The Face of a Stranger (3 page)

It was not an attractive picture.

He turned his attention to the food. It was plain, but of excellent
flavor, and she was certainly not ungenerous with her portions. It flickered
through his mind with some anxiety to wonder how much he paid for these
amenities, and if he could much longer afford them while he was unable to work.
The sooner he recovered his strength, and enough of his wits to resume his
duties for the police, the better. He could hardly ask her for credit, particularly
after her remarks, and his manners. Please heaven he did not owe her already
for the time he was in the hospital!

When he had finished the meal he placed the tray outside on the landing
table where she could collect it. He went back into the room, closed the door
and sat in one of the armchairs, intending to look through the desk in the
window corner, but in weariness, and the comfort of the cushions, he fell
asleep.

When he woke, cold now and stiff, his side aching, it was dark, and he
fumbled to light the gas. He was still tired, and would willingly have gone to
bed, but he knew that the temptation of the desk, and the fear of it, would
trouble even the most exhausted sleep.

He lit the lamp above it and pulled open the top. There was a flat
surface with inkstand, a leather writing block and a dozen small closed
drawers.

He started at the top left-hand side, and worked through them all. He
must be a methodical man. There were receipted bills; a few newspaper
clippings, entirely of crimes, usually violent, and describing brilliant police
work in solving them; three railway timetables; business letters; and a note
from a tailor.

A tailor. So that was where his money went—vain beggar. He must take a
look through his wardrobe and see what his taste was. Expensive, according to
the bill in his hand. A policeman who wanted to look like a gentleman! He
laughed sharply: a ratcatcher with pretensions—was that what he was? A somewhat
ridiculous figure. The thought hurt and he pushed it away with a black humor.

In other drawers there were envelopes, notepaper, good quality—vanity
again! Whom did he write to? There was also sealing wax, string, a paper knife
and scissors, a number of minor items of convenience. It was not until me tenth
drawer that he found the personal correspondence. They were all in the same
hand, to judge from the formation of the letters a young person, or someone of
slight education. Only one person wrote to him—or only one whose letters he had
considered worth keeping. He opened the first, angry with himself that his
hands were shaking.

It was very simple, beginning "Dear William," full of homely
news, and ending "your loving sister, Beth."

He put it down, the round characters burning in front of him, dizzy and
overwhelmed with excitement and relief, and perhaps a shadow of disappointment
he forced away. He had a sister, there was someone who knew him, had always
known him; more than that, who cared. He picked up the letter again quickly,
almost tearing it in his clumsiness to reread it. It was gentle, frank, and
yes, it was affectionate; it must be, one did not speak so openly to someone
one did not trust, and care for.

And yet there was nothing in it that was any kind of reply, no reference
to anything he had written to her. Surely he did write? He could not have
treated such a woman with cavalier disregard.

What kind of a man was he? If he had ignored her, not written, then
there must be a reason. How could he explain himself, justify anything, when he
could not remember? It was like being accused, standing in the dock with no
defense.

It was long, painful moments before he thought to look for the address.
When he did it came as a sharp, bewildering surprise—it was in Northumberland.
He repeated it over and over to himself, aloud. It sounded familiar, but he
could not place it. He had to go to the bookcase and search for an atlas to
look it up. Even so he could not see it for several minutes. It was very small,
a name in fine letters on the coast, a fishing village.

A fishing village! What was his sister doing there? Had she married and
gone there? The surname on the envelope was Bannerman. Or had he been born
there, and then come south to London? He laughed sharply. Was that the key to
his pretension? He was a provincial fisherman's son, with eyes on passing
himself off as something better?

When? When had he come?

He realized with a shock he did not know how old he was. He still had
not looked at himself in the glass. Why not? Was he afraid of it? What did it
matter how a man looked? And yet he was trembling.

He swallowed hard and picked up the oil lamp from the desk. He walked
slowly into the bedroom and put the lamp on the dresser. There must be a glass
there, at least big enough to shave himself.

It was on a swivel; that was why he had not noticed it before, his eye
had been on the silver brush. He set the lamp down and slowly tipped the glass.

The face he saw was dark and very strong, broad, slightly aquiline nose,
wide mouth, rather thin upper lip, lower lip fuller, with an old scar just
below it, eyes intense luminous gray in the flickering light. It was a powerful
face, but not an easy one. If there was humor it would be harsh, of wit rather
than laughter. He could have been anything between thirty-five and forty-five.

He picked up the lamp and walked back to the main room, finding the way
blindly, his inner eye still seeing

the face that had stared back at him from the dim glass. It was not that
it displeased him especially, but it was the face of a stranger, and not one
easy to know.

* * * * *

The following day he made his decision. He would travel north to see his
sister. She would at least be able to tell him his childhood, his family. And
to judge from her letters, and the recent date of the last, she still held him
in affection, whether he deserved it or not. He wrote in the morning telling
her simply that he had had an accident but was considerably recovered now, and
intended to visit her when he was well enough to make the journey, which he
expected to be no more than another day or two at the outside.

Among the other things in the desk drawer he found a modest sum of
money. Apparently he was not extravagant except at the tailor, the clothes in
his wardrobe were impeccably cut and of first-quality fabric, and possibly the
bookshop—if the contents of the case were his. Other than that he had saved
regularly, but if for any particular purpose there was no note of it, and it
hardly mattered now. He gave Mrs. Worley what she asked for a further month's
rent on account—minus the food he would not consume while he was away—and
informed her he was going to visit his sister in Northumberland.

