The Face of a Stranger (10 page)

"Thank you," he said with a smile. "It might well
be-right initials. What do you know about it?"

The constable blushed scarlet. "Nufflnk much, Mr. Monk. 'E swears
blind as it was one of 'is reg'lars as brought it in. But you can't believe
anyfink 'e says 'cause 'e would say that, wouldn't 'e? He don't want ter be
mixed up in no murder."

Monk glanced at the paper again. The pawnbroker's name and address were
there and he could follow up on it any time he chose.

"No, he'd doubtless lie," he agreed. "But we might learn
something all the same, if we can prove this was Grey's watch. Thank you—very
observant of you. May I keep it?"

"Yes sir. We don't need it; we 'as lots more agin 'im." Now
his furious pink color was obviously pleasure, and considerable surprise. He
still stood rooted to the spot.

"Was there anything else?" Monk raised his eyebrows.

"No sir! No there in't. Thank you, sir." And the constable
turned on his heel and marched out, tripping on the doorsill as he went and
rocketing out into the passage.

Almost immediately the door was opened again by a wiry sergeant with a
black mustache.

"You o'right, sir?" he asked, seeing Monk's frown.

"Yes. What's the matter with—er." He waved his hand towards
the departing figure of the constable, wishing desperately that he knew the
man's name.

" 'Arrison?"

"Yes."

"Nothin'—just afeared of you, that's all. Which in't 'ardly
surprisin', seein' as 'ow you tore 'im off such a strip in front o' the 'ole
station, w'en that macer slipped through 'is fingers—which weren't 'ardly 'is
fault, seein' as the feller were a downright contortionist. 'Arder to 'old then
a greased pig, 'e were. An' if we'd broke 'is neck we'd be the ones for the
'igh jump before breakfast!"

Monk was confused. He did not know what to say. Had he been unjust to
the man, or was there cause for whatever he had said? On the face of it, it
sounded as if he had been gratuitously cruel, but he was hearing only one side
of the story—there was no one to defend him, to explain, to give his reasons
and say what he knew and perhaps they did not.

And rack and tear as he might, there was nothing in his

mind, not even Harrison's face—let alone some shred about the incident.

He felt a fool sitting staring up at the critical eyes of the sergeant,
who plainly disliked him, for what he felt was fair cause.

Monk ached to explain himself! Even more he wanted to know for his own
understanding. How many incidents would come up like this, things he had done
that seemed ugly from the outside, to someone who did not know his side of the
story?

"Mr. Monk, sir?"

Monk recalled his attention quickly. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Thought you might like to know as we got the mags-man wot snuffed
ol' Billy Marlowe. They'll swing 'im for sure. Right villain."

"Oh—thank you. Well done." He had no idea what the sergeant
was talking about, but obviously he was expected to. "Very well
done," he added.

"Thank you, sir." The sergeant straightened up, then turned
and left, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.

Monk bent to his work again.

* * * * *

An hour later he left the police station and walked slowly along the
dark, wet pavements and found the way back to Grafton Street.

Mrs. Worley's rooms were at least becoming familiar. He knew where to
find things, and better than that, they offered privacy: no one would disturb
him, intrude on his time to think, to try again to find some thread.

After his meal of mutton stew and dumplings, which were hot and filling,
if a little heavy, he thanked Mrs. Worley when she collected the tray, saw her
down the stairs, and then began once more to go through the desk. The bills
were of little use; he could hardly go to his tailor and say "What kind of
man am I? What do I care about? Do you like, or dislike me, and why?" One
small comfort he could draw from his accounts was that he appeared to

have been prompt in paying them; there were no demand notices, and the
receipts were all dated within a few days of presentation. He was learning
something, a crumb: he was methodical.

The personal letters from Beth told him much of her: of simplicity, an
unforced affection, a life of small detail. She said nothing of hardships or of
bitter winters, nothing even of wrecks or the lifeboatmen. Her concern for him
was based on her feelings, and seemed to be without knowledge; she simply
translated her own affections and interests to his life, and assumed his
feelings were the same. He knew without needing deeper evidence that it was
because he had told her nothing; perhaps he had not even written regularly. It
was an unpleasant thought, and he was harshly ashamed of it. He must write to
her soon, compose a letter which would seem rational, and yet perhaps elicit
some answer from her which would tell him more.

The following morning he woke late to find Mrs. Wor-ley knocking on the
door. He let her in and she put his breakfast on the table with a sigh and a
shake of her head. He was obliged to eat it before dressing or it would have
grown cold. Afterwards he resumed the search, and again it was fruitless for
any sharpening of identity, anything of the man behind the immaculate, rather
expensive possessions. They told him nothing except that he had good taste, if
a little predictable—perhaps that he liked to be admired? But what was
admiration worth if it was for the cost and discretion of one's belongings? A
shallow man? Vain? Or a man seeking security he did not feel, making his place
in a world that he did not believe accepted him?

The apartment itself was impersonal, with traditional furniture,
sentimental pictures. Surely Mrs. Worley's taste rather than his own?

After luncheon he was reduced to the last places to seek: the pockets of
his other clothes, jackets hanging in the cupboard. In the best of them, a
well-cut, rather formal coat, he found a piece of paper, and on unfolding it
carefully, saw that it was a printed sheet for a service of Evensong at a
church he did not know.

Perhaps it was close by. He felt a quickening of hope. Maybe he was a
member of the congregation. The minister would know him. He might have friends
there, a belief, even an office or a calling of some sort. He folded up the
paper again carefully and put it in the desk, then went into the bedroom to
wash and shave again, and change into his best clothes, and the coat from which
the sheet had come. By five o'clock he was ready, and he went downstairs to ask
Mrs. Worley where St. Marylebone Church might be.

