by Anne Perry
"I'm sorry."
Her face was very stiff, and for a moment he was afraid she would not be able to control herself. He spoke to cover the silence and her embarrassment.
"You said 'also.' Did Menard Grey know your son?"
"Oh yes," she said quietly. "They were close friends— for years." Her eyes filled with tears. "Since school."
"So you invited Joscelin Grey to Stay with you?" He did not wait for her to reply; she was beyond speech. "That's very natural." Then quite a new idea occurred to him with sudden, violent hope. Perhaps the murder was nothing to do with any current scandal, but a legacy from the war, something that had happened on the battlefield? It was possible. He should have thought of it before—they all should.
"Yes," she said very quietly, mastering herself again. "If he knew Edward in the war, we wanted to talk with him, listen to him. You see—here at home, we know so little of what really happened." She took a deep breath. "I am not sure if it helps, indeed in some ways it is harder, but we feel . . . less cut off. I know Edward is dead and it cannot matter to him anymore; it isn't reasonable, but I feel closer to him, however it hurts."
She looked at him with a curious need to be understood.
Perhaps she had explained precisely this to other people, and they had tried to dissuade her, not realizing that for her, being excluded from her son's suffering was not a kindness but an added loss.
"Of course," he agreed quietly. His own situation was utterly different, yet any knowledge would surely be better than this uncertainty. "The imagination conjures so many things, and one feels the pain of them all, until one knows."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "You understand? So many friends have tried to persuade me into acceptance, but it gnaws away at the back of my mind, a sort of dreadful doubt. I read the newspapers sometimes"—she blushed—"when my husband is out of the house. But I don't know what to believe of them. Their accounts are—" She sighed, crumpling her handkerchief in her lap, her fingers clinging around it. "Well, they are sometimes a little softened so as not to distress us, or make us feel critical of those in command. And they are sometimes at variance with each other."
"I don't doubt it." He felt an unreasonable anger for the confusion of this woman, and all the silent multitude like her, grieving for their dead and being told that the truth was too harsh for them. Perhaps it was, perhaps many could not have borne it, but they had not been consulted, simply told; as their sons had been told to fight. For what? He had no idea. He had looked at many newspapers in the last few weeks, trying to learn, and he still had only the dimmest notion—something to do with the Turkish Empire and the balance of power.
"Joscelin used to speak to us so—so carefully," she went on softly, watching his face. "He told us a great deal about how he felt, and Edward must have felt the same. I had had no idea it was so very dreadful. One just doesn't know, sitting here in England—" She stared at him anxiously. "It wasn't very glorious, you know—not really. So many men dead, not because the enemy killed them, but from the cold and the disease. He told us about the hospital at Scutari. He was there, you know; with a wound in his leg. He suffered quite appallingly. He told us about seeing men freezing to death in the winter. I had not known the Crimea was cold like that. I suppose it was because it was east from here, and I always think of the East as being hot. He said it was hot in the summer, and dry. Then with winter there was endless rain and snow, and winds that all but cut the flesh. And the disease.'' Her face pinched. "I thanked God that if Edward had to die, at least it was quickly, of a bullet, or a sword, not cholera. Yes, Joscelin was a great comfort to me, even though I wept as I hadn't done before; not only for Edward, but for all the others, and for the women like me, who lost sons and husbands. Do you understand, Mr. Monk?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes I do. I'm very sorry I have to distress you now by speaking of Major Grey's death. But we must find whoever killed him."
She shuddered.
"How could anyone be so vile? What evil gets into a man that he could beat another to death like that? A fight I deplore, but I can understand it; but to go on, to mutilate a man after he is dead! The newspapers say it was dreadful. Of course my husband does not know I read them—having known the poor man, I felt I had to. Do you understand it, Mr. Monk?"
"No, I don't. In all the crimes I have investigated, I have not seen one like this." He did not know if it was true, but he felt it. "He must have been hated with a passion hard to conceive."
