The Face of a Stranger (30 page)

The only streets he could remember were the cold cobbles of
Northumberland, small houses whipped clean by the wind, gray seas and the
harbor below and the high moors rising to the sky. He could remember vaguely,
once, a visit to Newcastle in the train, the enormous furnaces towering over
the rooftops, the plumes of smoke, the excitement running through him in their
immense, thrumming power, the knowledge of coal-fired blast furnaces inside;
steel hammered and beaten into engines to draw trains over the mountains and
plains of the whole Empire. He could still capture just an echo of the thrill
that had been high in his throat then, tingling his arms and legs, the awe, the
beginning of adventure. He must have been very young.

It had been quite different when he had first come to London. He had
been so much older, more than the ten or so years the calendar had turned. His
mother was dead; Beth was with an aunt. His father had been lost at sea when
Beth was still in arms. Coming to London had been the beginning of something
new, and the end of all that belonged to childhood. Beth had seen him off at
the station, crying, screwing up her pinafore in her hand, refusing to be
comforted. She could not have been more than nine, and he about fifteen. But he
could read and write, and the world was his for the labor.

But that was a long time ago. He was well over thirty now, probably over
thirty-five. What had he done in more than twenty years? Why had he not
returned? That was something else he had yet to learn. His police record was
there in his office, and in Runcorn's hate. What about himself, his personal
life? Or had he no one, was he only a public man?

And what before the police? His files here went back only twelve years,
so there must have been more than eight years before that. Had he spent them
all learning, climbing, improving himself with his faceless mentor, his eyes

always on the goal? He was appalled at his own ambition, and the strength
of his will. It was a little frightening, such single-mindedness.

He was at the Latterlys' door, ridiculously nervous. Would she be in? He
had thought about her so often; he realized only now and with a sense of having
been foolish, vulnerable, that she had probably not thought of him at all. He
might even have to explain who he was. He would seem clumsy, gauche, when he
said he had no further news.

He hesitated, unsure whether to knock at all, or to leave, and come
again when he had a better excuse. A maid came out into the areaway below him,
and in order not to appear a loiterer, he raised his hand and knocked.

The parlor maid came almost immediately. Her eyebrows rose in the very
slightest of surprise.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk; will you come in, sir?" It was
sufficiently courteous not to be in obvious haste to get him off the doorstep.
"The family have dined and are in the withdrawing room, sir. Do you wish
me to ask if they will receive you? "

"Yes please. Thank you." Monk gave her his coat and followed
her through to a small morning room. After she had gone he paced up and down
because he could not bear to be still. He hardly noticed anything about the
furniture or the pleasant, rather ordinary paintings and the worn carpet. What
was he going to say? He had charged into a world where he did not belong,
because of something he dreamed in a woman's face. She probably found him distasteful,
and would not have suffered him if she were not so concerned about her
father-in-law, hoping he could use his skills to discover something that would
ease her grief. Suicide was a terrible shame, and in the eyes of the church
financial disgrace would not excuse it. He could still be buried in
unconsecrated ground if the conclusion were in- . evitable.

It was too late to back away now, but it crossed his mind. He even
considered concocting an excuse, another

reason for calling, something to do with Grey and the letter in his
flat, when the parlor maid returned and there was no time.

"Mrs. Latterly will see you, sir, if you come this way."

Obediently, heart thumping and mouth dry, he followed the maid.

The withdrawing room was medium sized, comfortable, and originally
furnished with the disregard for money of those who have always possessed it,
but the ease, the unos-tentation of those for whom it has no novelty. Now it
was still elegant, but the curtains were a little faded in portions where the
sun fell on them, and the fringing on the swags with which they were tied was
missing a bobble here and there. The carpet was not of equal quality with the
piecrust tables or the chaise longue. He felt pleasure in the room
immediately, and wondered where in his merciless self-improvement he had
learned such taste.

His eyes went to Mrs. Latterly beside the fire. She was no longer in
black, but dark wine, and it brought a faint flush to her skin. Her throat and
shoulders were as delicate and slender as a child's, but there was nothing of
the child in her face. She was staring at him with luminous eyes, wide now, and
too shadowed to read their expression.

Monk turned quickly to the others. The man, fairer than she and with
less generous mouth, must be her husband, and the other woman sitting opposite
with the proud face with so much anger and imagination in it he knew immediately;
they had met and quarreled at Shelburne Hall— Miss Hester Latterly.

"Good evening, Monk." Charles Latterly did not stand.
"You remember my wife?" He gestured vaguely towards Imogen. "And
my sister, Miss Hester Latterly. She was in the Crimea when our father
died." There was a strong accent of disapproval in his voice and it was
apparent that he resented Monk's involvement in the affair.

Monk was assailed by an awful thought—had he somehow disgraced himself,
been too brash, too insensitive to their pain and added not only to their loss
but the manner of it? Had he said something appallingly thoughtless, or been
too familiar? The blood burned up his face and he stumbled into speech to cover
the hot silence.

"Good evening, sir." Then he bowed very slightly to Imogen and
then to Hester. "Good evening, ma'am; Miss Latterly." He would not
mention that they had already met. It was not a fortunate episode.

"What can we do for you?" Charles asked, nodding towards a
seat, indicating that Monk might make himself comfortable.

Monk accepted, and another extraordinary thought occurred to him.
Imogen had been very discreet, almost furtive in speaking to him in St.
Marylebone Church. Was it conceivable neither her husband nor her sister-in-law
knew that she had pursued the matter beyond the first, formal acknowledgment of
the tragedy and the necessary formalities? If that were so he must not betray
her now.

