The Face of a Stranger (14 page)

She looked at him wryly and with a little nod and strode past and into
the harness room calling loudly for the head groom.

Monk walked back along the driveway again—as she had surmised, through a
considerable shower—and out past the gates. He followed the road for the three
miles to the village. Newly washed by rain, in the brilliant bursts of sun it
was so lovely it caught a longing in him as if once it was out of his sight he
would never recall it clearly enough. Here and there a coppice showed dark
green, billowing over the sweep of grass and mounded against the sky, and
beyond the distant stone walls wheat fields shone dark gold with the wind
rippling like waves through their heavy heads.

It took him a little short of an hour and he found the peace of it
turning his mind from the temporary matter of who murdered Joscelin Grey to the
deeper question as to what manner of man he himself was. Here no one knew him;
at least for tonight he would be able to start anew, no previous act could mar
it, or help. Perhaps he would

learn something of the inner man, unfiltered by expectations. What did
he believe, what did he truly value? What drove him from day to day—except
ambition, and personal vanity?

He stayed overnight in the village public hostelry, and asked some
discreet questions of certain locals in the morning, without significantly
adding to his picture of Jos-celin Grey, but he found a very considerable
respect for both Grey's brothers, in their different ways. They were not
liked—that was too close a relationship with men whose lives and stations were
so different—but they were trusted. They fitted into expectations of their
kind, small courtesies were observed, a mutual code was kept.

Of Joscelin it was different. Affection was possible. Everyone had
found him more than civil, remembering as many of the generosities as were
consistent with his position as a son of the house. If some had thought or
felt otherwise they were not saying so to an outsider like Monk. And he had
been a soldier; a certain honor was due the dead.

Monk enjoyed being polite, even gracious. No one was afraid of him—guarded
certainly, he was still a Peeler— but there was no personal awe, and they were
as keen as he to find who had murdered their hero.

He took luncheon in the taproom with several local worthies and
contrived to fall into conversation. By the door with the sunlight streaming
in, with cider, apple pie and cheese, opinions began to flow fast and free.
Monk became involved, and before long his tongue got the better of him, clear,
sarcastic and funny. It was only afterwards as he was walking away that he realized
that it was also at times unkind.

He left in the early afternoon for the small, silent station, and took
a clattering, steam-belching journey back to London.

He arrived a little after four, and went by hansom straight to the
police station.

"Well?" Runcorn inquired with lifted eyebrows. "Did

you manage to mollify Her Ladyship? I'm sure you conducted yourself
like a gentleman?"

Monk heard that slight edge to Runcorn's voice again, and the flavor of
resentment. What for? He struggled desperately to recall any wisp of memory,
even a guess as to what he might have done
to
occasion it. Surely not
mere abrasiveness of manner? He had not been so stupid as to be positively rude
to a superior? But nothing came. It mattered—it mattered acutely: Runcorn held
the key to his employment, the only sure thing in his life now, in fact the
very means of it. Without work he was not only completely anonymous, but
within a few weeks he would be a pauper. Then there would be only the same
bitter choice for him as for every other pauper: beggary, with its threat of
starvation or imprisonment as a vagrant; or the workhouse. And God knew, there
were those who thought the workhouse the greater evil.

"I believe Her Ladyship understood that we are doing all we
can," he answered. "And that we had to exhaust the more
likely-seeming possibilities first, like a thief off the streets. She
understands that now we must consider that it may have been someone who knew
him."

Runcorn grunted. "Asked her about him, did you? What sort of feller
he was?"

"Yes sir. Naturally she was biased—"

"Naturally," Runcorn agreed tartly, shooting his eyebrows up.
"But you ought to be bright enough to see past that."

Monk ignored the implication. "He seems to have been her favorite
son," he replied. "Considerably the most likable. Everyone else gave
the same opinion, even in the village. Discount some of that as speaking no ill
of the dead." He smiled twistedly. "Or of the son of the big house.
Even so, you're still left with a man of unusual charm, a good war record, and
no especial vices or weaknesses, except that he found it hard to manage on his
allowance, bit of a temper now and then, and a mocking wit when he chose; but
generous, remembered birthdays

and servants' names—knew how to amuse. It begins to look as if jealousy
could have been a motive.''

Runcorn sighed.

"Messy," he said decidedly, his left eye narrowing again.
"Never like having to dig into family relationships, and the higher you go
the nastier you get." He pulled his coat a little straighter without
thinking, but it still did not sit elegantly. "That's your society for
you; cover their tracks better than any of your average criminals, when they
really try. Don't often make a mistake, that lot, but oh my grandfather, when
they do!" He poked his finger in the air towards Monk. "Take my word
for it, if there's something nasty there, it'll get a lot worse before it gets
any better. You may fancy the higher classes, my boy, but they play very dirty
when they protect their own; you believe it!"

Monk could think of no answer. He wished he could remember the things he
had said and done to prompt Run-corn to these flavors, nuances of disapproval.
Was he a brazen social climber? The thought was repugnant, even pathetic in a
way, trying to appear something you are not, in order to impress people who
don't care for you in the slightest, and can most certainly detect your origins
even before you open your mouth!

But did not most men seek to improve themselves, given opportunity? But
had he been overambitious, and foolish enough to show it?

The thing lying at the back of his mind, troubling him all the time, was
why he had not been back to see Beth in eight years. She seemed the only family
he had, and yet he had virtually ignored her. Why?