"I cannot imagine it, such a violence of feeling." She closed her eyes and shook her head fractionally. "Such a wish to destroy, to—to disfigure. Poor Joscelin, to have been the victim of such a—a creature. It would frighten me even to think someone could feel such an intensity of hatred for me, even if I were quite sure they could not touch me, and I were innocent of its cause. I wonder if poor Joscelin knew?''
It was a thought that had not occurred to Monk before—
had Joscelin Grey had any idea that his killer hated him? Had he known, but merely thought him impotent to act?
"He cannot have feared him," he said aloud. "Or he would hardly have allowed him into his rooms while he was alone."
"Poor man." She hunched her shoulders involuntarily, as if chilled. "It is very frightening to think that someone with that madness in their hearts could walk around, looking like you or me. I wonder if anyone dislikes me intensely and I have no idea of it. I had never entertained such a thought before, but now I cannot help it. I shall be unable to look at people as I used to. Are people often killed by those they know quite well?''
"Yes ma'am, I am afraid so; most often of all by relatives."
"How appalling." Her voice was very soft, her eyes staring at some spot beyond him. "And how very tragic."
"Yes it is." He did not want to seem crass, nor indifferent to her horror, but he had to pursue the business of it. "Did Major Grey ever say anything about threats, or anyone who might be afraid of him—"
She lifted her eyes to look at him; her brow was puckered and another strand of hair escaped the inadequate pins. "Afraid of him? But it was he who was killed!"
"People are like other animals," he replied. "They most often kill when they are afraid themselves."
"I suppose so. I had not thought of that." She shook her head a little, still puzzled. "But Joscelin was the most harmless of people! I never heard him speak as if he bore real ill will towards anyone. Of course he had a sharp wit, but one does not kill over a joke, even if it is a trifle barbed, and possibly even not in the kindest of taste."
"Even so," he pressed, "against whom were these remarks directed?"
She hesitated, not only in an effort to remember, but it seemed the memory was disturbing her.
He waited.
"Mostly against his own family," she said slowly. "At
least that was how it sounded to me—and I think to others. His comments on Menard were not always kind, although my husband knows more of that than I—I always liked Menard—but then that was no doubt because he and Edward were so close. Edward loved him dearly. They shared so much—" She blinked and screwed up her mild face even more. "But then Joscelin often spoke harshly of himself also—it is hard to understand."
"Of himself?" Monk was surprised. "I've been to his family, naturally, and I can understand a certain resentment. But in what way of himself?"
"Oh, because he had no property, being a third son; and after his being wounded he limped, you know. So of course there was no career for him in the army. He appeared to feel he was of little—little standing—that no one accounted him much. Which was quite untrue, of course. He was a hero—and much liked by all manner of people!"
"I see." Monk was thinking of Rosamond Shelburne, obliged by her mother to marry the son with the title and the prospects. Had Joscelin loved her, or was it more an insult than a wound, a reminder that he was third best? Had he cared, it could only have hurt him that she had not the courage to follow her heart and marry as she wished.
Or was the status more important to her, and she had used Joscelin to reach Lovel? That would perhaps have hurt differently, with a bitterness that would remain.
Perhaps they would never know the answer to that.
He changed the subject. "Did he at any time mention what his business interests were? He must have had some income beyond the allowance from his family."
"Oh yes," she agreed. "He did discuss it with my husband, and he mentioned it to me, although not in any great detail."
"And what was it, Mrs. Dawlish?"
"I believe it was some investment, quite a sizable one, in a company to trade with Egypt." The memory of it was bright in her face for a moment, the enthusiasm and expectation of that time coming back.
"Was Mr. Dawlish involved in this investment?"
"He was considering it; he spoke highly of its possibilities."
"I see. May I call again later when Mr. Dawlish is at home, and learn more details of this company from him?"
