The Face of a Stranger (19 page)

"If you would give me some names and addresses,

ma'am; I shall conduct my inquiries as cautiously as I can, and
naturally shall not mention your name. I imagine all persons of good conscience
will be as keen to discover who murdered Major Grey as you are yourself."

It was a well-placed argument, and she acknowledged it with a momentary
glance directly into his eyes.

"Quite," she agreed. "If you have a notebook I shall oblige
you." She reached across to the rosewood table almost at her side and
opened a drawer. She took out a leather-bound and gold-tooled address book.

He made ready and was well started when Lovel Grey came in, again
dressed in casual clothes—this time breeches and a Norfolk jacket of well-worn
tweed. His face darkened when he saw Monk.

"I really think, Mr. Monk, that if you have something to report,
you may do so to me!" he said with extreme irritation. "If you have
not, then your presence here serves no purpose, and you are distressing my
mother. I am surprised you should come again."

Monk stood up instinctively, annoyed with himself for the necessity.

"I came, my lord, because I needed some further information, which
Lady Shelburne has been kind enough to give me." He could feel the color
hot in his face.

“There is nothing we can tell you that could be of the least
relevance," Lovel snapped. "For heaven's sake, man, can't you do your
job without rushing out here every few days?" He moved restlessly, fidgeting
with the crop in his hand. "We cannot help you! If you are beaten, admit
it! Some crimes are never solved, especially where madmen are concerned."

Monk was trying to compose a civil reply when Lady Shelburne herself
intervened in a small, tight voice.

"That may be so, Lovel, but not in this case. Joscelin was killed
by someone who knew him, however distasteful that may be to us. Naturally it is
also possible it was someone known here. It is far more discreet of Mr. Monk
to

ask us than to go around inquiring of the whole neighborhood."

"Good God!" Lovel's face fell. "You cannot be serious.
To allow him to do that would be monstrous. We'd be ruined."

"Nonsense!" She closed her address book with a snap and
replaced it in the drawer. "We do not ruin so easily. There have been
Shelburnes on the land for five hundred years, and will continue to be. However
I have no intention of allowing Mr. Monk to do any such thing." She
looked at Monk coldly. "That is why I am providing him with a list myself,
and suitable questions to ask—and to avoid."

"There is no need to do either." Lovel turned furiously from
his mother to Monk and back again, his color high. "Whoever killed
Joscelin must have been one of his London acquaintances—if indeed it really
was someone he knew at all, which I still doubt. In spite of what you say, I
believe it was purely chance he was the victim, and not someone else. I daresay
he was seen at a club, or some such place, by someone who saw he had money and
hoped to rob him."

"It was not robbery, sir," Monk said firmly. "There were
all sorts of valuable items quite visible and untouched in his rooms, even the
money in his wallet was still there."

"And how do you know how much he had in his wallet?" Lovel
demanded. "He may have had hundreds!"

"Thieves do not usually count out change and return it to
you," Monk replied, moderating the natural sarcasm in his voice only
slightly.

Lovel was too angry to stop. "And have you some reason to suppose
this was a 'usual' thief? I did not know you had proceeded so far. In fact I
did not know you had proceeded at all."

"Most unusual, thank heaven." Monk ignored the jibe.
"Thieves seldom kill. Did Major Grey often walk about with hundreds of
pounds in his pocket?''

Lovel's face was scarlet. He threw the crop across the room, intending
it to land on the sofa, but it fell beyond and rattled to the floor. He ignored
it. "No of course not!" he shouted. "But then this was a unique
occasion. He was not simply robbed and left lying, he was beaten to death, if
you remember."

Lady Fabia's face pinched with misery and disgust.

"Really, Lovel, the man is doing his best, for whatever that is
worth. There is no need to be offensive."

Suddenly his tone changed. "You are upset, Mama; and it's quite
natural that you should be. Please leave this to me. If I think there is
anything to tell Mr. Monk, I shall do so. Why don't you go into the withdrawing
room and have tea with Rosamond?"

"Don't patronize me, Lovel!" she snapped, rising to her feet.
"I am not too upset to conduct myself properly, and to help the police
find the man who murdered my son."

"There is nothing whatsoever we can do, Mama!" He was fast
losing his temper again. "Least of all assist them to pester half the
country for personal information about poor Joscelin's life and friends."

"It was one of poor Joscelin's 'friends' who beat him to
death!" Her cheeks were ashen white and a lesser woman might well have
fainted before now, but she stood ramrod stiff, her white hands clenched.

"Rubbish!" Lovel dismissed it instantly. "It was probably
someone he played at cards and who simply couldn't take losing. Joscelin
gambled a damned sight more than he led you to believe. Some people play for
stakes they can't afford, and then when they're beaten, they lose control of
themselves and go temporarily off their heads." He breathed in and out
hard. "Gaming clubs are not always as discriminating as they should be as
to whom they allow in. That is quite probably what happened to Joscelin. Do you
seriously imagine anyone at Shelburne would know anything about it?"

"It is also possible it was someone who was jealous

over a woman," she answered icily. "Joscelin was very
charming, you know."

Lovel flushed and the whole skin of his face appeared to tighten.

"So I have frequently been reminded," he said in a soft,
dangerous little voice. "But not everyone was as susceptible to it as you,
Mama. It is a very superficial quality."

She stared at him with something that bordered on contempt.

"You never understood charm, Lovel, which is your great misfortune.
Perhaps you would be good enough to order extra tea in the withdrawing
room." Deliberately she ignored her son and contravened propriety, as if
to annoy him. "Will you join us, Mr. Monk? Perhaps my daughter-in-law may
be able to suggest something. She was accustomed to attend many of the same
functions as Joscelin, and women are frequently more observant of other women,
especially where"—she hesitated—"affairs of the emotions are
concerned."