He drew a deep breath, hoping he could make sense, wishing to God he
could remember anything at all of what Charles had told him, and what he had
learned from Imogen alone. He would have to bluff, pretend there was something
new, a connection with the murder of Grey; it was the only other case he was
working on, or could remember anything at all about. These people had known
him, however slightly. He had been working for them shortly before the
accident; surely they could tell him something about himself?

But that was less than half a truth. Why lie to himself? He was here
because of Imogen Latterly. It was purposeless, but her face haunted his mind,
like a memory from the past of which the precise nature is lost, or a ghost
from the imagination, from the realm of daydreams so often repeated it seems
they must surely have been real.

They were all looking at him, still waiting.

"It is possible ..." His voice was rough at first. He cleared
his throat. "I have discovered something quite new. But before I tell you
I must be perfectly sure, more especially since it concerns other people."
That should prevent them, as a matter of good taste, from pressing him. He
coughed again. "It is some time since I spoke to you last, and I made no
notes, as a point of discretion—"

"Thank you," Charles said slowly. "That was considerate
of you." He seemed to find it hard to say the words, as if it irritated
him to acknowledge that policemen might possess such delicate virtues.

Hester was staring at him with frank disbelief.

"If I could go over the details we know again?" Monk asked,
hoping desperately they would fill in the gaping blanks in his mind; he knew
only what Runcorn had told him, and that was in turn only what he had told
Runcorn. Heaven knew, that was barely enough to justify spending time on the
case.

"Yes, yes of course." Again it was Charles who spoke, but Monk
felt the eyes of the women on him also: Imogen anxious, her hands clenched
beneath the ample folds of her skirt, her dark eyes wide; Hester was
thoughtful, ready to criticize. He must dismiss them both from his mind,
concentrate on making sense, picking up the threads from Charles, or he would
make a complete fool of himself, and he could not bear that in front of them.

"Your father died in his study," he began. "In his home
in Highgate on June fourteenth." That much Runcorn had said.

"Yes." Charles agreed. "It was early evening, before
dinner. My wife and I were staying with them at the time. Most of us were
upstairs changing."

"Most of you?"

"Perhaps I should say 'both of us.' My mother and I were. My wife
was late coming in. She had been over to see Mrs. Standing, the vicar's wife,
and as it transpired my father was in his study."

The means of death had been a gunshot. The next question was easy.

"And how many of you heard the report?"

"Well, I suppose we all heard it, but my wife was the only one to
realize what it was. She was coming in from the back garden entrance and was in
the conservatory."

Monk turned to Imogen.

She was looking at him, a slight frown on her face as if she wanted to
say something, but dared not. Her eyes were troubled, full of dark hurt.

"Mrs. Latterly?" He forgot what he had intended to ask her. He
was conscious of his hands clenched painfully by his sides and had to ease the
fingers out deliberately. They were sticky with sweat.

"Yes, Mr. Monk?" she said quietly.

He scrambled for something sensible to say. His brain was blank. What
had he said to her the first time? She had come to him; surely she would have
told him everything she knew? He must ask her something quickly. They were all
waiting, watching him. Charles Latterly cool, disliking the effrontery, Hester
exasperated at his incompetence. He already knew what she thought of his
abilities. Attack was the only defense his mind could think of.

"Why do you think, Mrs. Latterly, that you suspected a shot, when
no one else did?" His voice was loud in the silence, like the sudden
chimes of a clock in an empty room. "Were you afraid even then that your
father-in-law contemplated taking his life, or that he was in some danger?"

The color came to her face quickly and there was anger in her eyes.

"Of course not, Mr. Monk; or I should not have left him
alone." She swallowed, and her next words were softer. "I knew he was
distressed, we all knew that; but I did not imagine it was serious enough to
think of shooting himself—nor that he was sufficiently out of control of his
feelings or his concentration that he would be in danger of having an
accident." It was a brave attempt.

"I think if you have discovered something, Mr. Monk," Hester
interrupted stiffly, "you had better ascertain what it is, and then come
back and tell us. Your present fumbling around is pointless and unnecessarily
distressing.

And your suggestion that my sister-in-law knew something that she did
not report at the time is offensive." She looked him up and down with some
disgust. "Really, is this the best you can do? I don't know how you catch
anyone, unless you positively fall over them!"

"Hester!" Imogen spoke quite sharply, although she kept her
eyes averted. "It is a question Mr. Monk must ask. It is possible I may
have seen or heard something to make me anxious—and only realize it now in
retrospect.''

Monk felt a quick, foolish surge of pleasure. He had not deserved
defending.

"Thank you, ma'am." He tried to smile at her, and felt his
lips grimacing. "Did you at that time know the full extent of your
father-in-law's financial misfortune?"

"It was not the money that killed him,'' Imogen replied before
Charles could get his own words formed and while Hester was still standing in
resigned silence—at least temporarily. "It was the disgrace." She
bit her lip on all the distress returned to her. Her voice dropped to little
more than a whisper, tight with pity. "You see, he had advised so many of
his friends to invest. He had lent his name to it, and they had put in money
because they trusted him."

Monk could think of nothing to say, and platitudes offended him in the
face of real grief. He longed to be able to comfort her, and knew it was
impossible. Was this the emotion that surged through him so intensely—pity? And
the desire to protect?

"The whole venture has brought nothing but tragedy," Imogen
went on very softly, staring at the ground. "Papa-in-law, then poor Mama,
and now Joscelin as well."

For an instant everything seemed suspended, an age between the time she
spoke and the moment overwhelming realization of what she had said came to
Monk.