by Anne Perry
It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river, making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey—the Venice of the Drains—and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite architecture of the naval college.
But his duty lay in the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars, usurers and thieves of every degree—and Zebedee Marner.
Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number 13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps considering him unlikely to give to a beggar and too crisp of gait to be wise to rob. There was other, easier prey. He despised them, and understood them at the same time.
Good fortune was with him: Zebedee Marner was in, and after a discreet inquiry, the clerk showed Monk into the upper office.
“Good morning, Mr.—Monk.” Marner sat behind a large, important desk, his white hair curled over his ears and his white hands spread on the leather-inlaid surface in front of him. “What can I do for you?”
“You come recommended as a man of many businesses, Mr. Marner,” Monk started smoothly, gliding over the hatred in his voice. “With a knowledge of all kinds of things.”
“And so I am, Mr. Monk, so I am. Have you money to invest?”
“What could you offer me?”
“All manner of things. How much money?” Marner was watching him narrowly, but it was well disguised as a casual cheerfulness.
“I am interested also in safety, rather than quick profit,” Monk said, ignoring the question. “I wouldn’t care to lose what I have.”
“Of course not, who would?” Marner spread his hands wide and shrugged expressively, but his eyes were fixed and blinkless as a snake’s. “You want your money invested safely?”
“Oh, quite definitely,” Monk agreed. “And since I know of many other gentlemen who are also interested in investment, I should wish to be certain that any recommendation I made was secure.”
Marner’s eyes flickered, then the lids came down to hide his thoughts. “Excellent,” he said calmly. “I quite understand, Mr. Monk. Have you considered importing and exporting? Very nourishing trade; never fails.”
“So I’ve heard.” Monk nodded. “But is it safe?”
“Some is, some isn’t. It is the skill of people like me to know the difference.” His eyes were wide again, his hands folded across his paunch. “That is why you came here, instead of investing it yourself.”
“Tobacco?”
Marner’s face did not change in the slightest.
“An excellent commodity.” He nodded. “Excellent. I cannot see gentlemen giving up their pleasures, whatever the economic turns of life. As long as there are gentlemen, there will be a market for tobacco. And unless our climate changes beyond our wit to imagine”—he grinned and his body rocked with silent mirth at his own humor—“we will be unable to grow it, so must need import it. Have you any special company in mind?”
“Are you familiar with the market?” Monk asked, swallowing hard to contain his loathing of this man sitting here like a fat white spider in his well-furnished office, safe in his gray web of lies and facades. Only the poor flies like Latterly got caught—and perhaps Joscelin Grey.
“Of course,” Marner replied complacently. “I know it well.”
“You have dealt in it?”
“I have, frequently. I assure you, Mr. Monk, I know very well what I am doing.”
“You would not be taken unaware and find yourself faced with a collapse?”
“Most certainly not.” Marner looked at him as if he had let fall some vulgarity at the table.
“You are sure?” Monk pressed him.
“I am more than sure, my dear sir.” Now he was quite pained. “I am positive.”
“Good.” Monk at last allowed the venom to flood into his voice. “That is what I thought. Then you will no doubt be able to tell me how the disaster occurred that ruined Major Joscelin Grey’s investment in the same commodity. You were connected with it.”
Marner’s face paled and for a moment he was confused to find words.
“I—er—assure you, you need have no anxiety as to its happening again,” he said, avoiding Monk’s eyes, then looking very directly at him, to cover the lie of intent.
“That is good,” Monk answered him coolly. “But hardly of more than the barest comfort now. It has cost two lives already. Was there much of your own money lost, Mr. Marner?”
“Much of mine?” Marner looked startled.
“I understand Major Grey lost a considerable sum?”
“Oh—no. No, you are misinformed.” Marner shook his head and his white hair bounced over his ears. “The company did not precisely fail. Oh dear me no. It simply transferred its operation; it was taken over. If you are not a man of affairs, you could not be expected to understand. Business is highly complicated these days, Mr. Monk.”
“It would seem so. And you say Major Grey did not lose a great deal of his own money? Can you substantiate that in any way?”
“I could, of course.” The smug veils came over Marner’s eyes again. “But Major Grey’s affairs are his own, of course, and I should not discuss his affairs with you, any more than I should dream of discussing yours with him. The essence of good business is discretion, sir.” He smiled, pleased with himself, his composure at least in part regained.
“Naturally,” Monk agreed. “But I am from the police, and am investigating Major Grey’s murder, therefore I am in a different category from the merely inquisitive.” He lowered his voice and it became peculiarly menacing. He saw Marner’s face tighten. “And as a law-abiding man,” he continued, “I am sure you will be only too happy to give me every assistance you can. I should like to see your records in the matter. Precisely how much did Major Grey lose, Mr. Marner, to the guinea, if you please?”
Marner’s chin came up sharply; his eyes were hot and offended.
“The police? You said you wanted to make an investment.”
“No, I did not say that—you assumed it. How much did Joscelin Grey lose, Mr. Marner?”
“Oh, well, to the guinea, Mr. Monk, he—he did not lose any.”