"Oh dear." The lightness vanished. "I am afraid I have expressed myself badly. The company is not yet formed. I gathered it was merely a prospect that Joscelin intended to pursue."
Monk considered for a moment. If Grey were only forming a company, and perhaps persuading Dawlish to invest, then what had been his source of income up to that time?
"Thank you." He stood up slowly. "I understand. All the same, I should like to speak to Mr. Dawlish. He may well know something about Mr. Grey's finances. If he were contemplating entering business with him, it would be natural he should inquire."
"Yes, yes of course." She poked ineffectually at her hair. "Perhaps about six o'clock."
* * * * *
Evan's questioning of the half-dozen or so domestic servants yielded nothing except the picture of a very ordinary household, well run by a quiet, sad woman stricken with a grief she bore as bravely as she could, but of which they were all only too aware and each in their own way shared. The butler had a nephew who served as a foot soldier and had returned a cripple. Evan was suddenly sobered by the remembrance of so many other losses, so many people who had to struggle on without the notoriety, or the sympathy, of Joscelin Grey's family.
The sixteen-year-old between-stairs maid had lost an elder brother at Inkermann. They all recalled Major Grey, how charming he was, and that Miss Amanda was very taken with him. They had hoped he would return, and were horrified that he could be so terribly murdered right here in his home. They had an obvious duality of thought that confounded Evan—it shocked them that a gentleman should be so killed, and yet they viewed their own losses as things merely to be borne with quiet dignity.
He came away with an admiration for their stoicism, and an anger that they should accept the difference so easily. Then as he came through the green baize door back into the main hallway, the thought occurred to him that perhaps that was the only way of bearing it—anything else would be too destructive, and in the end only futile.
And he had learned little of Joscelin Grey that he had not already deduced from the other calls.
* * * * *
Dawlish was a stout, expensively dressed man with a high forehead and dark, clever eyes, but at present he was displeased at the prospect of speaking with the police, and appeared distinctly ill at ease. There was no reason to assume it was an unquiet conscience; to have the police at one's house, for any reason, was socially highly undesirable, and judging from the newness of the furniture and the rather formal photographs of the family—Mrs. Dawlish seated in imitation of the Queen—Mr. Dawlish was an ambitious man.
It transpired that he knew remarkably little about the business he had half committed himself to support. His involvement was with Joscelin Grey personally, and it was this which had caused him to promise funds, and the use of his good name. "Charming fellow," he said, half facing Monk as he stood by the parlor fire. "Hard when you're brought up in a family, part of it and all that, then the eldest brother marries and suddenly you're nobody." He shook his head grimly. "Dashed hard to make your way if you're not suited to the church, and invalided out of the army. Only thing really is to marry decently." He looked at Monk to see if he understood. "Don't know why young Joscelin didn't, certainly a handsome enough chap, and pleasing with women. Had all the charm, right words to say, and so on. Amanda thought the world of him." He coughed. "My daughter, you know. Poor girl was very distressed over his death. Dreadful thing! Quite appalling." He stared down at the embers and a sharp sadness filled his eyes and softened the lines around his mouth. "Such a decent man. Expect it in the Crimea, die for your country, and so on; but not this. Lost her first suitor at Sebastopol, poor girl; and of course her brother at Balaclava. That's where he met young Grey." He swallowed hard and looked up at Monk, as if to defy his emotions. "Damned good to him." He took a deep breath and fought to control a conflict of emotions that were obviously acutely painful. "Actually spoke to each other night before the battle. Like to think of that, someone we've met, with Edward the night before he was killed. Been a great source of—" He coughed again and was forced to look away, his eyes brimming. "Comfort to us, my wife and I. Taken it hard, poor woman; only son, you know. Five daughters. And now this."
"I understand Menard Grey was also a close friend of your son's," Monk said, as much to fill the silence as that it might have mattered.
Dawlish stared at the coals. "Prefer not to speak of it," he replied with difficulty, his voice husky. "Thought a lot of him—but he led Edward into bad ways—no doubt about it. It was Joscelin who paid his debts—so he did not die with dishonor."