"Very good idea." She nodded her head sagaciously.
"More'n time you paid her a visit, if yer ask me. Not that yer did, o'
course! I'm not one to interfere"—she drew in her breath—"but yer
in't bin orf ter see 'er since I known yer—an that's some years now. An' the
poor soul writes to yer reg'lar— although w'en yer writes back I'm blessed if I
know!"

She put the money in her pocket and looked at him closely.

"Well, you look after yerself—eat proper and don't go doin' any
daft caperin's around chasin' folk. Let ruffians alone an' mind for yerself for
a space." And with that parting advice she smoothed her apron again and
turned away, her boot heels clicking down the corridor towards the kitchen.

It was August fourth when he boarded the train in London and settled
himself for the long journey.

* * * * *

Northumberland was vast and bleak, wind roaring over treeless,
heather-darkened moors, but there was a simplicity about its tumultuous skies
and clean earth that pleased him enormously. Was it familiar to him, memories
stirring from childhood, or only beauty that would have woken the same emotion
in him had it been as unknown as the plains of the moon? He stood a long time
at the station, bag in his hand, staring out at the hills before he finally
made move to begin. He would have to find a conveyance of some kind: he was
eleven miles from the sea and the hamlet he wanted. In normal health he might
well have walked it, but he was still weak. His rib ached when he breamed
deeply, and he had not yet the full use of his broken arm.

It was not more man a pony cart, and he had paid handsomely for it, he
thought. But he was glad enough to have the driver take him to his sister's
house, which he asked for by name, and deposit him and his bag on the narrow
street in front of the door. As the wheels rattled away over the cobbles he
conquered his thoughts, the apprehension and the sense of an irretrievable
step, and knocked loudly.

He was about to knock again when the door swung open and a pretty,
fresh-faced woman stood on the step. She was bordering on the plump and had
strong dark hair and features reminiscent of his own only in the broad brow and
some echo of cheekbones. Her eyes were blue and her nose had the strength
without the arrogance, and her mouth was far softer. All this flashed into his
mind, wife the realization that she must be Beth, his sister. She would find
him inexplicable, and probably be hurt, if he did not know her.

"Beth." He held out his hands.

Her face broke into a broad smile of delight.

"William! I hardly knew you, you've changed so much!

We got your letter—you said an accident—are you hurt badly? We didn't
expect you so soon—" She blushed. "Not that you aren't very welcome,
of course." Her accent was broad Northumberland, and he found it surprisingly
pleasing to the ear. Was that familiarity again, or only the music of it after
London?

"William?" She was staring at him. "Come inside— you must
be tired out, and hungry." She made as if to pull him physically into the
house.

He followed her, smiling in a sudden relief. She knew him; apparently
she held no grudge for his long absence or the letters he had not written. There
was a naturalness about her that made long explanations unnecessary. And he
realized he was indeed hungry.

The kitchen was small but scrubbed clean; in fact the table was almost
white. It woke no chord of memory in him at all. There were warm smells of
bread and baked fish and salt wind from the sea. For the first time since
waking in the hospital, he found himself beginning to relax, to ease the knots
out.

Gradually, over bread and soup, he told her the facts he knew of the
accident, inventing details where the story was so bare as to seem evasive. She
listened while she continued to stir her cooking on the stove, warm the
flat-iron and then began on a series of small children's clothes and a man's
Sunday white shirt. If it was strange to her, or less than credible, she gave
no outward sign. Perhaps the whole world of London was beyond her knowledge
anyway, and inhabited by people who lived incomprehensible lives which could
not be hoped to make sense to ordinary people.

It was the late summer dusk when her husband came in, a broad, fair man
with wind-scoured face and mild features. His gray eyes still seemed tuned to
the sea. He greeted Monk with friendly surprise, but no sense of dismay or of
having been disturbed in his feelings, or the peace of his home.

No one asked Monk for explanations, even the three shy children returned
from chores and play, and since he had none to give, the matter was passed
over. It was a strange mark of the distance between them, which he observed
with a wry pain, that apparently he had never shared enough of himself with his
only family that they noticed the omission.

Day succeeded day, sometimes golden bright, sun hot when the wind was
offshore and the sand soft under his feet. Other times it swung east off the
North Sea and blew with sharp chill and the breath of storm. Monk walked along
the beach, feeling it rip at him, beating his face, tearing at his hair, and
the very size of it was at once frightening and comforting. It had nothing to
do with people; it was impersonal, indiscriminate.

He had been there a week, and was feeling the strength of life come back
to him, when the alarm was called. It was nearly midnight and the wind
screaming around the stone corners of the houses when the shouts came and the
hammering on the door.

Rob Bannerman was up within minutes, oilskins and seaboots on still
almost in his sleep. Monk stood on the landing in bewilderment, confused; at
first no explanation came to his mind as to the emergency. It was not until he
saw Beth's face when she ran to the window, and he followed her and saw below
them the dancing lanterns and the gleam of light on moving figures, oilskins
shining in the rain, that he realized what it was. Instinctively he put his arm
around Beth, and she moved fractionally closer to him, but her body was stiff.
Under her breath she was praying, and there were tears in her voice.

Rob was already out of the house. He had spoken to neither of them, not
even hesitated beyond touching Beth's hand as he passed her.

It was a wreck, some ship driven by the screaming winds onto the
outstretched fingers of rock, with God knew how many souls clinging to the
sundering planks, water already swirling around their waists.

After the first moment of shock, Beth ran upstairs again

to dress, calling to Monk to do the same, then everything was a matter
of finding blankets, heating soup, rebuilding fires ready to help the
survivors—if, please God, there were any.