“But the company dissolved.”
“Yes—yes, that is true; it was most unfortunate. But Major Grey withdrew his own investment at the last moment, just before the—the takeover.”
Monk remembered the policeman from whom he had learned Marner’s address. If he had been after Marner for years, let him have the satisfaction of taking him now.
“Oh.” Monk sat back, altering his whole attitude, almost smiling. “So he was not really concerned in the loss?”
“No, not at all.”
Monk stood up.
“Then it hardly constitutes a part of his murder. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Marner. And I thank you for your cooperation. You do, of course, have some papers to prove this, just for my superiors?”
“Yes. Yes, I have.” Marner relaxed visibly. “If you care to wait for a moment—” He stood up from his desk and went to a large cabinet of files. He pulled a drawer and took out a small notebook ruled in ledger fashion. He put it, open, on the desk in front of Monk.
Monk picked it up, glanced at it, read the entry where Grey had withdrawn his money, and snapped it shut.
“Thank you.” He put the book in the inside pocket of his coat and stood up.
Marner’s hand came forward for the return of the book. He realized he was not going to get it, debated in his mind whether to demand it or not, and decided it would raise more interest in the subject than he could yet afford. He forced a smile, a
sickly thing in his great white face.
“Always happy to be of service, sir. Where should we be without the police? So much crime these days, so much violence.”
“Indeed,” Monk agreed. “And so much theft that breeds violence. Good day, Mr. Marner.”
Outside he walked briskly along Gun Lane and back towards the West India Dock Road, but he was thinking hard. If this evidence was correct, and not fiddled with by Zebedee Marner, then the hitherto relatively honest Joscelin Grey had almost certainly been forewarned in time to escape at the last moment himself, leaving Latterly and his friends to bear the loss. Dishonest, but not precisely illegal. It would be interesting to know who had shares in the company that took over the tobacco importing, and if Grey was one of them.
Had he uncovered this much before? Marner had shown no signs of recognition. He had behaved as if the whole question were entirely new to him. In fact it must be, or Monk would never have been able to deceive him into imagining him an investor.
But even if Zebedee Marner had never seen him before, it was not impossible he had known all this before Grey’s death, because then he had had his memory, known his contacts, who to ask, who to bribe, who could be threatened, and with what.
But there was no way yet to find out. On the West India Dock Road he found a hansom and sank back for the long ride, thinking.
At the police station he went to the man who had given him Zebedee Marner’s address and told him of his visit, gave him the ledger and showed him what he thought the fraud would be. The man positively bubbled with delight, like someone who contemplates a rich feast only hours away. Monk had a brief, fierce glow of satisfaction.
It did not last.
Runcorn was waiting for him in his own office. “No arrest yet?” he said with black relish. “No one charged?”
Monk did not bother to reply.
“Monk!” Runcorn slammed his fist on the table.
“Yes sir?”
“You sent John Evan out to Shelburne to question the staff?”
“Yes I did. Isn’t that what you wanted?” He raised sarcastic eyebrows. “Evidence against Shelburne?”
“You won’t get it out there. We know what his motive was. What we need is evidence of opportunity, someone who saw him here.”
“I’ll start looking,” Monk said with bitter irony. Inside himself he was laughing, and Runcorn knew it, but he had not the faintest idea why, and it infuriated him.
“You should have been looking for the last month!” he shouted. “What in hell is the matter with you, Monk? You were always a hard, arrogant devil, with airs beyond your station, but you were a good policeman. But now you’re a fool. This crack on the head seems to have impaired your brain. Perhaps you should have some more sick leave?”
“I am perfectly well.” Misery was black inside Monk; he wanted to frighten this man who hated him so much and was going to have the last victory. “But maybe you ought to take over this case? You are right, I am getting nowhere with it.” He looked straight back at Runcorn with wide eyes. “The powers that be want a result—you should do the job yourself.”
Runcorn’s face set. “You must take me for a fool. I’ve sent for Evan. He’ll be back tomorrow.” He held up his thick finger, wagging it in Monk’s face. “Arrest Shelburne this week, or I will take you off it.” He turned and strode out, leaving the door squealing on its hinges.
Monk stared after him. So he had sent for Evan to return. Time was even shorter than he had feared. Before much longer Evan must come to the same conclusion as he had, and that would be the end.
In fact Evan came back the next day, and Monk met him for luncheon. They sat together in a steamy public house. It was heavy and damp with the odor of massed bodies, sawdust, spilled ale and nameless vegetables stewed into soup.
“Anything?” Monk asked as a matter of form. It would have seemed remarkable had he not.
“Lots of indication,” Evan replied with a frown. “But I wonder sometimes if I see it only because I’m looking for it.”
“You mean invent it for yourself?”
Evan’s eyes came up quickly and met Monk’s. They were devastatingly clear.
“You don’t honestly believe he did it, do you, sir?”
