The face of a stranger

by Anne Perry

  "The whole venture has brought nothing but tragedy," Imogen went on very softly, staring at the ground. "Papa-in-law, then poor Mama, and now Joscelin as well."

  For an instant everything seemed suspended, an age between the time she spoke and the moment overwhelming realization of what she had said came to Monk.

  "You knew Joscelin Grey?" It was as if another person spoke for him and he was still distant, watching strangers, removed from him, on the other side of a glass.

  Imogen frowned a little, confused by his apparent unreason; there was a deep color in her face and she lowered

  her eyes the moment after she had spoken, avoiding everyone else's, especially her husband's.

  "For the love of heaven!" Charles's temper snapped. "Are you completely incompetent, man?"

  Monk had no idea what to say. What on earth had Grey to do with it? Had he known him?

  What were they thinking of him? How could he possibly make sense of it now? They could only conclude he was mad, or was playing some disgusting joke. It was the worst possible taste—life was not sacred to them, but death most certainly was. He could feel the embarrassment burning in his face, and was as conscious of Imogen as if she were touching him, and of Hester's eyes filled with unutterable contempt.

  Again it was Imogen who rescued him.

  "Mr. Monk never met Joscelin, Charles," she said quietly. "It is very easy to forget a name when you do not know the person to whom it belongs."

  Hester stared from one to the other of them, her clear, intelligent eyes filled with a growing perception that something was profoundly wrong.

  "Of course," Imogen said more briskly, covering her feelings. "Mr. Monk did not come until after Papa was dead; there was no occasion." She did not look at her husband, but she was obviously speaking to him. "And if you recall, Joscelin did not return after that."

  "You can hardly blame him." Charles's voice contained a sharpening of criticism, an implication that Imogen was somehow being unfair. "He was as distressed as we were. He wrote me a very civil letter, expressing his condolences." He put his hands in his pocket, hard, and hunched his shoulders. "Naturally, he felt it unsuitable to call, in the circumstances. He quite understood our association must end; very delicate of him, I thought." He looked at Imogen with impatience, and ignored Hester altogether.

  "That was like him, so very sensitive." Imogen was looking far away. "I do miss him."

  Charles swiveled to look at her beside him. He seemed

  about to say something, and then changed his mind and bit it off. Instead he took his hand out of his pocket and put it around her arm. "So you didn't meet him?" he said to Monk.

  Monk was still floundering.

  "No." It was the only answer he had left himself room to make. "He was out of town." Surely that at least could have been true?

  "Poor Joscelin." Imogen appeared unaware of her husband, or his fingers tightening on her shoulder. "He must have felt dreadful," she went on. "Of course he was not responsible, he was as deceived as any of us, but he was the sort of person who would take it on himself." Her voice was sad, gentle and utterly without criticism.

  Monk could only guess, he dared not ask: Grey must somehow have been involved in the business venture in which Latterly Senior lost money, and so ill advised his friends. And it would seem Joscelin had lost money himself, which he could hardly afford; hence perhaps the request to the family estate for an increased allowance? The date on the letter from the solicitor was about right, shortly after Latterly's death. Possibly it was that financial disaster that had prompted Joscelin Grey to gamble rashly, or to descend to blackmail. If he had lost enough in the business he might have been desperate, with creditors pressing, social disgrace imminent. Charm was his only stock in trade; his entertainment value was his passport to hospitality in other people's houses the year round, and his only path to the heiress who might ultimately make him independent no longer begging from his mother and the brother he scarcely loved.

  But who? Who among his acquaintances was vulnerable enough to pay for silence; and desperate, murderous enough to kill for it?

  Whose houses had he stayed in? All sorts of indiscretions were committed on long weekends away from the city. Scandal was not a matter of what was done but of

  what was known to have been done. Had Joscelin stumbled on some well-kept secret adultery?

  But adultery was hardly worth killing over, unless there was a child to inherit, or some other domestic crisis, a suit for divorce with all its scandal, and the complete social ostracism that followed. To kill would need a secret far worse, like incest, perversion or impotence. The shame of impotence was mortal, God knew why, but it was the most abhorred of afflictions, something not even whispered of.

