The Face of a Stranger (17 page)

"Regularly?"

"Wotcher mean?"

"At a set time in the month?"

"Oh no—could be any time, twice a monf, or not fer two monfs."

Gambler, Evan thought to himself. "Thank you," he said aloud.
"Thank you very much." And he finished the cider and placed sixpence
on the table and left, going out reluctantly into the fading drizzle.

He spent the rest of the afternoon going to bootmakers, hatters,
shirtmakers and tailors, from whom he learned precisely what he
expected—nothing that his common sense had not already told him.

He bought a fresh eel pie from a vendor on Guilford Street outside the
Foundling Hospital, then took a hansom all the way to St. James's, and got out
at Boodles, where Joscelin Grey had been a member.

Here his questions had to be a lot more discreet. It was one of the
foremost gentlemen's clubs in London, and servants did not gossip about
members if they wished to retain their very agreeable and lucrative positions.
All he acquired in an hour and a half of roundabout questions was confirmation
that Major Grey was indeed a member, that he came quite regularly when he was
in town, that of course, like other gentlemen, he gambled, and it was possible
his debts were settled over a period of time, but most assuredly they were
settled. No gentleman welshed on his debts of honor—tradesmen possibly, but
never other gentlemen. Such a question did not arise.

Might Mr. Evan speak with any of Major Grey Is associates?

Unless Mr. Evan had a warrant such a thing was out of the question. Did
Mr. Evan have such a warrant?

No Mr. Evan did not.

He returned little wiser, but with several thoughts running through his
head.

* * * * *

When Evan had gone, Monk walked briskly back to the police station and
went to his own room. He pulled out the records of all his old cases, and read.
It gave him little cause for comfort.

If his fears for this case proved to be real—a society scandal, sexual
perversion, blackmail and murder—then his own path as detective in charge lay
between the perils of a very conspicuous and well-publicized failure and the
even more dangerous task of probing to uncover the tragedies that had precipitated
the final explosion. And a man who would beat to death a lover, turned
blackmailer, to keep his secret, would hardly hesitate to ruin a mere policeman.
"Nasty" was an understatement.

Had Runcorn done this on purpose? As he looked through the record of his
own career, one success after another, he wondered what the price had been; who
else had paid it, apart from himself? He had obviously devoted everything to
work, to improving his skill, his knowledge, his manners, his dress and his
speech. Looking at it as a stranger might, his ambition was painfully obvious:
the long hours, the meticulous attention to detail, the flashes of sheer
intuitive brilliance, the judgment of other men and their abilities—and
weaknesses, always using the right man for any task, then when it was
completed, choosing another. His only loyalty seemed to be the pursuit of justice.
Could he have imagined it had all gone unnoticed by Runcorn, who lay in its
path?

His rise from country boy from a Northumbrian fishing village to inspector
in the Metropolitan Police had been little short of meteoric. In twelve years
he had achieved

more than most men in twenty. He was treading hard on Runcorn's heels;
at this present rate of progress he could shortly hope for another promotion,
to Runcorn's place— or better.

Perhaps it all depended on the Grey case?

He could not have risen so far, and so fast, without treading on a good
many people as he passed. There was a growing fear in him that he might not
even have cared. He had read through the cases, very briefly. He had made a god
of truth, and—where the law was equivocal, or silent—of what he had believed
to be justice. But if there was anything of compassion and genuine feeling for
the victims, he had so far failed to find it. His anger was impersonal: against
the forces of society that produced poverty and bred helplessness and crime;
against the monstrosity of the rookery slums, the sweatshops, extortion,
violence, prostitution and infant mortality.

He admired the man he saw reflected in the records, admired his skill
and his brain, his energy and tenacity, even his courage; but he could not like
him. There was no warmth, no vulnerability, nothing of human hopes or fears,
none of the idiosyncracies that betray the dreams of the heart. The nearest he
saw to passion was the ruthlessness with which he pursued injustice; but from
the bare written words, it seemed to him that it was the wrong itself he hated,
and the wronged were not people but the byproducts of the crime.

Why was Evan so keen to work with him? To learn? He felt a quick stab of
shame at the thought of what he might teach him; and he did not want Evan
turned into a copy of himself. People change, all the time; every day one is a
little different from yesterday, a little added, a little forgotten. Could he
learn something of Evan's feeling instead and teach him excellence without his
accompanying ambition?

It was easy to believe Runcorn's feelings for him were ambivalent, at
best. What had he done to him, over the years of climbing; what comparisons
presented to superiors? What small slights made without sensitivity—had he ever
even thought of Runcorn as a man rather than an obstacle between him and the
next step up the ladder?

He could hardly blame Runcorn if now he took this perfect opportunity to
present him with a case he had to lose; either in failure to solve, or in too
much solving, and the uncovering of scandals for which society, and therefore
the commissioner of police, would never excuse him.

Monk stared at the paper files. The man in them was a stranger to him,
as one-dimensional as Joscelin Grey; in fact more so, because he had spoken to
people who cared for Grey, had found charm in him, with whom he had shared
laughter and common memories, who missed him with a hollowness of pain.

His own memories were gone, even of Beth, except for the one brief
snatch of childhood that had flickered for a moment at Shelburne. But surely
more would return, if he did not try to force them and simply let them come?

And the woman in the church, Mrs. Latterly; why had he not remembered
her? He had only seen her twice since the accident, and yet her face seemed
always at the back of his mind with a sweetness that never quite let him go.
Had he spent much time on the case, perhaps questioned her often? It would be
ridiculous to have imagined anything personal—the gulf between them was
impassable, and if he had entertained ideas, then his ambition was indeed
overweening, and indefensible. He blushed hot at the imagination of what he
might have betrayed to her in his speech, or his manner. And the vicar had
addressed her as "Mrs."—was she wearing black for her father-in-law,
or was she a widow? When he saw her again he must correct it, make it plain he
dreamed no such effrontery.