Without waiting for his reply she assumed his compliance and, still
ignoring Lovel, turned to the door and stopped. Lovel wavered for only the
barest second, then he came forward obediently and opened the door for her. She
swept through without looking again at either of them.

In the withdrawing room the atmosphere was stiff. Rosamond had
difficulty hiding her amazement at being expected to take tea with a policeman
as if he were a gentleman; and even the maid with the extra cups and muffins
seemed uncomfortable. Apparently the below-stairs gossip had already told her
who Monk was. Monk silently thought of Evan, and wondered if he had made any
progress.

When the maid had handed everyone their cups and plates and was gone
Lady Fabia began in a level, quiet voice, avoiding Lovel's eyes.

"Rosamond, my dear, the police require to know everything they can
about Joscelin's social activities in the

last few months before he died. You attended most of the same functions,
and are thus more aware of any relationships than I. For example, who might
have shown more interest in him than was prudent?"

"I?" Rosamond was either profoundly surprised or a better
actress than Monk had judged her to be on their earlier meeting.

"Yes you, my dear." Lady Fabia passed her the muffins, which
she ignored. "I am talking to you. I shall, of course, also ask
Ursula."

"Who is Ursula?" Monk interrupted.

"Miss Ursula Wadham; she is betrothed to my second son, Menard. You
may safely leave it to me to glean from her any information that would be of
use." She dismissed Monk and turned back to Rosamond. "Well?"

"I don't recall Joscelin having any . . . relationship in— in
particular." Rosamond sounded rather awkward, as if the subject disturbed
her. Watching her, Monk wondered for a moment if she had been in love with
Joscelin herself, if perhaps that was why Lovel was so reluctant to have the
matter pursued.

Could it even have gone further than a mere attraction?

"That is not what I asked," Lady Fabia said with thin
patience. "I asked you if anyone else had shown any interest in Joscelin,
albeit a one-sided one?"

Rosamond's head came up. For a moment Monk thought she was about to
resist her mother-in-law, then the moment died.

"Norah Partridge was very fond of him," she replied slowly,
measuring her words. "But that is hardly new; and I cannot see Sir John
taking it badly enough to go all the way up to London and commit murder. I do
believe he is fond of Norah, but not enough for that."

"Then you are more observant than I thought," Lady Fabia said
with acid surprise. "But without much understanding of men, my dear. It
is not necessary to want something yourself in order profoundly to resent
someone else's having the ability to take it away from you; especially if they
have the tactlessness to do it publicly.'' She swiveled to Monk. He was not
offered the muffins. "There is somewhere for you to begin. I doubt John
Partridge would be moved to murder—or that he would use a stick if he
were." Her face flickered with pain again. "But No-rah had other admirers.
She is a somewhat extravagant creature, and not possessed of much judgment.''

"Thank you, ma'am. If you think of anything further?"

For another hour they raked over past romances, affairs and supposed
affairs, and Monk half listened. He was not interested in the facts so much as
the nuances behind their expression. Joscelin had obviously been his mother's
favorite, and if the absent Menard was like his elder brother, it was easy to
understand why. But whatever her feelings, the laws of primogeniture ruled that
not only the title and the lands, but also the money to support them and the
way of life that went with them, must pass to Lovel, the firstborn.

Lovel himself contributed nothing, and Rosamond only enough to satisfy
her mother-in-law, of whom she seemed in awe far more than of her husband.

Monk did not see Lady Callandra Daviot, rather to his disappointment. He
would have liked her candor on the subject, although he was not sure she would
have expressed herself as freely in front of the grieving family as she had in
the garden in the rain.

He thanked them and excused himself in time to find Evan and walk down
to the village for a pint of cider before the train back to London.

"Well?" Monk asked as soon as they were out of sight of the
house.

"Ah." Evan could scarcely suppress his enthusiasm; his stride
was surprisingly long, his lean body taut with energy, and he splashed through
puddles on the road with complete disregard for his soaking boots. "It's
fascinating. I've never been inside a really big house before, I mean inside
to know it. My father was a clergyman, you know, and I went along to the manor
house sometimes

when I was a child—but it was nothing like this. Good Lord, those
servants see things that would paralyze me with shame—I mean the family treat
them as if they were deaf and blind."

"They don't think of them as people," Monk replied. "At
least not people in the same sense as themselves. They are two different
worlds, and they don't impinge, except physically. Therefore their opinions
don't matter. Did you learn anything else?" He smiled slightly at Evan's
innocence.

Evan grinned. "I'll say, although of course they wouldn't
intentionally tell a policeman, or anyone else, anything they thought
confidential about the family. It would be more than their livelihood was
worth. Very closemouthed, they thought they were."

"So how did you learn?" Monk asked curiously, looking at
Evan's innocent, imaginative features.

Evan blushed very slightly. "Threw myself on Cook's mercy." He
looked down at the ground, but did not decrease his pace in the slightest.
"Slandered my landlady appallingly, I'm afraid. Spoke very unkindly about
her cooking—oh, and I stood outside for some time before going in, so my hands
were cold—" He glanced up at Monk, then away again. "Very motherly
sort, Lady Shel-burne's cook." He smiled rather smugly. "Daresay I
did a lot better than you did."

"I didn't eat at all," Monk said tartly.

"I'm sorry." Evan did not sound it.

"And what did your dramatic debut earn you, apart from
luncheon?" Monk asked. "I presume you overheard a good deal—while you
were busy being pathetic and eating them out of house and home?"

"Oh yes—did you know that Rosamond comes from a well-to-do family, but
a bit come-lately? And she fell for Joscelin first, but her mother insisted she
marry the eldest brother, who also offered for her. And she was a good,
obedient girl and did as she was told. At least that is what I read between the
lines of what the tweeny was saying to