  Runcorn was right, even to speak of such a possibility would be enough to have him reported to the highest authorities, his career blocked forever, if he were not dismissed out of hand. He could never be forgiven for exposing a man to the ruin which must follow such an abominable scandal.

  They were all staring at him. Charles was making no secret of his impatience. Hester was exasperated almost beyond endurance; her fingers were fiddling with the plain cambric handkerchief and her foot tapped rapidly and silently on the floor. Her opinion was in every line of her remarkable face.

  "What is it you think you may know, Mr. Monk?" Charles said sharply. "If there is nothing, I would ask that you do not distress us again by raking over what can only be to us a tragedy. Whether my father took his own life or it was an accident while his mind was distracted with distress cannot be proved, and we should be obliged if you allowed those who are charitable enough to allow that it might have been an accident to prevail! My mother died of a broken heart. One of our past friends has been brutally murdered. If we cannot be of assistance to you, I would prefer that you permit us to come to terms with our grief in our own way, and do our best to resume the pattern of our lives again. My wife was quite wrong to have persisted in her hope for some more pleasant alternative, but women are tenderhearted by nature, and she finds it hard to accept a bitter truth."

  “All she wished of me was to ascertain that it was indeed the truth," Monk said quickly, instinctively angry that Imogen should be criticized. "I cannot believe that mistaken." He stared with chill, level eyes at Charles.

  "That is courteous of you, Mr. Monk." Charles glanced at Imogen condescendingly, to imply that Monk had been humoring her. "But I have no doubt she will come to the same conclusion, in time. Thank you for calling; I am sure you have done what you believed to be your duty.''

  Monk accepted the dismissal and was in the hall before he realized what he had done. He had been thinking of Imogen, and of Hester's scalding disdain, and he had allowed himself to be awed by the house, by Charles Lat-terly's self-assurance, his arrogance, and his very natural attempts to conceal a family tragedy and mask it in something less shameful.

  He turned on his heel and faced the closed door again. He wanted to ask them about Grey, and he had the excuse for it, indeed he had no excuse not to. He took a step forward, and then felt foolish. He could hardly go back and knock like a servant asking entry. But he could not walk out of the house, knowing they had had a relationship with Joscelin Grey, that Imogen at least had cared for him, and not ask more. He stretched out his hand, then withdrew it again.

  The door opened and Imogen came out. She stopped in surprise, a foot from him, her back against the panels. The color came up her face.

  "I'm sorry." She took a breath. "I—I did not realize you were still here."

  He did not know what to say either; he was idiotically speechless. Seconds ticked by. Eventually it was she who spoke.

  "Was there something else, Mr. Monk? Have you found something?" Her voice lifted, all eagerness, hope in her eyes; and he felt sure now that she had come to him alone, trusted him with something she had not confided to her husband or Hester.

  "I'm working on the Joscelin Grey case." It was the only thing he could
think of to say. He was floundering in a morass of ignorance. If only he could remember!

  Her eyes dropped. "Indeed. So that is why you came to see us. I'm sorry, I misunderstood. You—you wish to know something about Major Grey?"

  It was far from the truth.

  "I—" He drew a deep breath. "I dislike having to disturb you, so soon after—"

  Her head came up, her eyes angry. He had no idea why. She was so lovely, so gentle; she woke yearnings in him for something his memory could not grasp: some old sweetness, a time of laughter and trust. How could he be stupid enough to feel this torrent of emotion for a woman who had simply come to him for help because of family tragedy, and almost certainly regarded him in the same light as she would the plumber or the fireman?

  “Sorrows do not wait for one another.'' She was talking to him in a stiff little voice. "I know what the newspapers are saying. What do you wish to know about Major Grey? If we knew anything that was likely to be of help, we should have told you ourselves."

  "Yes." He was withered by her anger, confusingly and painfully hurt by it. “Of course you would. I—I was just wondering if there was anything else I should have asked. I don't think there is. Good night, Mrs. Latterly."

