The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  “I find that hard to believe, sir, since you wrote to him at that address. We found your letter among his effects.”

  “God damn it—I—” Charles stopped, frozen.

  Monk waited. The silence was so intense he imagined he could hear horses’ hooves in the next street. He did not look at either of the women.

  “I mean—” Charles began, and again stopped.

  Monk found himself unable to avoid it any longer. He was embarrassed for them, and desperately sorry. He looked at Imogen, wanting her to know that, even if it meant nothing to her at all.

  She was standing very still. Her eyes were so dark he could see nothing in them, but there did not seem to be the hate he feared. For a wild moment he felt that if only he could have talked to her alone he could have explained, made her understand the necessity for all this, the compulsion.

  “My friends will swear I was there all evening.” Charles’s words cut across them. “I’ll give you their names. This is ridiculous; I liked Joscelin, and our misfortunes were as much his. There was no reason whatever to wish him harm, and you will find none!”

  “If I could have their names, Mr. Latterly?”

  Charles’s head came up sharply.

  “You’re not going to go ’round asking them to account for me at the time of a murder, for God’s sake! I’ll only give you their names—”

  “I shall be discreet, sir.”

  Charles snorted with derision at the idea of so delicate a virtue as discretion in a policeman.

  Monk looked at him patiently.

  “It will be easier if you give me their names, sir, than if I have to discover them for myself.”

  “Damn you!” Charles’s face was suffused with blood. “Their names, please sir?”

  Charles strode over to one of the small tables and took out a sheet of paper and a pencil. He wrote for several moments before folding it and handing it to Monk.

  Monk took it without looking and put it in his pocket.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, I’m afraid I would still like to ask you anything further you might know about Major Grey’s other friends, anyone with whom he stayed, and could have known well enough to be aware, even accidentally, of some secret damaging to them.”

  “Such as what, for God’s sake?” Charles looked at him with extreme distaste.

  Monk did not wish to be drawn into speaking of the sort of things his imagination feared, especially in Imogen’s hearing. In spite of the irrevocable position he was now in, every vestige of good opinion she might keep of him mattered, like fragments of a broken treasure.

  “I don’t know, sir; and without strong evidence it would be unseemly to suggest anything.”

  “Unseemly,” Charles said sarcastically, his voice grating with the intensity of his emotion. “You mean that matters to you? I’m surprised you know what the word means.”

  Imogen turned away in embarrassment, and Hester’s face froze. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then realized she would be wiser to keep silent.

  Charles colored faintly in the silence that followed, but he was incapable of apology.

  “He spoke of some people named Dawlish,” he said irritably. “And I believe he stayed with Gerry Fortescue once or twice.”

  Monk took down such details as they could remember of the Dawlishes, the Fortescues and others, but it sounded useless, and he was aware of Charles’s heavy disbelief, as if he were humoring an uncaged animal it might be dangerous to annoy. He stayed only to justify himself, because he had said to them that it was his reason for having come.

  When he left he imagined he could hear the sigh of relief behind him, and his mind conjured up their quick looks at each other, then the understanding in their eyes, needing no words, that an intruder had gone at last, an extreme unpleasantness was over. All the way along the street his thoughts were in the bright room behind him and on Imogen. He considered what she was doing, what she thought of him, if she saw him as a man at all, or only the inhabiter of an office that had become suddenly more than usually offensive to her.

  And yet she had looked so directly at him. That seemed a timeless moment, recurring again and again—or was it simply that he dwelt in it? What had she asked of him originally? What had they said to one another?

  What a powerful and ridiculous thing the imagination was—had he not known it so foolish, he could have believed there must have been deep memories between them.

  When Monk had gone, Hester, Imogen and Charles were left standing in the withdrawing room, the sun streaming in from the French windows into the small garden, bright through the leaves in the silence.

  Charles drew in his breath as if to speak, looked first at his wife, then at Hester, and let out a sigh. He said nothing. His face was tight and unhappy as he walked to the door, excused himself perfunctorily, and went out.

  A torrent of thoughts crowded Hester’s mind. She disliked Monk, and he angered her, yet the longer she watched him the less did she think he was as incompetent as he had first seemed. His questions were erratic, and he appeared to be no nearer finding Joscelin Grey’s killer than he had been when he began; and yet she was keenly aware both of an intelligence and a tenacity in him. He cared about it, more than simply for vanity or ambition. For justice sake he wanted to know and to do something about it.

  She would have smiled, did it not wound so deep, but she had also seen in him a startling softness towards Imogen, an admiration and a desire to protect—something which he certainly did not feel for Hester. She had seen that look on several men’s faces; Imogen had woken precisely the same emotions in Charles when they first met, and in many men since. Hester never knew if Imogen herself was aware of it or not.

  Had she stirred Joscelin Grey as well? Had he fallen in love with her, the gentleness, those luminous eyes, the quality of innocence which touched everything she did?

  Charles was still in love with her. He was quiet, admittedly a trifle pompous, and he had been anxious and shorter tempered than customarily since his father’s death; but he was honorable, at times generous, and sometimes fun—at least he had been. Lately he had become more sober, as though a heavy weight could never be totally forgotten.