How could he know so quickly? Rapidly Monk flew in his mind through all the possible things he might say. Would Evan know a lie? Had he seen all the lies already? Was he clever enough, subtle enough, to be leading Monk gently into trapping himself? Was it conceivable the whole police department knew, and were simply waiting for him to uncover his own proof, his own condemnation? For a moment fear engulfed him and the cheerful rattle of the alehouse became a din like bedlam—witless, formless and persecutory. They all knew; they were merely waiting for him to know, to betray himself, and then the mystery would end. They would come out in the open, with laughter, handcuffs, questions, congratulations at another murder solved; there would be a trial, a brief imprisonment, and then the tight, strong rope, a quick pain—and nothing.
But why? Why had he killed Joscelin Grey? Surely not because Grey had escaped the crash of the tobacco company—probably even profited from it?
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” It was Evan’s voice cutting across his panic, Evan’s face peering at him anxiously. “You look a little pale, sir. Are you sure you are all right?”
Monk forced himself to sit upright and meet Evan’s eyes. If he were to be given one wish now, it would be that Evan would not have to know. Imogen Latterly had never really been more than a dream, a reminder of the softer self, the part of him that could be wounded and could care for something better than ambition—but Evan had been a friend. Maybe there had been others, but he could not remember them now.
“Yes,” he said carefully. “Yes, thank you. I was just thinking. No, you are right; I am not at all sure it was Shelburne.”
Evan leaned forward a little, his face eager.
“I’m glad you say that, sir. Don’t let Mr. Runcorn push you.” His long fingers were playing with the bread, too excited to eat. I think it’s someone here in London. In fact I have been looking at Mr. Lamb’s notes again, and ours, and the more I read them the more I think it could have something to do with money, with business.
“Joscelin Grey seems to have lived fairly comfortably, better than the allowance from his family supported.” He put down his spoon and abandoned all pretense of the meal. “So either he was blackmailing someone, or else he gambled very successfully, or, most likely of all, he had some business we know nothing about. And if it were honest, we ought to have found some record of it, and the other people concerned should have come forward. Similarly, if he borrowed money, the lenders would have put in some claim against the estate.”
“Unless they were sharks,” Monk said automatically, his mind cold with fear, watching Evan draw closer and closer to the thread that must lead him to the truth. Any moment now and his fine, sensitive hands would grasp it.
“But if they were sharks,” Evan said quickly, his eyes alight, “they would not have lent to someone like Grey. Sharks are exceedingly careful about their investments. That much I’ve learned. They don’t lend a second sum out before they have the first back, and with interest, or a mortgage on property.” A lock of his heavy hair fell forward over his brow and he ignored it. “Which brings us back to the same question: Where did Grey get the repayment, not to mention the interest? He was the third brother, remember, and he had no property of his own. No sir, he had some business, I’m sure of it. And I have some thoughts where to start looking for it.”
He was coming closer with every new idea.
Monk said nothing; his mind was racing for a thought, any thought to put Evan off. He could not avoid it forever, the time would come; but before that he must know why. There was something vital so close, a finger’s length out of his reach.
“Do you not agree, sir?” Evan was disappointed; his eyes were shadowed with it. Or was it disappointment that Monk had lied?
M
onk jerked himself back, dismissing his pain. He must think clearly just a little longer.
“I was turning it over,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Yes, I think you may very well be right. Dawlish spoke of a business venture. I don’t recall how much I told you of it; I gathered it had not yet begun, but there may easily have been others already involved.” How he hated lying. Especially to Evan—this betrayal was the worst of all. He could not bear to think what Evan would feel when he knew. “It would be a good thing if we investigated it far more thoroughly.”
Evan’s face lit up again.
“Excellent. You know I really believe we could yet catch Joscelin Grey’s murderer. I think we are near it; it will only take just one or two more clues and it will all fall into place.”
Did he know how appallingly near he was to the truth?
“Possibly,” Monk agreed, keeping his voice level with an effort. He looked down at the plate in front of him, anything to avoid Evan’s eyes. “You will still have to be discreet, though. Dawlish is a man of considerable standing.”
“Oh I will, sir, I will. Anyway, I do not especially suspect him. What about the letter we saw from Charles Latterly? That was pretty chilly, I thought. And I found out quite a lot more about him.” He took a spoonful of his stew at last. “Did you know his father committed suicide just a few weeks before Grey was killed? Dawlish is a business affair in the future, but Latterly could have been one from the past. Don’t you think so, sir?” He was ignoring the taste and texture of the food, almost swallowing it whole in his preoccupation. “Perhaps there was something not quite right there, and the elder Mr. Latterly took his life when he was implicated, and young Mr. Charles Latterly, the one who sent the letter, was the one who killed Grey in revenge?”
Monk took a deep breath. He must have just a little more time.
“That letter sounded too controlled for a man passionate enough to kill in revenge,” he said carefully, beginning to eat his own stew. “But I will look into it. You try Dawlish, and you might try the Fortescues as well. We don’t know very much about their connection either.” He could not let Evan pursue Charles for his, Monk’s, crime; also the truth was too close for Charles to deny it easily. He had no liking for him, but there was something of honor left to cling to—and he was Hester’s brother.
