The Face of a Stranger (41 page)

Evan hesitated.

Monk said nothing. He did not want conversation.

After a moment Evan left and Monk sat down on his own chair, closing his
eyes to shut out the room. It was going to be even harder than it had seemed
last night. Evan had believed in him, liked him. Disillusionment so often
turned to pity, and then to hate.

And what about Beth? Perhaps far up in Northumberland she need never
know. Maybe he could find someone to write to her and say simply that he had
died. They would not do it for him; but if he explained, told them of her
children, then for her?

"Asleep, Monk? Or dare I hope you are merely thinking?" It
was Runcorn's voice, dark with sarcasm.

Monk opened his eyes. He had no career left, no future. But one of the
few reliefs it brought was that he need no longer be afraid of Runcorn. Nothing
Runcorn could do would matter in the least, compared with what he had already
done to himself.

"Thinking," Monk replied coldly. "I find it better to
think before I face a witness than after I have got there. Either one stands
foolishly silent, or rushes, even more foolishly, into saying something inept,
merely to fill the chasm."

"Social arts again?" Runcom raised his eyebrows. "I would
not have thought you would have had time for them now.'' He was standing in
front of Monk, rocking a little on his feet, hands behind his back. Now he
brought them forward with a sheaf of daily newspapers displayed belligerently.
"Have you read the newspapers this morning? There has been a murder in
Stepney, a man knifed in the street, and they are saying it is time we did our
job, or were replaced by someone who can."

"Why do they presume there is only one person in London capable of
knifing a man?" Monk asked bitterly.

"Because they are angry and frightened," Runcorn snapped back.
"And they have been let down by the men they trusted to safeguard them.
That is why." He slammed the newspapers down on the desk top. "They
do not care whether you speak like a gentleman or know which knife and fork to
eat with, Mr. Monk; but they care very much whether you are capable of doing
your job and catching murderers and taking them off the streets."

"Do you think Lord Shelburne knifed this man in Stepney?"
Monk looked straight into Runcorn's eyes. He was pleased to be able to hate
someone freely and without feeling any guilt about lying to him.

"Of course I don't." Runcorn's voice was thick with anger.
"But I think it past time you stopped giving yourself airs and graces and
found enough courage to forget climbing the ladder of your own career for a
moment and arrested Shelburne."

"Indeed? Well I don't, because I'm not at all sure that he's
guilty," Monk answered him with a straight, hard stare. "If you are
sure, then you arrest him!"

"I'll have you for insolence!" Runcorn shouted, leaning
forward towards him, fists clenched white. "And I'll make damned sure you
never reach senior rank as long as I'm in this station. Do you hear me?"

"Of course I hear you." Monk deliberately kept calm.
"Although it was unnecessary for you to say so, your actions have long
made it obvious; unless of course you wish to inform the rest of the building?
Your voice was certainly loud enough. As for me, I knew your intentions long
ago. And now . . ."He stood up and walked past him to the door. "If
you have nothing else to say, sir; I have several witnesses to question."

"I'll give you till the end of the week," Runcorn bellowed
behind him, his face purple, but Monk was outside and going down the stairs for
his hat and coat. The only advantage of disaster was that all lesser ills are
swallowed up in it.

* * * * *

By the time he had reached the Latterlys' house and been shown in by the
parlor maid, he had made up his mind to do the only thing that might lead him
to the truth. Runcorn had given him a week. And Evan would be back long before
that. Time was desperately short.

He asked to see Imogen, alone. The maid hesitated, but it was morning
and Charles was quite naturally out; and anyway, as a servant she had not the
authority to refuse.

He paced backwards and forwards nervously, counting seconds until he
heard light, decisive footsteps outside and the door opened. He swung around.
It was not Imogen but Hester Latterly who came in.

He felt an immediate rush of disappointment, then something almost
resembling relief. The moment was put off; Hester had not been here at the
time. Unless Imogen had confided in her she could not help. He would have to
return. He needed the truth, and yet it terrified him.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," she said curiously. "What may
we do for you this time?"

"I am afraid you cannot help me," he replied. He did not like
her, but it would be pointless and stupid to be rude. "It is Mrs. Latterly
I would like to see, since she was here at the time of Major Grey's death. I
believe you were still abroad?"

"Yes I was. But I am sorry, Imogen is out all day and I do not expect
her return until late this evening." She frowned very slightly and he was
uncomfortably aware of her acute perception, the sensitivity with which she was
regarding him. Imogen was kinder, immeasurably less abrasive, but there was an
intelligence in Hester which might meet his present need more readily.

"I can see that something very serious troubles you,"

she said gravely. "Please sit down. If it is to do with Imogen, I
would greatly appreciate it if you would confide in me, and I may help the
matter to be dealt with with as little pain as possible. She has already
suffered a great deal, as has my brother. What have you discovered, Mr. Monk?'

He looked at her levelly, searching the wide, very clear eyes. She was a
remarkable woman and her courage must be immense to have defied her family and
traveled virtually alone to one of the most dreadful battlefields in the
world, and to have risked her own life and health to care for the wounded. She
must have very few illusions, and that thought was comforting now. There was an
infinity of experience between himself and Imogen: horror, violence, hatred and
pain outside her grasp to think of, and which from now on would be his shadow,
even his skin. Hester must have seen men in the very extremity of life and death,
the nakedness of soul that comes when fear strips everything away and the
honesty that loosens the tongue when pretense is futile.

Perhaps after all it was right he should speak to her.