  Was it conceivable that Imogen had found the witty, charming, gallant Joscelin Grey more interesting, even if only briefly? If that had been so, then Charles, for all his seeming self-possession, would have cared deeply, and the hurt might have been something he could not control.

  Imogen was keeping a secret. Hester knew her well enough, and liked her, to be aware of the small tensions, the silences where before she would have confided, the placing of a certain guard on her tongue when they were together. It was not Charles she was afraid might notice and suspect; he was not perceptive enough, he did not expect to understand any woman—it was Hester. She was still as affectionate, as generous with small trinkets, the loan of a kerchief or a silk shawl, a word of praise, gratitude for a courtesy—but she was careful, she hesitated before she spoke, she told the exact truth and the impetuosity was gone.

  What was the secret? Something in her attitude, an extra awareness, made Hester believe it had to do with Joscelin Grey, because Imogen both pursued and was afraid of the policeman Monk.

  “You did not mention before that Joscelin Grey had known George,” she said aloud.

  Imogen looked out of the window. “Did I not? Well, it was probably a desire not to hurt you, dear. I did not wish to remind you of George, as well as Mama and Papa.”

  Hester could not argue with that. She did not believe it, but it was exactly the sort of thing Imogen would have done.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “It was most thoughtful of you, especially since you were so fond of Major Grey.”

  Imogen smiled, her far-off gaze seeing beyond the dappled light through the window, but to what Hester thought it unfair to guess.

  “He was fun,” Imogen said slowly. “He was so different from anyone else
I know. It was a very dreadful way to die—but I suppose it was quick, and much less painful than many you have seen.”

  Again Hester did not know what to say.

  When Monk returned to the police station Runcorn was waiting for him, sitting at his desk looking at a sheaf of papers. He put them down and pulled a face as Monk came in.

  “So your thief was a moneylender,” he said dryly. “And the newspapers are not interested in moneylenders, I assure you.”

  “Then they should be!” Monk snapped back. “They’re a filthy infestation, one of the more revolting symptoms of poverty—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, either run for Parliament or be a policeman,” Runcorn said with exasperation. “But if you value your job, stop trying to do both at once. And policemen are employed to solve cases, not make moral commentary.”

  Monk glared at him.

  “If we got rid of some of the poverty, and its parasites, we might prevent the crime before it came to the stage of needing a solution,” he said with heat that surprised himself. A memory of passion was coming back, even if he could not know anything of its cause.

  “Joscelin Grey,” Runcorn said flatly. He was not going to be diverted.

  “I’m working,” Monk replied.

  “Then your success has been embarrassingly limited!”

  “Can you prove it was Shelburne?” Monk demanded. He knew what Runcorn was trying to do, and he would fight him to the very last step. If Runcorn forced him to arrest Shelburne before he was ready, he would see to it that it was publicly Runcorn’s doing.

  But Runcorn was not to be drawn.

  “It’s your job,” he said acidly. “I’m not on the case.”

  “Perhaps you should be.” Monk raised his eyebrows as if he were really considering it. “Perhaps you should take over?”

  Runcorn’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you cannot manage?” he asked very softly, a lift at the end of his words. “That it is too big for you?”

  Monk called his bluff.

  “If it is Shelburne, then perhaps it is. Maybe you should make the arrest; a senior officer, and all that.”

  Runcorn’s face fell blank, and Monk tasted a certain sweetness; but it was only for a moment.

  “It seems you’ve lost your nerve, as well as your memory,” Runcorn answered with a faint sneer. “Are you giving up?”

  Monk took a deep breath.

  “I haven’t lost anything,” he said deliberately. “And I certainly haven’t lost my head. I don’t intend to go charging in to arrest a man against whom I have a damn good suspicion, but nothing else. If you want to, then take this case from me, officially, and do it yourself. And God help you when Lady Fabia hears about it. You’ll be beyond anyone else’s help, I promise you.”

  “Coward! By God you’ve changed, Monk.”

  “If I would have arrested a man without proof before, then I needed to change. Are you taking the case from me?”

  “I’ll give you another week. I don’t think I can persuade the public to give you any more than that.”

  “Give us,” Monk corrected him. “As far as they know, we are all working for the same end. Now have you anything helpful to say, like an idea how to prove it was Shelburne, without a witness? Or would you have gone ahead and done it yourself, if you had?”

  The implication was not lost on Runcorn. Surprisingly, his face flushed hotly in anger, perhaps even guilt.

  “It’s your case,” he said angrily. “I shan’t take it from you till you come and admit you’ve failed or I’m asked to remove you.”

  “Good. Then I’ll get on with it.”

  “Do that. Do that, Monk; if you can!”

  Outside the sky was leaden and it was raining hard. Monk thought grimly as he walked home that the newspapers were right in their criticism; he knew little more now than he had when Evan had first showed him the material evidence. Shelburne was the only one for whom he knew a motive, and yet that wretched walking stick clung in his mind. It was not the murder weapon, but he knew he had seen it before. It could not be Joscelin Grey’s, because Imogen had said quite distinctly that Grey had not been back to the Latterlys’ house since her father-in-law’s death, and of course Monk had never been to the house before then.

