The Face of a Stranger (4 page)

The work went on all night, the lifeboats going backwards and forwards,
men roped together. Thirty-five people were pulled out of the sea, ten were
lost. Survivors were all brought back to the few homes in the village. Beth's
kitchen was full of white-faced shivering people and she and Monk plied them
with hot soup and what comforting words they could think of.

Nothing was stinted. Beth emptied out every last morsel of food without
a thought as to what her own family might eat tomorrow. Every stitch of dry
clothing was brought out and offered.

One woman sat in the corner too numb with grief for her lost husband
even to weep. Beth looked at her with a compassion that made her beautiful. In
a moment between tasks Monk saw her bend and take the woman's hands, holding
them between her own to press some warmth into them, speaking to her gently as
if she had been a child.

Monk felt a sudden ache of loneliness, of being an outsider whose
involvement in this passion of suffering and pity was only chance. He
contributed nothing but physical help; he could not even remember whether he
had ever done it before, whether these were his people or not. Had he ever
risked his life without grudge or question as Rob Bannerman did? He hungered
with a terrible need for some part in the beauty of it. Had he ever had
courage, generosity? Was there anything in his past to be proud of, to cling
to?

There was no one he could ask—

The moment passed and the urgency of the present need overtook him
again. He bent to pick up a child shaking with terror and cold, and wrapped it
in a warm blanket, holding it close to his own body, stroking it with soft,
repetitive words as he might a frightened animal.

By dawn it was over. The seas were still running high

and hard, but Rob was back, too tired to speak and too weary with loss
of those the sea had taken. He simply took off his wet clothes in the kitchen
and climbed up to bed.

* * * * *

A week later Monk was fully recovered physically; only dreams troubled
him, vague nightmares of fear, sharp pain and a sense of being violently struck
and losing his balance, then a suffocation. He woke gasping, his heart racing
and sweat on his skin, his breath rasping, but nothing was left except the
fear, no thread to unravel towards recollection. The need to return to London
became more pressing. He had found his distant past, his beginnings, but memory
was virgin blank and Beth could tell him nothing whatsoever of his life since
leaving, when she was still little more than a child. Apparently he had not
written of it, only trivialities, items of ordinary news such as one might read
in the journals or newspapers, and small matters of his welfare and concern
for hers. This was the first time he had visited her in eight years, something
he was not proud to learn. He seemed a cold man, obsessed with his own
ambition. Had that compelled him to work so hard, or had he been so poor? He
would like to think there was some excuse, but to judge from the money in his
desk at Grafton Street, it had not lately been finance.

He racked his brains to recall any emotion, any flash of memory as to
what sort of man he was, what he had valued, what sought. Nothing came, no
explanations for his self-absorption.

He said good-bye to her and Rob, thanking them rather awkwardly for
their kindness, surprising and embarrassing them, and because of it, himself
too; but he meant it so deeply. Because they were strangers to him, he felt as
if they had taken him in, a stranger, and offered him acceptance, even trust.
They looked confused, Beth coloring shyly. But he did not try to explain; he
did not have words, nor did he wish them to know.

* * * * *

London seemed enormous, dirty and indifferent when he got off the train
and walked out of the ornate, smoke-grimed station. He took a hansom to Grafton
Street, announced his return to Mrs. Worley, then went upstairs and changed
his clothes from those worn and crumpled by his journey. He took himself to the
police station Runcorn had named when speaking to the nurse. With the
experience of Beth and Northumberland behind him he began to feel a little
confidence. It was still another essay into the unknown, but with each step
accomplished without unpleasant surprise, his apprehension lessened.

When he climbed out of the cab and paid the driver he stood on the
pavement. The police station was as unfamiliar as everything else—not strange,
simply without any spark of femiliarity at all. He opened the doors and went
inside, saw the sergeant at the duty desk and wondered how many hundreds of
times before he had done exactly this.

" 'Arternoon, Mr. Monk." The man looked up with slight
surprise, and no pleasure. "Nasty haccident. Better now, are yer,
sir?"

There was a chill in his voice, a wariness. Monk looked at him. He was
perhaps forty, round-faced, mild and perhaps a trifle indecisive, a man who
could be easily befriended, and easily crushed. Monk felt a stirring of shame,
and knew no reason for it whatever, except the caution in the man's eyes. He
was expecting Monk to say something to which he would not be able to reply with
assurance. He was a subordinate, and slower with words, and he knew it.

"Yes I am, thank you." Monk could not remember the man's name
to use it. He felt contempt for himself—what kind of a man embarrasses someone
who cannot retaliate? Why? Was there some long history of incompetence or
deceit that would explain such a thing?

"You'll be wantin' Mr. Runcorn, sir." The sergeant seemed to
notice no change in Monk, and to be keen to speed him on his way.

"Yes, if he's in—please?"

The sergeant stepped aside a little and allowed Monk through the
counter.

Monk stopped, feeling ridiculous. He had no idea which way to go, and he
would raise suspicion if he went the wrong way. He had a hot, prickly sensation
that there would be little allowance made for him—he was not liked.

"You o'right, sir?" the sergeant said anxiously.

"Yes—yes I am. Is Mr. Runcorn still"—he took a glance around
and made a guess—"at the top of the stairs?"

"Yes sir, right w'ere 'e always was!"

"Thank you." And he set off up the steps rapidly, feeling a
fool.

Runcorn was in the first room on the corridor. Monk knocked and went in.
It was dark and littered with papers and cabinets and baskets for filing, but
comfortable, in spite of a certain institutional bareness. Gas lamps hissed gently
on the walls. Runcorn himself was sitting behind a large desk, chewing a
pencil.

