The Face of a Stranger (2 page)

Runcorn straightened up. He sighed, trying to control himself.
"It'll come."

"How long have I been here?" Monk asked. "I've lost count
of time." It sounded reasonable enough; anyone ill might do that.

"Over three weeks—it's the thirty-first of July—1856," he
added with a touch of sarcasm.

Dear God! Over three weeks, and all he could remember was yesterday. He
shut his eyes; it was infinitely worse than that—a whole lifetime of how many
years? And all he could remember was yesterday! How old was he? How many years
were lost? Panic boiled up inside him again and for a moment he could have
screamed, Help me, somebody, who am I? Give me back my life, my self!

But men did not scream in public, even in private they did not cry out.
The sweat stood cold on his skin and he lay rigid, hands clenched by his sides.
Runcorn would take it for pain, ordinary physical pain. He must keep up the
appearance. He must not let Runcorn think he had forgotten how to do his job.
Without a job the workhouse would be a reality—grinding, hopeless, day after
day of obedient, servile, pointless labor.

He forced himself back to the present.

“Over three weeks?''

"Yes," Runcorn replied. Then he coughed and cleared his
throat. Perhaps he was embarrassed. What does one say to a man who cannot
remember you, who cannot even remember himself? Monk felt for him.

"It'll come back," Runcorn repeated. "When you're up
again; when you get back on the job. You want a break to get well, that's what
you need, a break till you get your strength. Take a week or two. Bound to.
Come back to the station when you're fit to work. It'll all come clear then, I
dare say.''

"Yes," Monk agreed, more for Runcorn's sake than his own. He
did not believe it.

* * * * *

Monk left the hospital three days later. He was strong enough to walk,
and no one stayed in such places longer than they had to. It was not only
financial consideration, but the sheer danger. More people died of
cross-infection than of any illness or injury that brought them there in the
first place. This much was imparted to him in a cheerfully resigned manner by
the nurse who had originally told him his name.

It was easy to believe. In the short days he could remember he had seen
doctors move from one bloody or festering wound to another, from fever patient
to vomiting and flux, then to open sores, and back again. Soiled bandages lay
on the floor; there was little laundry done, although no doubt they did the
best they could on the pittance they had.

And to be fair, they did their utmost never knowingly to admit patients
suffering from typhoid, cholera or smallpox; and if they did discover these
illnesses afterwards, they rectified their error. Those poor souls had to be
quarantined in their own houses and left to die, or recover if God were
willing. There they would be of least peril to the community. Everyone was
familiar with the black flag hanging limply at the ends of a street.

Runcorn had left for him his Peeler's coat and tall hat, carefully
dusted off and mended after the accident. At least they fitted him, apart from
being a trifle loose because of
the weight he
had lost lying on his back since the injury. But that would return. He was a
strong man, tall and lean muscled, but the nurse had shaved him so he had not
yet seen his face. He had felt it, touching with his fingertips when no one was
watching him. It was strong boned, and his mouth seemed wide, that was all he
knew; and his hands were smooth and uncallused by labor, with a scattering of
dark hairs on the backs.

Apparently he had had a few coins in his pocket when they brought him
in, and these were handed
to
him as he left. Someone else must have paid
for his treatment—presumably his police salary had been sufficient? Now he stood
on the steps with eight shillings and eleven pence, a cotton handkerchief and
an envelope with his name and "27 Grafton Street" written on it. It
contained a receipt from his tailor.

He looked around him and recognized nothing. It was a bright day with
fast-scudding clouds and a warm wind. Fifty yards away there was an
intersection, and a small boy was wielding a broom, keeping the crossing clear
of horse manure and other rubbish. A carriage swirled past, drawn by two
high-stepping bays.

Monk stepped down, still feeling weak, and made his way to the main
road. It took him five minutes to see a vacant hansom, hail it and give the
cabby the address. He sat back inside and watched as streets and squares flickered
by,.other vehicles, carriages, some with liveried footmen, more hansoms,
brewers' drays, costermongers' carts. He saw peddlers and vendors, a man
selling fresh eels, another with hot pies, plum duff—it sounded good, he was
hungry, but he had no idea how much the fare would be, so he did not dare stop.