"I have a most profound problem, Miss Latterly," he began. It
was easier to talk to her than he had expected. "I have not told you, or
anyone else, the entire truth about my investigation of Major Grey's
death."

She waited without interruption; surprisingly, she did know when to keep
silent.

"I have not lied," he went on. "But I have omitted one of
the most important facts."

She was very pale. "About Imogen?"

"No! No. I do not know anything about her, beyond what she told me
herself—that she knew and liked Joscelin Grey, and that he called here, as a
friend of your brother George. What I did not tell you is about myself."

He saw the flash of concern in her face, but he did not know the reason
for it. Was it her nurse's professional training, or some fear for Imogen,
something she knew and he did not? But again she did not interrupt.

"The accident I suffered before beginning the Joscelin Grey case is
a severe complication which I did not mention." Then for a hideous moment
he thought she might imagine he was seeking some kind of sympathy, and he felt
the blood burn up his skin. "I lost my memory." He rushed to dispel
the idea. "Completely. When I came to my senses in the hospital I could
not even think of my own name." How far away that minimal nightmare seemed
now! "When I was recovered enough to go back to my rooms they were strange
to me, like the rooms of a man I had never met. I knew no one, I could not even
think how old I was, or what I looked like. When I saw myself in the mirror I
did not recognize myself even then."

There was pity in her face, gentle and quite pure, without a shadow of
condescension or setting herself apart. It was far sweeter than anything he had
expected.

"I'm deeply sorry," she said quietly. "Now I understand
why some of your questions seemed so very odd. You must have had to learn
everything over again."

“Miss Latterly—I believe your sister-in-law came to me before, asked me
something, confided—perhaps to do with Joscelin Grey—but I cannot remember. If
she could tell me everything she knows of me, anything I may have said—"

"How could that help you with Joscelin Grey?" Then suddenly
she looked down at the hand in her lap. "You mean you think Imogen may
have something to do with his death?" Her head came up sharply, her eyes
candid and full of fear. "Do you think Charles may have killed him, Mr.
Monk?"

"No—no, I am quite sure he did not." He must lie; the truth
was impossible, but he needed her help. "I found old notes of mine, made
before the accident, which indicate I knew something important then, but I
can't remember it. Please, Miss Latterly—ask her to help me.''

Her face was a little bleak, as if she too feared the outcome.

"Of course, Mr. Monk. When she returns I will explain

the necessity to her, and when I have something to tell you I shall come
and do so. Where may I find you that we can talk discreetly?"

He was right: she was afraid. She did not wish her family to
overhear—perhaps especially Charles. He stared at her, smiling with a bitter
humor, and saw it answered in her eyes. They were in an absurd conspiracy, she
to protect her family as far as was possible, he to discover the truth about
himself, before Evan or Runcorn made it impossible. He must know
why
he
had killed Joscelin Grey.

"Send me a message, and I shall meet you in Hyde Park, at the
Piccadilly end of the Serpentine. No one will remark two people walking
together."

"Very well, Mr. Monk. I shall do what I can."

"Thank you." He rose and took his leave, and she watched his
straight, very individual figure as he walked down the steps and out into the
street. She would have recognized his stride anywhere; there was an ease in it
not unlike a soldier's who was used to the self-discipline of long marches, and
yet it was not military.

When he was out of sight she sat down, cold, unhappy, but knowing it was
unavoidable she should do exactly as he had asked. Better she should learn the
truth first than that it should be dragged out longer, and found by others.

She spent a solitary and miserable evening, dining alone in her room.
Until she knew the truth from Imogen she could not bear to risk a long time
with Charles, such as at a meal table. It was too likely her thoughts would
betray her and end in hurting them both. As a child she had imagined herself to
be marvelously subtle and capable of all sorts of deviousness. At about twenty
she had mentioned it quite seriously at the dinner table. It was the only
occasion she could recall of every member of her family laughing at once.
George had begun, his face crinkling into uncontrollable delight and his voice
ringing out with hilarity. The very idea was funny. She had the most transparent
emotions any of them had seen. Her happiness

swept the house in a whirlwind; her misery wrapped it in a purple gloom.

It would be futile, and painful, to try to deceive Charles now.

* * * * *

It was the following afternoon before she had the opportunity to speak
alone with Imogen for any length of time. Imogen had been out all morning and
came in in a swirl of agitation, swinging her skirts around as she swept into
the hallway and deposited a basket full of linen on the settle at the bottom of
the stairs and took off her hat.

"Really, I don't know what the vicar's wife is thinking of,"
she said furiously. "Sometimes I swear that woman believes all the world's
ills can be cured with an embroidered homily on good behavior, a clean
undershirt and a jar of homemade broth. And Miss Wentworth is the last person
on earth to help a young mother with too many children and no
maidservant."

"Mrs. Addison?" Hester said immediately.

“Poor creature doesn't know whether she is coming or going," Imogen
argued. "Seven children, and she's as thin as a slat and exhausted. I
don't think she eats enough to keep a bird alive—giving it all to those hungry
little mouths forever asking for more. And what use is Miss Wentworth? She has
fits of the vapors every few minutes! I spend half my time picking her up off
the floor."

"I'd have fits of the vapors myself if my stays were as tight as
hers," Hester said wryly. "Her maid must lace them with one foot on
the bedpost. Poor soul. And of course her mother's trying to marry her off to
Sydney Ab-ernathy—he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like
fragility—it makes him feel masterful."

"I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on
vanity." Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the
withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. "I am hot
and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?"