The Face of a Stranger (37 page)

Monk stared at him. Painfully the truth of it conquered him. Wigtight
was a parasite, but he was not a fool. He would not have hired such clumsy
chance help to murder a man for a debt, of whatever size. If he had intended
murder he would have been cleverer, more discreet about it. A little violence
might well have been fruitful, but not this, and not in Grey's own house.

But he might well have wanted to be sure there was no trace of the
association left, purely to avoid inconvenience.

"Why did you leave it so long?" Monk asked, his voice

flat again, without the hunting edge. "Why didn't you go and look
for the IOU straightaway?"

Wigtight knew he had won. It was there gleaming in his pallid, globular
face, like pond slime on a frog.

"At first there were too many real police about," he answered.
"Always going in and out." He spread his hands in reasonableness.
Monk would have liked to call him a liar, but he could not, not yet.
"Couldn't get anyone prepared to take the risk," Wigtight went on.
"Pay a man too much for a job, and immediately he begins to wonder if
there's more to it than you've told him. Might start thinking I had something
to be afraid of. Your lot was looking for thieves, in the beginning. Now it's
different; you're asking about business, money—"

"How do you know?" Monk believed him, he was forced to, but he
wanted every last ounce of discomfort he could drag out.

"Word gets about; you asked his tailor, his wine merchant, looking
into the paying of his bills—"

Monk remembered he had sent Evan to do these things. It would seem the
usurer had eyes and ears everywhere. He realized now it was to be expected:
that was how he found his customers, he learned weaknesses, sought out
vulnerability. God, how he loathed this man and his kind.

"Oh." In spite of himself his face betrayed his defeat.
"I shall have to be more discreet with my inquiries."

Wigtight smiled coldly.

"I shouldn't trouble yourself. It will make no difference."
He knew his success; it was a taste he was used to, like a ripe Stilton cheese
and port after dinner.

There was nothing more to say, and Monk could not stomach more of
Wigtight's satisfaction. He left, going out past the oily clerk in the front
office; but he was determined to take the first opportunity to charge Josiah
Wigtight with something, preferably something earning a good long spell on the
prison treadmill. Perhaps it was hate of usury and all its cancerous agonies
eating away the hearts of people, or hate for Wigtight particularly, for his
fat belly and cold eyes; but more probably it was the bitterness of
disappointment because he knew it was not the moneylender who had killed
Joscelin Grey.

All of which brought him back again to facing the only other avenue of
investigation. Joscelin Grey's friends, the people whose secrets he might have
known. He was back to Shelburne again—and Runcorn's triumph.

But before he began on that course to one of its inevitable
conclusions—either the arrest of Shelburne, and his own ruin after it; or else
the admission that he could not prove his case and must accept failure; and
Runcorn could not lose—Monk would follow all the other leads, however faint,
beginning with Charles Latterly.

He called in the late afternoon, when he felt it most likely Imogen
would be at home, and he could reasonably ask to see Charles.

He was greeted civilly, but no more than that. The parlor maid was too
well trained to show surprise. He was kept waiting only a few minutes before
being shown into the withdrawing room and its discreet comfort washed over him
again.

Charles was standing next to a small table in the window bay.

"Good afternoon, Mr.—er—Monk," he said with distinct chill.
"To what do we owe this further attention?"

Monk felt his stomach sink. It was as if the smell of the rookeries
still clung to him. Perhaps it was obvious what manner of man he was, where he
worked, what he dealt with; and it had been all the time. He had been too busy
with his own feelings to be aware of theirs.

"I am still inquiring into the murder of Joscelin Grey," he
replied a little stiltedly. He knew both Imogen and Hester were in the room
but he refused to look at them. He bowed very slightly, without raising his
eyes. He made a similar acknowledgment in their direction.

"Then it's about time you reached some conclusion, isn't it?"
Charles raised his eyebrows. "We are very sorry,

naturally, since we knew him; bat we do not require a day-by-day account
of your progress, or lack of it."

"It's as well," Monk answered, stirred to tartness m his hurt,
and the consciousness that he did not, and would never, belong in this faded
and gracious room with its padded furniture and gleaming walnut. "Because
I could not afford it. It is because you knew Major Grey that I wish to speak
to you again." He swallowed. "We naturally first considered the
possibility of his having been attacked by some chance thief, then of its being
over a matter of debt, perhaps gambling, or borrowing. We have exhausted these
avenues now, and are driven back to what has always, regrettably, seemed the
most probable—"

"I thought I had explained it to you, Mr. Monk." Charles's
voice was sharper. "We do not wish to know! And quite frankly, I will not
have my wife or my sister distressed by hearing of it. Perhaps the women of
your—" He searched for the least offensive word. "Your background—are
less sensitive to such things: unfortunately they may be more used to violence
and the sordid aspects of life. But my sister and my wife are gentlewomen, and
do not even know of such things. I must ask you to respect their
feelings."

Monk could sense the color burning up his face. He ached to be equally rude
in return, but his awareness of Imogen, only a few feet from him, was
overwhelming. He did not care in the slightest what Hester thought; in fact it
would be a positive pleasure to quarrel with her, like the sting in the face of
clean, icy water—invigorating.

"I had no intention of distressing anyone unnecessarily, sir."
He forced the words out, muffled between his teeth. "And I have not come
for your information, but to ask you some further questions. I was merely
trying to give you the reason for them, that you might feel freer to answer."

Charles blinked at him. He was half leaning against the mantel shelf,
and he stiffened.

"I know nothing whatsoever about the affair, and naturally neither
do my family."

"I am sure we should have helped you if we could," Imogen
added. For an instant Monk thought she looked abashed by Charles's so open
condescension.