  "Good night, Mr. Monk." She lifted her head a little higher and he was not quite sure whether he saw her blink to disguise tears. But that was ridiculous—why should she weep now? Disappointment? Frustration? Disillusion in him, because she had hoped and expected better? If only he could remember!

  "Parkin, will you show Mr. Monk to the door." And without looking at him again, or waiting for the maid, she walked away, leaving him alone.

  9

  Monk was obliged to go back to the Grey case, although both Imogen Latterly, with her haunting eyes, and Hester, with her anger and intelligence, intruded into his thoughts. Concentration was almost beyond him, and he had to drive himself even to think of its details and try to make patterns from the amorphous mass of facts and suppositions they had so far.

  He sat in his office with Evan, reviewing the growing amount of it, but it was all inconclusive of any fact, negative and not positive. No one had broken in, therefore Grey had admitted his murderer himself; and if he had admitted him, then he had been unaware of any reason to fear him. It was not likely he would invite in a stranger at that time in the evening, so it was more probably someone he knew, and who hated him with an intense but secret violence.

  Or did Grey know of the hatred, but feel himself safe from it? Did he believe that person powerless to injure, either for an emotional reason, or a physical? Even that answer was still beyond him.

  The description both Yeats and Grimwade had given of the only visitor unaccounted for did not fit Lovel Grey, but it was so indistinct that it hardly mattered. If Rosamond Grey's child was Joscelin's, and not Lovel's, that could be reason enough for murder; especially if Joscelin himself knew it and perhaps had not been averse to keeping Lovel reminded. It would not be the first time a cruel tongue, the mockery at pain or impotence had ended in an uncontrolled rage.

  Evan broke into his thoughts, almost as if he had read them.

  "Do you suppose Shelburne killed Joscelin himself?" He was frowning, his face anxious, his wide eyes clouded. He had no need to fear for his own career—the establishment, even the Shelburnes, would not blame him for a scandal. Was he afraid for Monk? It was a warm thought.

  Monk looked up at him.

  "Perhaps not. But if he paid someone else, they would have been cleaner and more efficient about it, and less violent. Professionals don't beat a man to death; they usually either stab him or garrote him, and not in his own house."

  Evan's delicate mouth turned down at the corners. "You mean an attack in the street, follow him to a quiet spot— and all over in a moment?"

  "Probably; and leave the body in an alley where it won't be found too soon, preferably out of his own area. That way there would be less to connect them with the victim, and less of a risk of their being recognized."

  "Perhaps he was in a hurry?" Evan suggested. "Couldn't wait for the right time and place?" He leaned back a little in his chair and tilted the legs.

  "What hurry?" Monk shrugged. "No hurry if it was Shelburne, not if it were over Rosamond anyway. Couldn't matter a few days, or even a few weeks."

  "No." Evan looked gloomy. He allowed the front legs of the chair to settle again. "I don't know how we begin to prove anything, or even where to look."

  "Find out where Shelburne was at the time Grey was killed," Monk answered. "I should have done that before."

  "Oh, I asked the servants, in a roundabout way." Evan's face was surprised, and there was a touch of satisfaction in it he could not conceal.

  "And?" Monk asked quickly. He would not spoil Evan's pleasure.

  “He was away from Shelburne; they were told he came to town for dinner. I followed it up. He was at the dinner all right, and spent the night at his club, off Tavistock Place. It would have been difficult for him to have been in Mecklenburg Square at the right time, because he might easily have been missed, but not at all impossible. If he'd gone along Compton Street, right down Hunter Street, 'round Brunswick Square and Lansdowne Place, past the Foundling Hospital, up Caroline Place—and he was there. Ten minutes at the outside, probably less. He'd have been gone at least three quarters of an hour, counting the fight with Grey—and returning. But he could have done it on foot—easily."

  Monk smiled; Evan deserved praise and he was glad to give it.

  "Thank you. I ought to have done that myself. It might even have been less time, if the quarrel was an old one-say ten minutes each way, and five minutes for the fight. That's not long for a man to be out of sight at a club."