But before then he had to discover what on earth the case was about,
beyond that her father-in-law had died recently.

He searched all his papers, all the files and everything in his desk,
and found nothing with the name Latterly on it. A wretched thought occurred to
him, and now an obvious one—the case had been handed on to someone else. Of
course it would be, when he had been ill. Runcorn would hardly abandon it,
especially if there really was a question of suspicious death involved.

Then why had the new person in charge not spoken to Mrs. Latterly—or
more likely her husband, if he were alive? Perhaps he was not. Maybe that was
the reason it was she who had asked? He put the files away and went to
Runcorn's office. He was startled in passing an outside window to notice that
it was now nearly dusk.

Runcorn was still in his office, but on the point of leaving. He did
not seem in the least surprised to see Monk.

"Back to your usual hours again?" he said dryly. "No
wonder you never married; you've taken a job to wife. Well, cold comfort it'll
get you on a winter night," he added with satisfaction. "What is
it?"

"Latterly." Monk was irritated by the reminder of what he
could now see of himself. Before the accident it must have been there, all his
characteristics, habits, but then he was too close to see them. Now he observed
them dispassionately, as if they belonged to someone else.

"What?" Runcorn was staring at him, his brow furrowed into
lines of incomprehension, his nervous gesture of the left eye more pronounced.

"Latterly," Monk repeated. "I presume you gave the case
to someone else when I was ill?"

"Never heard of it," Runcorn said sharply.

“I was working on the case of a man called Latterly. He either committed
suicide, or was murdered—"

Runcorn stood up and went to the coat stand and took his serviceable,
unimaginative coat off the hook.

"Oh, that case. You said it was suicide and closed it, weeks before
the accident. What's the matter with you? Are you losing your memory?"

"No I am not losing my memory!" Monk snapped, feeling a tide
of heat rising up inside him. Please heaven it did not show in his face.
"But the papers are gone from

my files. I presumed something must have occurred to reopen the case and
you had given it to someone."

"Oh." Runcorn scowled, proceeding to put on his coat and
gloves. "Well, nothing has occurred, and the file is closed. I haven't
given it to anyone else. Perhaps you didn't write up anything more? Now will
you forget about Latterly, who presumably killed himself, poor devil, and get
back to Grey, who most assuredly did not. Have you got anything further? Come
on, Monk—you're usually better than this! Anything from this fellow
Yeats?"

"No sir, nothing helpful." Monk was stung and his voice
betrayed it.

Runcorn turned from the hat stand and smiled fully at him, his eyes
bright.

"Then you'd better abandon that and step up your inquiries into
Grey's family and friends, hadn't you?" he said with ill-concealed
satisfaction. "Especially women friends. There may be a jealous husband
somewhere. Looks like that kind of hatred to me. Take my word, there's
something very nasty at the bottom of this." He tilted his hat slightly on
his head, but it simply looked askew rather than rakish. "And you, Monk,
are just the man to uncover it. You'd better go and try Shelburne again!"
And with that parting shot, ringing with jubilation, he swung his scarf around
his neck and went out.

* * * * *

Monk did not go to Shelburne the next day, or even that week. He knew he
would have to, but he intended when he went to be as well armed as possible,
both for the best chance of success in discovering the murderer of Joscelin
Grey, whom he wanted with an intense and driving sense of justice, and—fast
becoming almost as important—to avoid all he could of oflFense in probing the
very private lives of the Shelburnes, or whoever else might have been aroused
to such a rage, over whatever jealousies, passions or perversions. Monk knew
that the powerful were no less frail than the rest of men, but they were
usually far fiercer in covering those frailties from the mockery and the
delight

of the vulgar. It was not a matter of memory so much as instinct, the
same way he knew how to shave, or to tie his cravat.

Instead he set out with Evan the following morning to go back to
Mecklenburg Square, this time not to find traces of an intruder but to learn
anything he could about Grey himself. Although they walked with scant
conversation, each deep in his own thoughts, he was glad not to be alone.
Grey's flat oppressed him and he could never free his mind from the violence
that had happened there. It was not the blood, or even the death that clung to
him, but the hate. He must have seen death before, dozens, if not scores of
times, and he could not possibly have been troubled by it like this each time.
It must usually have been casual death, pathetic or brainless murder, the utter
selfishness of the mugger who wants and takes, or murder by the thief who finds
his escape blocked. But in the death of Grey there was a quite different
passion, something intimate, a bond of hatred between the killer and the
killed.

He was cold in the room, even though the rest of the building was warm.
The light through the high windows was colorless as if it would drain rather
than illuminate. The furniture seemed oppressive and shabby, too big for the
place, although in truth it was exactly like any other. He looked at Evan to
see if he felt it also, but Evan's sensitive face was puckered over with the
distaste of searching another man's letters, as he opened the desk and began to
go through the drawers.

Monk walked past him into the bedroom, a little stale smelling from
closed windows. There was a faint film of dust, as last time. He searched
cupboards and clothes drawers, dressers, the tallboy. Grey had an excellent
wardrobe; not very extensive, but a beautiful cut and quality. He had
certainly possessed good taste, if not the purse to indulge it to the full.
There were several sets of cuff links, all gold backed, one with his family crest
engraved, two with his own initials. There were three stickpins, one with a
fair-sized pearl, and a set of silver-backed brushes, a