Hester stood up and walked across the room opposite Monk.

"We have not been asked any questions yet," she pointed out to
Charles reasonably. "How do we know whether we could answer them or not?
And I cannot speak for Imogen, of course, but I am not in the least offended by
being asked; indeed if you are capable of considering the murder, then so am I.
We surely have a duty."

"My dear Hester, you don't know what you are speaking of."
Charles's face was sharp and he put his hand out towards her, but she avoided
it. "What unpleasant things may be involved, quite beyond your
experience!"

"Balderdash!" she said instantly. "My experience has
included a multitude of things you wouldn't have in your nightmares. I've seen
men hacked to death by sabers, shot by cannon, frozen, starved, wasted by
disease—"

"Hester!" Charles exploded. "For the love of
heaven!"

"So don't tell me I cannot survive the drawing room discussion of
one wretched murder," she finished.

Charles's face was very pink and he ignored Monk. "Has it not
crossed your very unfeminine mind that Imogen has feelings, and has led a
considerably more decorous life than you have chosen for yourself?" he demanded.
"Really, sometimes you are beyond enduring!''

"Imogen is not nearly as helpless as you seem to imagine,"
Hester retorted, but there was a faint blush to her cheeks. "Nor, I think,
does she wish to conceal truth because it may be unpleasant to discuss. You do
her courage little credit."

Monk looked at Charles and was perfectly sure that had they been alone
he would have disciplined his sister in whatever manner was open to him—which
was probably

not a great deal. Personally Monk was very glad it was not his problem.

Imogen took the matter into her own hands. She turned towards Monk.

"You were saying that you were driven to an inevitable conclusion,
Mr. Monk. Pray tell us what it is." She stared at him and her eyes were
angry, almost defensive. She seemed more inwardly alive and sensitive to hurt
than anyone else he had ever seen. For seconds he could not think of words to
answer her. The moments hung in the air. Her chin came a little higher, but she
did not look away.

"I—" he began, and failed. He tried again. "That— that it
was someone he knew who killed him." Then his voice came mechanically.
"Someone well known to him, of his own position and social circle."

"Nonsense!" Charles interrupted him sharply, coming into the center
of the room as if to confront him physically. "People of Joscelin Grey's
circle do not go around murdering people. If that's the best you can do, then
you had better give up the case and hand it over to someone more skilled."

"You are being unnecessarily rude, Charles." Imogen's eyes
were bright and there was a touch of color in her face. "We have no reason
to suppose that Mr. Monk is not skilled at his job, and quite certainly no call
to suggest it."

Charles's whole body tightened; the impertinence was intolerable.

"Imogen," he began icily; then remembering the feminine
frailty he had asserted, altered his tone. "The matter is naturally
upsetting to you; I understand that. Perhaps it would be better if you were to
leave us. Retire to your room and rest for a little while. Return when you have
composed yourself. Perhaps a tisane?"

"I am not tired, and I do not wish for a tisane. I am perfectly
composed, and the police wish to question me." She swung around.
"Don't you, Mr. Monk?"

He wished he could remember what he knew of them,

but although he strained till his brain ached, he could recall nothing.
All his memories were blurred and colored by the overwhelming emotion she
aroused in him, the hunger for something always just out of reach, like a great
music that haunts the senses but cannot quite be caught, disturbingly and
unforgettably sweet, evocative of a whole life on the brink of remembrance.

But he was behaving like a fool. Her gentleness, something in her face
had woken in him the memory of a time when he had loved, of the softer side of
himself which he had lost when the carriage had crashed and obliterated the
past. There was more in him than the detective, brilliant, ambitious, sharp
tongued, solitary. There had been those who loved him, as well as the rivals
who hated, the subordinates who feared or admired, the villains who knew his
skill, the poor who looked for justice—or vengeance. Imogen reminded him that
he had a humanity as well, and it was too precious for him to drown in reason.
He had lost his balance, and if he were to survive this nightmare— Runcorn, the
murder, his career—he must regain it.

"Since you knew Major Grey," he tried again, "it is
possible he may have confided in you any anxieties he may have had for his
safety—anyone who disliked him or was harassing him for any reason." He
was not being as articulate as he wished, and he cursed himself for it.

“Did he mention any envies or rivalries to you?''

"None at all. Why would anyone he knew kill him?" she asked.
"He was very charming; I never knew of him picking a quarrel more serious
than a few sharp words. Perhaps his humor was a little unkind, but hardly
enough to provoke more than a passing irritation."

"My dear Imogen, they wouldn't!" Charles snapped. "It was
robbery; it must have been."

Imogen breathed in and out deeply and ignored her husband, still
regarding Monk with solemn eyes, waiting for his reply.

"I believe blackmail," Monk replied. "Or perhaps jealousy
over a woman."

"Blackmail!" Charles was horrified and his voice was thick
with disbelief. "You mean Grey was blackmailing someone? Over what, may I
ask?"

"If we knew that, sir, we should almost certainly know who it
was," Monk answered. "And it would solve the case."

"Then you know nothing." There was derision back again in
Charles's voice.

"On the contrary, we know a great deal. We have a suspect, but
before we charge him we must have eliminated all the other
possibilities." That was overstating the case dangerously, but Charles's
smug face, his patronizing manner roused Monk's temper beyond the point where
he had complete control. He wanted to shake him, to force him but of his
complacency and his infuriating superiority.

"Then you are making a mistake." Charles looked at him through
narrow eyes. "At least it seems most likely you are."

Monk smiled dryly. "I am trying to avoid that, sir, by exploring
every alternative first, and by gaining all the information anyone can give.
I'm sure you appreciate that!"