  Evan looked down, a faint color in his face. He was smiling.

  "It doesn't get us any further," he pointed out ruefully. "It could have been Shelburne, or it could have been anyone else. I suppose we shall have to investigate every other family he could have blackmailed? That should make us rather less popular than the ratman. Do you think it was Shelburne, sir, and we'll just never prove it?"

  Monk stood up.

  "I don't know but I'm damned if it'll be for lack of trying." He was thinking of Joscelin Grey in the Crimea, seeing the horror of slow death by starvation, cold and disease, the blinding incompetence of commanders sending men to be blown to bits by enemy guns, the sheer

  stultifying of it all; feeling fear and physical pain, exhaustion, certainly pity, shown by his brief ministrations to the dying in Scutari—all while Lovel stayed at home in his great hall, marrying Rosamond, adding money to money, comfort to comfort.

  Monk strode to the door. Injustice ached in him like a gathering boil, angry and festering. He pulled the handle sharply and jerked it open.

  "Sir!" Evan half rose to his feet.

  Monk turned.

  Evan did not know the words, how to phrase the warning urgent inside him. Monk could see it in his face, the wide hazel eyes, the sensitive mouth.

  "Don't look so alarmed," he said quietly, pushing the door to again. "I'm going back to Grey's flat. I remember a photograph of his family there. Shelburne was in it, and Menard Grey. I want to see if Grimwade or Yeats recognize either of them. Do you want to come?"

  Evan's face ironed out almost comically with relief. He smiled in spite of himself.

  "Yes sir. Yes I would." He reached for his coat and scarf. "Can you do that without letting them know who they are? If they know they were his brothers—I mean-Lord Shelburne—"

  Monk looked at him sideways and Evan pulled a small face of apology.

  "Yes of course," he muttered, following Monk outside. "Although the Shelburnes will deny it, of course, and they'll still ride us to hell and back if we press a charge!"

  Monk knew that, and he had no plan even if anyone in the photograph were recognized, but it was a step forward, and he had to take it.

  Grimwade was in his cubbyhole as usual and he greeted them cheerfully.

  "Lovely
mild day, sir." He squinted towards the street. "Looks as if it could clear up."

  "Yes," Monk agreed without thinking. "Very pleasant." He was unaware of being wet. "We're going up to

  Mr. Grey's rooms again, want to pick up one or two things."

  "Well with all of you on the case, I 'spec' you'll get somewhere one of these days." Grimwade nodded, a faint trace of sarcasm in his rather lugubrious face. "You certainly are a busy lot, I'll give yer that."

  Monk was halfway up the stairs with the key before the significance of Grimwade's remark came to him. He stopped sharply and Evan trod on his heel.

  "Sorry," Evan apologized.

  "What did he mean?" Monk turned, frowning. "All of us? There's only you and me—isn't there?"

  Evan's eyes shadowed. "So far as I know! Do you think Runcorn has been here?"

  Monk stood stiffly to the spot. "Why should he? He doesn't want to be the one to solve this, especially if it is Shelburne. He doesn't want to have anything to do with it."

  "Curiosity?" There were other thoughts mirrored in Evan's face, but he did not speak them.

  Monk thought the same thing—perhaps Runcorn wanted some proof it was Shelburne, then he would force Monk to find it, and then to make the charge. For a moment they stared at each other, the knowledge silent and complete between them.

  "I'll go and find out." Evan turned around and went slowly down again.

  It was several minutes before he came back, and Monk stood on the stair waiting, his mind at first searching for a way out, a way to avoid accusing Shelburne himself. Then he was drawn to wonder more about Runcorn. How old was the enmity between them? Was it simply an older man fearing a rival on the ladder of success, a younger, cleverer rival?

  Only younger and cleverer? Or also harder, more ruthless in his ambitions, one who took credit for other people's work, who cared more for acclaim than for justice, who sought the public, colorful cases, the ones well reported; even a man who managed to shelve his failures onto other people, a thief of other men's work?