  Then whose was it?

  Not Shelburne’s.

  Without realizing it his feet had taken him not towards his own rooms but to Mecklenburg Square.

  Grimwade was in the hallway.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Monk. Bad night, sir. I dunno wot summer’s comin’ ter—an’ that’s the truth. ’Ailstones an’ all! Lay like snow, it did, in July. An’ now this. Cruel to be out in, sir.” He regarded Monk’s soaking clothes with sympathy. “Can I ’elp yer wif summink, sir?”

  “The man who came to see Mr. Yeats—”

  “The murderer?” Grimwade shivered but there was a certain melodramatic savoring in his thin face.

  “It would seem so,” Monk conceded. “Describe him again, will you?”

  Grimwade screwed up his eyes and ran his tongue around his lips.

  “Well that’s ’ard, sir. It’s a fair while ago now, an’ the more I tries to remember ’im, the fainter ’e gets. ’E were tallish, I know vat, but not outsize, as you might say. ’Ard ter say w’en somebody’s away from yer a bit. W’en ’e came in ’e seemed a good couple o’ hinches less than you are, although ’e seemed bigger w’en ’e left. Can be deceivin’, sir.”

  “Well that’s something. What sort of coloring had he: fresh, sallow, pale, swarthy?”

  “Kind o’ fresh, sir. But then that could ‘a’ bin the cold. Proper wicked night it were, somethin’ cruel for July. Shockin’ unseasonal. Rainin’ ’ard, an’ east wind like a knife.”

  “And you cannot remember whether he had a beard or not?”

  “I think as ’e ’adn’t, leastways if ’e ’ad, it were one o’ vem very small ones wot can be ’idden by a muffler.”

  “And dark hair? Or could it have been brown, or even fair?”

  “No sir, it couldn’t ‘a’ bin fair, not yeller, like; but it could ‘a’ bin brahn. But I do remember as ’e ’ad very gray eyes. I noticed that as ’e were goin’ out, very piercin’ eyes ’e ’ad, like one o’ vem fellers wot puts people inter a trance.”

  “Piercing eyes? You’re sure?” Monk said dubiously, skeptical of Grimwade’s sense of melodrama in hindsight.

  “Yes sir, more I fink of it, more I’m sure. Don’t remember ’is face, but I do remember ’is eyes w’en ’e looked at me. Not w’en ’e was comin’ in, but w’en ’e was a-goin’ out. Funny thing, that. Yer’d fink I’d a noticed vem w’en ’e spoke ter me, but sure as I’m standin’ ’ere, I didn’t.” He looked at Monk ingenuously.

  “Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. Now I’ll see Mr. Yeats, if he’s in. If he isn’t then I’ll wait for him.”

  “Oh ’e’s in, sir. Bin in a little while. Shall I take you up, or do you remember the way?”

  “I remember the way, thank you.” Monk smiled grimly and started up the stairs. The place was becoming wretchedly familiar to him. He passed Grey’s entrance quickly, still conscious of the horror inside, and knocked sharply at Yeats’s door, and a moment later it opened and Yeats’s worried little face looked up at him.

  “Oh!” he said in some alarm. “I—I was going to speak to you. I—I, er—I suppose I should have done it before.” He wrung his hands nervously, twisting them in front of him, red knuckled. “But I heard all about the—er—the burglar—from Mr. Grimwade, you know—and I rather thought you’d, er—found the murderer—so—”

  “May I come in, Mr. Yeats?” Monk interrupted. It was natural Grimwade should have mentioned the burglar, if only to warn the other tenants, and because one could hardly expect a garrulous and lonely old man to keep to himself such a thrilling and scandalous event, but Monk was irritated by the reminder of its uselessness.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Yeats stammered as Monk moved past him. “I—I do realize I should have said so
mething to you before.”

  “About what, Mr. Yeats?” Monk exercised his patience with an effort. The poor little man was obviously much upset.

  “Why, about my visitor, of course. I was quite sure you knew, when you came to the door.” Yeats’s voice rose to a squeak in amazement.

  “What about him, Mr. Yeats? Have you recalled something further?” Suddenly hope shot up inside him. Could this be the beginning of proof at last?

  “Why sir, I discovered who he was.”

  “What?” Monk did not dare to believe. The room was singing around him, bubbling with excitement. In an instant this funny little man was going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible, dazzling.

  “I discovered who he was,” Yeats repeated. “I knew I should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought—”

  The moment of paralysis was broken.

  “Who?” Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. “Who was it?”

  Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.

  “Who was it?” Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his own voice was rising to a shout.

  “Why—why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it—is it important, Mr. Monk?”

  Monk was stunned.

  “Bartholomew Stubbs?” he repeated foolishly.

  “Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I thought I would ask him.” His hands fluttered. “I was quite shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that because my friend was there also.” He moved from one foot to the other in his agitation. “He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs’s arrival, because the first speaker had just commenced his address.”

  Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen leaving later?