He swallowed convulsively. "We became fond of Joscelin, even on the few weekends he stayed with us." He lifted the poker out of its rest and jabbed at the fire fiercely. "I hope to heaven you catch the madman who did it."
"We'll do everything we can, sir." Monk wanted to say all sorts of other things to express the pity he felt for so much loss. Thousands of men and horses had died, frozen, starved, or been massacred or wasted by disease on the bitter hillsides of a country they neither knew nor loved. If he had ever known the purpose of the war in the Crimea he had forgotten it now. It could hardly have been a war of defense. Crimea was a thousand miles from England. Presumably from the newspapers it was something to do with the political ramifications of Turkey and its disintegrating empire. It hardly seemed a reason for the wretched, pitiful deaths of so many, and the grief they left behind.
Dawlish was staring at him, waiting for him to say something, expecting a platitude.
"I am sorry your son had to die in such a way." Monk held out his hand automatically. "And so young. But at least Joscelin Grey was able to assure you it was with courage and dignity, and that his suffering was brief."
Dawlish took his hand before he had time to think.
"Thank you." There was a faint flush on his skin and he was obviously moved. He did not even realize until after Monk had gone that he had shaken hands with a policeman as frankly as if he had been a gentleman.
* * * * *
That evening Monk found himself for the first time caring about Grey personally. He sat in his own quiet room with nothing but the faint noises from the street in the distance below. In the small kindnesses to the Dawlishes, in paying a dead man's debts, Grey had developed a solidity for more than in the grief of his mother or the pleasant but rather insubstantial memories of his neighbors. He had become a man with a past of something more than a resentment that his talent was wasted while the lesser gifts of his elder brother were overrewarded, more than the rejected suitor of a weak young woman who preferred the ease of doing as she was told and the comfort of status to the relative struggle of following her own desires. Or perhaps she had not really wanted anything enough to fight for it?
Shelburne was comfortable, physically everything was provided; one did not have to work, morally there were no decisions—if something was unpleasant one did not have to look at it. If there were beggars in the street, mutilated or diseased, one could pass to the other side. There was
the government to make the social decisions, and the church to make the moral ones.
Of course society demanded a certain, very rigid code of conduct, of taste, and a very small circle of friends and
suitable ways to pass one's time, but for those who had been brought up from childhood to observe it, it was little extra effort.
Small wonder if Joscelin Grey was angry with it, even contemptuous after he had seen the frozen bodies on the heights before Sebastopol, the carnage at Balaclava, the filth, the disease and the agony of Scutari.
In the street below a carriage clattered by and someone shouted and there was a roar of laughter.
Suddenly Monk found himself feeling this same strange, almost impersonal disgust Grey must have suffered coming back to England afterwards, to a family who were strangers insofar as their petty, artificial little world was concerned; who knew only the patriotic placebos they read in the newspapers, and had no wish to look behind them for uglier truths.
He had felt the same himself after visiting the "rookeries," the hell-like, rotting tenements crawling with vermin and disease, sometimes only a few dozen yards from the lighted streets where gentlemen rode in carriages from one sumptuous house to another. He had seen fifteen or twenty people in one room, all ages and sexes together, without heating or sanitation. He had seen child prostitutes of eight or ten years old with eyes tired and old as sin, and bodies riddled with venereal disease; children of five or even less frozen to death in the gutters because they could not beg a night's shelter. Small wonder they stole, or sold for a few pence the only things they possessed, their own bodies.
How did he remember that, when his own father's face was still a blank to him? He must have cared very much, been so shocked by it that it left a scar he could not forget, even now. Was that, at least in part, the fire behind his ambition, the fire behind his relentless drive to improve himself, to copy the mentor whose features he could not recall, whose name, whose station, eluded him? Please God that was so. It made a more tolerable man of him, even one he could begin to accept.