" Ah!" he said with satisfaction when Monk came in.”Fit for
work, are you? About time. Best thing, work. Good for a man to work. Well, sit
down then, sit down. Think better sitting down."

Monk obeyed, his muscles tight with tension. He imagined his breathing
was so loud it must be audible above the gas.

"Good. Good," Runcorn went on. "Lot of cases, as always;
I'll wager there's more stolen in some quarters of this city than is ever
bought or sold honestly." He pushed away a pile of papers and set his pen
in its stand. "And the Swell Mob's been getting worse. All these enormous
crinolines. Crinolines were made to steal from, so many petticoats on no one
can feel a dip. But that's not what I had in mind for you. Give you a good one
to get your teeth into." He smiled mirthlessly.

Monk waited.

"Nasty murder." He leaned back in his chair and looked
directly at Monk. "Haven't managed to do anything about it, though heaven
knows we've tried. Had Lamb in charge. Poor fellow's sick and taken to his bed.
Put you on the case; see what you can do. Make a good job of it. We've got to
turn up some kind of result." "Who was killed?" Monk asked.
"And when?" “Feller called Joscelin Grey, younger brother of Lord
Shelburne, so you can see it's rather important we tidy it up." His eyes
never left Monk's face. "When? Well that's the worst part of it—rather a
while ago, and we haven't turned up a damned thing. Nearly six weeks now—about
when you had your accident, in fact, come to think of it, exactly then. Nasty
night, thunderstorm and pouring with rain. Probably some ruffian followed him
home, but made a very nasty job of it, bashed the poor feller about to an awful
state. Newspapers in an outrage, naturally, crying for justice, and what's the
world coming to, where are the police, and so on. We'll give you everything
poor Lamb had, of course, and a good man to work with, name of Evan, John Evan;
worked with Lamb till he took ill. See what you can do, anyway. Give them
something!" "Yes sir." Monk stood up. "Where is Mr.
Evan?" "Out somewhere; trail's pretty cold. Start tomorrow morning,
bright and early. Too late now. Go home and get some rest. Last night of
freedom, eh? Make the best of it; tomorrow I'll have you working like one of
those railway diggers!"

"Yes sir." Monk excused himself and walked out. It was already
darkening in the street and the wind was laden with the smell of coming rain.
But he knew where he was going, and he knew what he would do tomorrow, and it
would be with identity—and purpose.

2

Monk
arrived early to meet John Evan and find out what Lamb had so far learned of
the murder of Lord Shelburne's brother, Joscelin Grey.

He still had some sense of apprehension; his discoveries about himself
had been commonplace, such small things as one might learn of anyone, likes and
dislikes, vanities— his wardrobe had plainly shown him those—discourtesies,
such as had made the desk sergeant nervous of him. But the remembered warmth of
Northumberland was still with him and it was enough to buoy up his spirits. And
he must work! The money would not last much longer.

John Evan was a tall young man, and lean almost to the point of
appearing frail, but Monk judged from the way he stood that it was a deception;
he might well be wiry under that rather elegant jacket, and the air with which
he wore his clothes was a natural grace rather than effeminacy. His face was
sensitive, all eyes and nose, and his hair waved back from his brow thick and
honey brown. Above all he appeared intelligent, which was both necessary to
Monk and frightening. He was not yet ready for a companion of such quick sight,
or subtlety of perception.

But he had no choice in the matter. Runcorn introduced Evan, banged a
pile of papers on the wide, scratched

wooden table in Monk's office, a good-sized room crammed with filing
drawers and bookcases and with one sash window overlooking an alley. The carpet
was a domestic castoff, but better than the bare wood, and there were two
leather-seated chairs. Runcorn went out, leaving them alone.

Evan hesitated for a moment, apparently not wishing to usurp authority,
then as Monk did not move, he put out a long finger and touched the top of the
pile of papers.

"Those are all the statements from the witnesses, sir. Not very
helpful, I'm afraid."

Monk said the first thing that came to him.

"Were you with Mr. Lamb when they were taken?"

"Yes sir, all except the street sweeper; Mr. Lamb saw him while I
went after the cabby."

"Cabby?" For a moment Monk had a wild hope that the assailant
had been seen, was known, that it was merely his whereabouts that were needed.
Then the thought died immediately. It would hardly have taken them six weeks if
it were so simple. And more than that, there had been in Runcorn's face a
challenge, even a kind of perverse satisfaction.

"The cabby that brought Major Grey home, sir," Evan said,
demolishing the hope apologetically.

"Oh." Monk was about to ask him if there was anything useful
in the man's statement, then realized how inefficient he would appear. He had
all the papers in front of him. He picked up the first, and Evan waited
silently by the window while he read.

It was in neat, very legible writing, and headed at the top was the
statement of Mary Ann Brown, seller of ribbons and laces in the street. Monk
imagined the grammar to have been altered somewhat from the original, and a few
aspirates put in, but the flavor was clear enough.

"I was standing in my usual place in Doughty Street near
Mecklenburg Square, like as I always do, on the corner, knowing as how there
is ladies living in many of them

buildings, especially ladies as has their own maids what does sewing for
them, and the like."

Question from Mr. Lamb: "So you
were there
at six o'clock in
the evening?"

"I suppose I must have been, though I carsen't tell the time, and I
don't have no watch. But I see'd the gentleman arrive what was killed. Something
terrible, that is, when even the gentry's not safe."

"You saw Major Grey arrive?"

"Yes sir. What a gentleman he looked, all happy and jaunty,
like."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes sir, he was."

"Did he go straight in? After paying the cabby, of course."

"Yes sir, he did."

"What time did you leave Mecklenburg Square?"

"Don't rightly know, not for sure. But I heard the church clock at
St. Mark's strike the quarter just afore I got there."

"Home?"