A newspaper boy was shouting something, but they passed him too quickly
to hear above the horse's hooves. A one-legged man sold matches.

There was a familiarity about the streets, but it was at the back of his
mind. He could not have named a single one, simply that they did not seem
alien.

Tottenham Court Road. It was very busy: carriages, drays, carts, women
in wide skirts stepping over refuse in the gutter, two soldiers laughing and a
little drunk, red coats a splash of color, a flower seller and two washerwomen.

The cab swung left into Grafton Street and stopped.

" 'Ere y'are, sir, Number Twenty-seven."

"Thank you." Monk climbed out awkwardly; he was still stiff
and unpleasantly weak. Even that small exertion had tired him. He had no idea
how much money to offer. He held out a florin, two sixpences, a penny and a
halfpenny in his hand.

The cabby hesitated, then took one of the sixpences and the halfpenny,
tipped his hat and slapped the reins across his horse's rump, leaving Monk
standing on the pavement. He hesitated, now that the moment was come, overtaken
with fear. He had not even the slightest idea what he should find—or whom.

Two men passed, looking at him curiously. They must suppose him lost. He
felt foolish, embarrassed. Who would answer his knock? Should he know them? If
he lived here, they must know him. How well? Were they friends, or merely
landlords? It was preposterous, but he did not even know if he had a family!

But if he had, surely they would have visited him. Run-corn had come, so
they would have been told where he was. Or had he been the kind of man who
inspires no love, only professional courtesy? Was that why Runcorn had called,
because it was his job?

Had he been a good policeman, efficient at his work? Was he liked? It
was ridiculous—pathetic.

He shook himself. This was childish. If he had family, a wife or brother
or sister, Runcorn would have told him. He must discover each thing as he
could; if he was fit to be employed by the Peelers, then he was a detective. He
would learn each piece till he had enough to cobble together a whole, the
pattern of his life. The first step was to knock on tfiis door, dark brown and
closed in front of him.

He lifted his hand and rapped sharply. It was long, desperate minutes
with the questions roaring in his mind before it was opened by a broad,
middle-aged woman in an apron. Her hair was scraped back untidily, but it was
thick and clean and her scrubbed face was generous.

"Well I never!" she said impulsively. "Save my soul, if
it in't Mr. Monk back again! I was only saying to Mr. Worley this very morning,
as 'ow if you didn't come back again soon I'd 'ave ter let yer rooms; much as
it'd go against me ter do it. But a body 'as ter live. Mind that Mr. Runcorn
did come around an' say as yer'd 'ad a hac-cident and bin terrible 'urt and was
in one 'o them 'or-stipitals." She put her hand to her head in despair.
"Gawd save us from such places. Ye're the first man I've seen as 'as come
out o' there on 'is own two feet. To tell you the truth, I was expectin' every
day to 'ave some messenger boy come and say as you was dead." She screwed
up her face and looked at him carefully. "Mind yer does still look proper
poorly. Come in and I'll make yer a good meal. Yer must be starved, I'll dare
swear yer 'aven't 'ad a decent dish since yer left 'ere! It were as cold as a
workhouse master's 'eart the day yer went!" And she whisked her enormous
skirts around and led him inside.

He followed her through the paneled hallway hung with sentimental
pictures and up the stairs to a large landing. She produced a bunch of keys
from her girdle and opened one of the doors.

"I suppose you gorn and lorst your own key, or you wouldn't 'ave
knocked; that stands ter reason, don't it?"

"I had my own key?" he asked before realizing how it betrayed
him.

"Gawd save us, o' course yer did!" she said in surprise.
"Yer don't think I'm goin' ter get up and down at all hours o' the night
ter let yer in and out, do yer? A Christian body needs 'er sleep. 'Eathen hours
yer keeps, an' no mistake. Comes o' chasin' after 'eathen folk, I expec'."