His disappointment was shattering when she showed complete ignorance,
Temper boiled inside him at the frustration. She must know. But her placid, blunt
face was expressionless.

He was about to argue, to shout at her that she must know, when he
realized how foolish it would be. He would only anger her, drive from himself a
friend he sorely needed.

She was staring at him, her face puckered.

"My, you are in a state. Let me ask Mr. Worley for yer; he's a rare
fine understanding o' the city. O' course I expect it's on the Marylebone Road,
but ezac'ly where I'm sure I wouldn't know. It's a long street, that is."

"Thank you," he said carefully, feeling foolish. "It's
rather important."

"Going to a wedding, are yer?" She looked at his carefully
brushed dark coat. "What you want is a good cabby, what knows 'is way,
and'll get you there nice and prompt, like."

It was an obvious answer, and he wondered why he had not thought of it
himself. He thanked her, and when Mr. Worley had been asked, and given his
opinion that it might be opposite York Gate, he went out to look for a cab.

Evensong had already begun when he hurried up the steps and into the
vestry. He could hear the voices lifted rather thinly in the first hymn. It
sounded dutiful rather

than joyous. Was he a religious man; or, it would be truer to ask, had
he been? He felt no sense of comfort or reverence now, except for the simple
beauty of the stonework.

He went in as quickly as he could, walking almost on the sides of his
polished boots to make no noise. One or two heads turned, sharp with criticism.
He ignored them and slid into a back pew, fumbling for a hymnbook.

Nothing sounded familiar; he followed the hymn because the tune was
trite, full of musical cliches. He knelt when everyone else knelt, and rose as
they rose. He missed the responses.

When the minister stepped into the pulpit to speak, Monk stared at him,
searching his face for some nicker of memory. Could he go to this man and
confide in him the truth, ask him to tell him everything he knew? The voice
droned on in one platitude after another; his intention was benign, but so tied
in words as to be almost incomprehensible. Monk sank deeper and deeper into a
feeling of helplessness. The man did not seem able to remember his own train
of thought from one sentence to the next, let alone the nature and passions of
his flock.

When the last amen had been sung, Monk watched the people file out, hoping
someone would touch his memory, or better still, actually speak to him.

He was about to give up even that when he saw a young woman in black,
slender and of medium height, dark hair drawn softly back from a face almost
luminous, dark eyes and fragile skin, mouth too generous and too big for it. It
was not a weak face, and yet it was one that could have moved easily to
laughter, or tragedy. There was a grace in the way she walked that compelled
him to watch her.

As she drew level she became aware of him and turned. Her eyes widened
and she hesitated. She drew in her breath as if to speak.

He waited, hope surging up inside him, and a ridiculous excitement, as
if some exquisite realization were about to come.

Then the moment vanished; she seemed to regain a

mastery of herself, her chin lifted a little, and she picked up her
skirt unnecessarily and continued on her way.

He went after her, but she was lost in a group of people, two of whom,
also dressed in black, were obviously accompanying her. One was a tall, fair
man in his mid-thirties with smooth hair and a long-nosed, serious face; the
other was a woman of unusual uprightness of carriage and features of remarkable
character. The three of them walked towards the street and waiting vehicles and
none of them turned their heads again.

Monk rode home in a rage of confusion, fear, and wild, disturbing hope.

4

But
when Monk arrived on Monday morning, breathless and a little late, he was
unable to begin investigation on Yeats and his visitor. Runcorn was in his
room, pacing the floor and waving a piece of blue notepaper in his hand. He
stopped and spun around the moment he heard Monk's feet.

"Ah!" He brandished the paper with a look of bright,
shimmering anger, his left eye narrowed almost shut.

The good-moming greeting died on Monk's tongue.

"Letter from upstairs." Runcorn held up the blue paper.
"The powers that be are after us again. The Dowager Lady Shelburne has
written to Sir Willoughby Gentry, and confided to the said member of
Parliament"—he gave every vowel its full value in his volume of scorn for
that body—"that she is not happy with the utter lack of success the
Metropolitan Police Force is having in apprehending the vile maniac who so
foully murdered her son in his own house. No excuses are acceptable for our
dilatory and lackadaisical attitude, our total lack of culprits to hand."
His face purpled in his offense at the injustice of it, but there was no misery
in him, only a feeding rage. "What the hell are you doing, Monk? You're
supposed to be such a damn good detective, you've got your eyes on a
superintendency—the commissionership, for all I know! So what do we tell
this—this ladyship?"

Monk took a deep breath. He was more stunned by Runcorn's reference to
himself, to his ambition, than anything in the letter. Was he an overweeningly
ambitious man? There was no time for self-defense now; Runcorn was standing in
front of him commanding an answer.

"Lamb's done all the groundwork, sir." He gave Lamb the praise
that was due him. "He's investigated all he could, questioned all the
other residents, street peddlers, locals, anyone who might have seen or known
anything." He could see from Runcorn's face that he was achieving nothing,
but he persisted. "Unfortunately it was a particularly foul night and
everyone was in a hurry, heads down and collars up against the rain. Because it
was so wet no one hung around, and with the overcast it was dark earlier than
usual."

Runcorn was fidgeting with impatience.

"Lamb spent a lot of time checking out the villains we know,"
Monk continued. "He's written up in his report that he's spoken to every
snout and informer in the area. Not a peep. No one knows anything; or if they
do, they're not saying. Lamb was of the opinion they were telling the truth. I
don't know what else he could have done." His experience offered nothing,
but neither could his intelligence suggest any omission. All his sympathy was
with Lamb.