorn was staring at him.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Yes sir." He snapped to attention. "I agree, sir. I think there may be something very unpleasant indeed. One has to hate very much to beat a man to death as Grey was beaten. I imagine if it is something to do with the family, they will do everything they can to hush it up. In fact the

  eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne, didn't seem very eager for me to probe it. He tried to guide me back to the idea that it was a casual thief, or a lunatic."

  "And Her Ladyship?"

  "She wants us to continue."

  "Then she's fortunate, isn't she?" Runcorn nodded his head with his lips twisted. "Because that is precisely what you are going to do!"

  Monk recognized a dismissal.

  "Yes sir; I'll start with Yeats." He excused himself and went to his own room.

  Evan was sitting at the table, busy writing. He looked up with a quick smile when Monk came in. Monk found himself overwhelmingly glad to see him. He realized he had already begun to think of Evan as a friend as much as a colleague.

  "How was Shelburne?" Evan asked.

  "Very splendid," he replied. "And very formal. What about Mr. Yeats?"

  "Very respectable." Evan's mouth twitched in a brief and suppressed amusement. "And very ordinary. No one is saying anything to his discredit. In fact no one is saying anything much at all; they have trouble in recalling precisely who he is."

  Monk dismissed Yeats from his mind, and spoke of the thing which was more pressing to him.

  "Runcorn
seems to think it will become unpleasant, and he's expecting rather a lot from us—"

  "Naturally." Evan looked at him, his eyes perfectly clear. "That's why he rushed you into it, even though you're hardly back from being ill. It's always sticky when we have to deal with the aristocracy; and let's face it, a policeman is usually treated pretty much as the social equal of a parlor maid and about as desirable to be close to as die drains; necessary in an imperfect society, but not fit to have in the withdrawing room."

  At another time Monk would have laughed, but now it was too painful, and too urgent.

  "Why me?" he pressed.

  Evan was frankly puzzled. He hid what looked like embarrassment with formality.

  "Sir?"

  "Why me?" Monk repeated a little more harshly. He could hear the rising pitch in his own voice, and could not govern it.

  Evan lowered his eyes awkwardly.

  "Do you want an honest answer to that, sir; although you must know it as well as I do?"

  "Yes I do! Please?"

  Evan faced him, his eyes hot and troubled. "Because you are the best detective in the station, and the most ambitious. Because you know how to dress and to speak; you'll be equal to the Shelburnes, if anyone is." He hesitated, biting his lip, then plunged on. "And—and if you come unstuck either by making a mess of it and failing to find the murderer, or rubbing up against Her Ladyship and she complains about you, there are a good few who won't mind if you're demoted. And of course worse still, if it turns out to be one of the family—and you have to arrest him—"

  Monk stared at him, but Evan did not look away. Monk felt the heat of shock ripple through him.

  "Including Runcorn?" he said very quietly.

  "I think so."

  "And you?"

  Evan was transparently surprised. "No, not me," he said simply. He made no protestations, and Monk believed him.

  "Good." He drew a deep breath. "Well, we'll go and see Mr. Yeats tomorrow."

  "Yes sir." Evan was smiling, the shadow gone. "I'll be here at eight."

  Monk winced inwardly at the time, but he had to agree. He said good-night and turned to go home.

  But out in the street he started walking the other way, not consciously thinking until he realized he was moving

  in the general direction of St. Marylebone Church. It was over two miles away, and he was tired. He had already walked a long way in Shelburne, and his legs were aching, his feet sore. He hailed a cab and when the driver asked him, he gave the address of the church.

  It was very quiet inside with only die dimmest of light through the fast-graying windows. Candelabra shed little yellow arcs.

  Why the church? He had all the peace and silence he needed in his own rooms, and he certainly had no conscious thought of God. He sat down in one of the pews.

  Why had he come here? No matter how much he had dedicated himself to his job, his ambition, he must know someone, have a friend, or even an enemy. His life must have impinged on someone else's—beside Runcorn.

  He had been sitting in the dark without count of time, struggling to remember anything at all—a face, a name, even a feeling, something of childhood, like the momentary glimpse at Shelburne—when he saw the girl in black again, standing a few feet away.

  He was startled. She seemed so vivid, familiar. Or was it only that she seemed to him to be lovely, evocative of something he wanted to feel, wanted to remember?

  But she was not beautiful, not really. Her mouth was too big, her eyes too deep. She was looking at him.

  Suddenly he was frightened. Ought he to know her? Was he being unbearably rude in not speaking? But he could know any number of people, of any walk of life! She could be a bishop's daughter, or a prostitute!

  No, never with that face.

  Don't be ridiculous, harlots could have faces with just that warmth, those luminous eyes; at least they could while they were still young, and nature had not yet written itself on the outside.

  Without realizing it, he was still looking at her.

  "Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said slowly, a faint embarrassment making her blink.