She turned to look at him. " 'Ere, yer does look ill. Yer must 'ave
bin 'it summink terrible. You go in there an' sit down, an' I'll bring yer a
good 'ot meal an' a drink. Do you the world o' good, that will." She
snorted and straightened her apron fiercely. "I always thought them
'orstipitals din't look after yer proper. I'll wager as 'alf o' them wot dies
in there dies o' starvation." And with indignation at the thought
twitching in every muscle under her black taffeta, she swept out of the room,
leaving the door open behind her.

Monk walked over and closed it, then turned to face the room. It was
large, dark brown paneling and green wallpaper. The furniture was well used. A
heavy oak table with four matching chairs stood in the center, Jacobean with
carved legs and decorated claw feet. The sideboard against the far wall was
similar, although what purpose it served he did not know; there was no china on
it, and when he opened the drawers, no cutlery. However the lower drawers did
contain table linen and napkins, freshly laundered and in good repair. There
was also an oak desk with two small, flat drawers. Against the near wall, by
the door, there was a handsome bookcase full of volumes. Part of the furniture?
Or his own? Later he would look at the titles.

The windows were draped rather than hung with fringed plush curtains of
a mid shade of green. The gas brackets on the walls were ornate, with pieces
missing. The leather easy chair had faded patches on the arms, and the pile on
the cushions was flat. The carpet's colors had long since dimmed to muted
plums, navies and forest greens—a pleasant background. There were several
pictures of a self-indulgent tone, and a motto over the mantelpiece with the
dire warning god sees all.

Were they his? Surely not; the emotions jarred on him and he found
himself pulling a face at the mawkishness of the subjects, even feeling a touch
of contempt.

It was a comfortable room, well lived in, but peculiarly impersonal,
without photographs or mementos, no mark

of his own taste. His eyes went around it again and again, but nothing
was familiar, nothing brought even a pinprick of memory.

He tried the bedroom beyond. It was the same: comfortable, old, shabby.
A large bed stood in the center, made up ready with clean sheets, crisp white
bolster, and wine-colored eiderdown, flounced at the edges. On the heavy
dresser there was a rather pleasant china washbowl and a jug for water. A
handsome silver-backed hairbrush lay on the tallboy.

He touched the surfaces. His hands came away clean. Mrs. Worley was at
least a good housekeeper.

He was about to open the drawers and look further when there was a sharp
rap on the outer door and Mrs. Worley returned, carrying a tray with a steaming
plate piled with steak and kidney pudding, boiled cabbage, carrots and beans,
and another dish with pie and custard.

"There yer are," she said with satisfaction, setting it down
on the table. He was relieved to see knife, fork and spoon with it, and a glass
of cider. "You eat that, and yer'll feel better!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Worley." His gratitude was genuine; he had
not had a good meal since . . . ?

"It's my duty, Mr. Monk, as a Christian woman," she replied
with a little shake of her head. "And yer always paid me prompt, I'll say
that for yer—never argued ner was a day late, fer ought else! Now you eat that
up, then go ter bed. Yer look proper done in. I don't know what yer bin doin',
an' I don't want ter. Prob'ly in't fit fer a body to know anyway."

"What shall I do with the . . ."He looked at the tray.

"Put it outside the door like yer always does!" she said with
raised eyebrows. Then she looked at him more closely and sighed. "An' if
yer gets took poorly in the night, yer'd best shout out, an I'll come an' see
to yer."

"It won't be necessary—I shall be perfectly well."

She sniffed and let out a little gasp, heavy with disbelief, then
bustled out, closing the door behind her with a

loud click. He realized immediately how ungracious he had been. She had
offered to get up in the night to help him if he needed it, and all he had done
was assure her she was not needed. And she had not looked surprised, or hurt.
Was he always this discourteous? He paid—she said he paid promptly and without
quibble. Was that all there was between them, no kindness, no feeling, just a
lodger who was financially reliable, and a landlady who did her Christian duty
by him, because that was her nature?