Runcorn was staring at him.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Yes sir." He snapped to attention. "I agree, sir. I
think there may be something very unpleasant indeed. One has to hate very much
to beat a man to death as Grey was beaten. I imagine if it is something to do
with the family, they will do everything they can to hush it up. In fact the

eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne, didn't seem very eager for me to
probe it. He tried to guide me back to the idea that it was a casual thief, or
a lunatic."

"And Her Ladyship?"

"She wants us to continue."

"Then she's fortunate, isn't she?" Runcorn nodded his head
with his lips twisted. "Because that is precisely what you are going to
do!"

Monk recognized a dismissal.

"Yes sir; I'll start with Yeats." He excused himself and went
to his own room.

Evan was sitting at the table, busy writing. He looked up with a quick
smile when Monk came in. Monk found himself overwhelmingly glad to see him. He
realized he had already begun to think of Evan as a friend as much as a
colleague.

"How was Shelburne?" Evan asked.

"Very splendid," he replied. "And very formal. What about
Mr. Yeats?"

"Very respectable." Evan's mouth twitched in a brief and
suppressed amusement. "And very ordinary. No one is saying anything to his
discredit. In fact no one is saying anything much at all; they have trouble in
recalling precisely who he is."

Monk dismissed Yeats from his mind, and spoke of the thing which was
more pressing to him.

"Runcorn seems to think it will become unpleasant, and he's expecting
rather a lot from us—"

"Naturally." Evan looked at him, his eyes perfectly clear.
"That's why he rushed you into it, even though you're hardly back from
being ill. It's always sticky when we have to deal with the aristocracy; and
let's face it, a policeman is usually treated pretty much as the social equal
of a parlor maid and about as desirable to be close to as die drains; necessary
in an imperfect society, but not fit to have in the withdrawing room."

At another time Monk would have laughed, but now it was too painful, and
too urgent.

"Why me?" he pressed.

Evan was frankly puzzled. He hid what looked like embarrassment with
formality.

"Sir?"

"Why me?" Monk repeated a little more harshly. He could hear
the rising pitch in his own voice, and could not govern it.

Evan lowered his eyes awkwardly.

"Do you want an honest answer to that, sir; although you must know
it as well as I do?"

"Yes I do! Please?"

Evan faced him, his eyes hot and troubled. "Because you are the
best detective in the station, and the most ambitious. Because you know how to
dress and to speak; you'll be equal to the Shelburnes, if anyone is." He
hesitated, biting his lip, then plunged on. "And—and if you come unstuck
either by making a mess of it and failing to find the murderer, or rubbing up
against Her Ladyship and she complains about you, there are a good few who
won't mind if you're demoted. And of course worse still, if it turns out to be
one of the family—and you have to arrest him—"

Monk stared at him, but Evan did not look away. Monk felt the heat of
shock ripple through him.

"Including Runcorn?" he said very quietly.

"I think so."

"And you?"

Evan was transparently surprised. "No, not me," he said
simply. He made no protestations, and Monk believed him.

"Good." He drew a deep breath. "Well, we'll go and see
Mr. Yeats tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Evan was smiling, the shadow gone. "I'll be
here at eight."

Monk winced inwardly at the time, but he had to agree. He said
good-night and turned to go home.

But out in the street he started walking the other way, not consciously
thinking until he realized he was moving

in the general direction of St. Marylebone Church. It was over two miles
away, and he was tired. He had already walked a long way in Shelburne, and his
legs were aching, his feet sore. He hailed a cab and when the driver asked him,
he gave the address of the church.

It was very quiet inside with only die dimmest of light through the
fast-graying windows. Candelabra shed little yellow arcs.

Why the church? He had all the peace and silence he needed in his own
rooms, and he certainly had no conscious thought of God. He sat down in one of
the pews.

Why had he come here? No matter how much he had dedicated himself to his
job, his ambition, he must know someone, have a friend, or even an enemy. His
life must have impinged on someone else's—beside Runcorn.

He had been sitting in the dark without count of time, struggling to
remember anything at all—a face, a name, even a feeling, something of
childhood, like the momentary glimpse at Shelburne—when he saw the girl in
black again, standing a few feet away.

He was startled. She seemed so vivid, familiar. Or was it only that she
seemed to him to be lovely, evocative of something he wanted to feel, wanted to
remember?

But she was not beautiful, not really. Her mouth was too big, her eyes
too deep. She was looking at him.

Suddenly he was frightened. Ought he to know her? Was he being unbearably
rude in not speaking? But he could know any number of people, of any walk of
life! She could be a bishop's daughter, or a prostitute!

No, never with that face.

Don't be ridiculous, harlots could have faces with just that warmth,
those luminous eyes; at least they could while they were still young, and
nature had not yet written itself on the outside.

Without realizing it, he was still looking at her.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said slowly, a faint
embarrassment making her blink.

He rose to his feet. "Good evening, ma'am." He had

no idea of her name, and now he was terrified, wishing he had never
come. What should he say? How well did she know him? He could feel the sweat
prickly on his body, his tongue dry, his thoughts in a stultified, wordless
mass.

"You have not spoken for such a long time," she went on.
"I had begun to fear you had discovered something you did not dare to tell
me."

Discovered! Was she connected with some case? It must be old; he had
been working on Joscelin Grey since he came back, and before that the accident.
He fished for something that would not commit him and yet still make sense.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything else." His voice
was dry, artificial to his own ears. Please God he did not sound so foolish to
her!