  He rose to his feet. "Good evening, ma'am." He had

  no idea of her name, and now he was terrified, wishing he had never come. What should he say? How well did she know him? He could feel the sweat prickly on his body, his tongue dry, his thoughts in a stultified, wordless mass.

  "You have not spoken for such a long time," she went on. "I had begun to fear you had discovered something you did not dare to tell me."

  Discovered! Was she connected with some case? It must be old; he had been working on Joscelin Grey since he came back, and before that the accident. He fished for something that would not commit him and yet still make sense.

  "No, I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything else." His voice was dry, artificial to his own ears. Please God he did not sound so foolish to her!

  "Oh." She looked down. It seemed for a moment as if she could not think of anything else to say, then she lifted her head again and met his eyes very squarely. He could only think how dark they were—not brown, but a multitude of shadows. "You may tell me the truth, Mr. Monk, whatever it is. Even if he killed himself, and for whatever reason, I would rather know.''

  "It is the truth," he said simply. "I had an accident about seven weeks ago. I was in a cab that overturned and I broke my arm and ribs and cracked my head. I can't even remember it. I was in hospital for nearly a month, and then went north to my sister's to regain my strength. I'm afraid I haven't done anything about it since then."

  "Oh dear." Her face was tight with concern. "I am sorry. Are you all right now? Are you sure you are better?"

  She sounded as if it mattered to her. He found himself wanned ridiculously by it. He forced from his mind the idea that she was merely compassionate, or well-mannered.

  "Yes, yes thank you; although there are blanks in my memory." Why had he told her that? To explain his behavior—in case it hurt her? He was taking too much upon himself. Why should she care, more than courtesy required? He remembered Sunday now; she had worn black then too, but expensive black, silk and fashionable. The man accompanying her had been dressed as Monk could not afford to be. Her husband? The thought was acutely depressing, even painful. He did not even think of the other woman.

  "Oh." Again she was lost for words.

  He was fumbling, trying to find a clue, sharply conscious of her presence; even faintly, although she was several feet away, of her perfume. Or was it imagination?

  "What was the last thing I told you?" he asked. "I mean—" He did not know what he meant.

  But she answered with only the merest hesitation.

  "Not a great deal. You said Papa had certainly discovered that the business was fraudulent but you did not know yet whether he had faced the other partners with it or not. You had seen someone, although you did not name him, but a certain Mr. Robinson disappeared every time you went after him." Her face tightened. "You did not know whether Papa could have been murdered by them, to keep his silence, or if he took his own life, for shame. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to discover. It just seemed so dreadful that he should choose that way rather than fight them, show them for what they are. It's no crime to be deceived!" There was a spark of anger in her now, as though she were fighting to keep control of herself. "I wanted to believe he would have stayed alive, and fought them, faced his friends, even those who lost money, rather than—" She stopped, otherwise she would have wept. She stood quite still, swallowing hard.

  "I'm sorry," he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her, but he was hurtfully aware of the difference between them. It would be a familiarity and would break the moment's trust, the illusion of closeness.

  She waited a moment longer, as if for something which did not come; then she abandoned it.

  "Thank you. I am sure you have done everything you could. Perhaps I saw what I wished to see."

  There was a movement up the aisle, towards the door of the church, and the vic
ar came down, looking vague, and behind him the same woman with the highly individual face whom Monk had seen on the first occasion in the church. She also was dressed in dark, plain clothes, and her thick hair with a very slight wave was pulled back in a manner that owed more to expediency than fashion.

  "Mrs. Latterly, is that you?" the vicar asked uncertainly, peering forward. "Why my dear, what are you doing here all by yourself? You mustn't brood, you know. Oh!" He saw Monk. "I beg your pardon. I did not realize you had company."

  "This is Mr. Monk," she said, explaining him. "From the police. He was kind enough to help us when Papa . . . died."

  The vicar looked at Monk with disapproval.

  "Indeed. I do think, my dear child, that it would be wiser for all of us if you were to let the matter rest. Observe mourning, of course, but let your poor father-in-law rest in peace." He crossed the air absently. "Yes—in peace."

  Monk stood up. Mrs. Latterly; so she was married—or a widow? He was being absurd.

  "If I learn anything more, Mrs. Latterly"—his voice was tight, almost choking—"do you wish me to inform you?" He did not want to lose her, to have her disappear into the past with everything else. He might not discover anything, but he must know where she was, have a reason to see her.

  She looked at him for a long moment, undecided, fighting with herself. Then she spoke carefully.

  "Yes please, if you will be so kind, but please remember your promise! Good night." She swiveled around, her skirts brushing Monk's feet. "Good night, Vicar. Come, Hester, it is time we returned home; Charles will be expecting us for dinner." And she walked slowly up towards

  the door. Monk watched her go arm in arm with the other woman as if she had taken the light away with her.