The Face of a Stranger (43 page)

What sort of revulsion would she feel if she knew it was he who had
beaten Joscelin Grey to death in that dreadful room?

"—as they got to know him," she was saying, "they all
came to like him better and better for himself. Mama used to look forward to
his visits; she would prepare for

them days before. Thank heavens she never knew what happened to
him."

He refrained at the last moment, when it was on the tip of his tongue,
from asking her when her mother had died. He remembered something about shock,
a broken heart.

"Go
on,"
he said instead. "Or is that all about
him?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, there is much more. As I
said, they were all fond of him; Imogen and Charles also. Imogen used to like
to hear about the bravery of the soldiers, and of the hospital in Scutari, I
suppose at least in part because of me."

He remembered what he had heard of the military hospital—of Florence
Nightingale and her women. The sheer physical labor of it, quite apart from the
social stigma. Nurses were traditionally mostly men; the few women were of the
strongest, the coarsest, and they did little but clean up the worst of the
refuse and waste.

She was speaking again. "It was about four weeks after they first
met him that he first mentioned the watch—"

"Watch?" He had heard nothing of a watch, except he recalled
they had found no watch on the body. Constable Harrison had found one at a
pawnbroker's—which had turned out to be irrelevant.

"It was Joscelin Grey's," she replied. "Apparently it was
a gold watch of great personal value to him because he had been given it by his
grandfather, who had fought with the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. It had a
dent in it where a ball from a French musket struck it and was deflected, thus
saving his grandfather's life. When he had first expressed a desire to be a
soldier himself, the old man had given it to him. It was considered something
of a talisman. Joscelin Grey said that poor George had been nervous that night,
the night before the Battle of the Alma, perhaps something of a premonition,
and Joscelin had lent him the watch. Of course George was killed the next day,
and so never returned it. Joscelin did not make much of it, but he said that if
it had been returned to them with George's effects, he would be most grateful
if he might

have it again. He described it most minutely, even to the inscription
inside."

"And they returned it to him?" he asked.

"No. No, they did not have it. They had no idea what could have
happened to it, but it was not among the things that the army sent them from
George's body, nor his personal possessions. I can only presume someone must
have stolen it. It is the most contemptible of crimes, but it happens. They
felt quite dreadful about it, especially Papa."

“And Joscelin Grey?''

"He was distressed, of course, but according to Imogen he did his
best to hide it; in fact he hardly mentioned it again."

"And your father?"

Her eyes were staring blindly past him at the wind in the leaves.
"Papa could not return the watch, nor could he replace it, since in spite
of its monetary value, its personal value was far greater, and it was that
which really mattered. So when Joscelin Grey was interested in a certain
business venture, Papa felt it was the very least he could do to oifer to join
him in it. Indeed from what both he and Charles said, it seemed at the time to
be, in their judgment, an excellent scheme."

"That was the one in which your father lost his money?"

Her face tightened.

"Yes. He did not lose it all, but a considerable amount. What caused
him to take his life, and Imogen has accepted now that he did so, was that he
had recommended the scheme to his friends, and some of them had lost far more.
That was the shame of it. Of course Joscelin Grey lost much of his own money
too, and he was terribly distressed. ''

"And from that time their friendship ceased?"

"Not immediately. It was a week later, when Papa shot himself.
Joscelin Grey sent a letter of condolence, and Charles wrote back, thanking
him, and suggesting that they discontinue their acquaintance, in the
circumstances."

"Yes, I saw the letter. Grey kept it—I don't know why."

"Mama died a few days after that." She went on very quietly.
"She simply collapsed, and never got up again. And of course it was not a
time for social acquaintance: they were all in mourning." She hesitated a
moment. "We still are."

"And it was after your father's death that Imogen came to see
me?" he prompted after a moment.

"Yes, but not straightaway. She came the day after they buried
Mama. I cannot think there was ever anything you could have done, but she was
too upset to be thinking as deeply as she might, and who can blame her? She
just found it too hard then to accept what must have been the truth."

They turned and began walking back again.

"So she came to the police station?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And told me everything that you have told me now?"

"Yes. And you asked her all the details of Papa's death: how he
died, precisely when, who was in the house, and soon."

"And I noted it?"

"Yes, you said it might have been murder, or an accident, although
you doubted it. You said that you would make some investigation."

"Do you know what I did?"

"I asked Imogen, but she did not know, only that you found no
evidence that it was other than it seemed, which was that he took his own life
while in deep despair. But you said you would continue to investigate it and
let her know if you discovered anything further. But you never did, at least
not until after we saw you again in the church, more than two months later.''

He was disappointed, and becoming frightened as well. There was still no
direct connection between himself and Joscelin Grey, still less any reason why
he should have hated him. He tried a last time.

"And she does not know what my investigations were? I told her
nothing?"

"No." She shook her head. "But I imagine, from the
questions you asked her about Papa and the business, such as she knew it, that
you inquired into that."

"Did I meet Joscelin Grey?"

"No. You met a Mr. Marner, who was one of the principals. You
spoke of him; but you never met Joscelin Grey so far as she knows. In fact the
last time she saw you you said quite plainly that you had not. He was also a
victim of the same misfortune, and you seemed to consider Mr. Marner the author
of it, whether intentionally or not."

It was something, however frail; a place to begin.

"Do you know where I can find Mr. Mamer now?"

"No, I am afraid not. I asked Imogen, but she had no
knowledge."

"Did she know his Christian name?"

Again she shook her head. "No. You mentioned him only very briefly.
I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

"You have helped. At least now I know what I was doing before the
accident. It is somewhere to begin." That was a lie, but there was nothing
to be gained in the truth.

"Do you think Joscelin Grey was killed over something to do with
the business? Could he have known something about this Mr. Marner?" Her
face was blank and sad with the sharpness of memory, but she did not evade the
thought. "Was the business fraudulent, and he discovered it?"

Again he could only lie.

"I don't know. I'll start again, from the beginning. Do you know
what manner of business it was, or at least the names of some of the friends of
your father who invested in it? They would be able to give me the
details."

She told him several names and he wrote them down, with addresses. He
thanked her, feeling a little awkward, wanting her to know, without the
embarrassment for both of them of his saying it, that he was grateful—for her
candor, her understanding without pity, the moment's truce from all argument or
social games.

He hesitated, trying to think of words. She put her hand very lightly on
his sleeve and met his eyes for an instant. For a wild moment he thought of
friendship, a closeness better than romance, cleaner and more honest; then it
disappeared. There was the battered corpse of Joscelin Grey between him and
everyone else.

"Thank you," he said calmly. "You have been very helpful.
I appreciate your time and your frankness." He smiled very slightly,
looking straight into her eyes. "Good afternoon, Miss Latterly."

12

The
name Marner meant nothing to Monk, and the following day, even after he had
been to three of the addresses Hester had given him, he still had no more than
a name and the nature of the business—importing. It seemed no one else had met
the elusive Mr. Marner either. All inquiries and information had come from
Latterly, through Joscelin Grey. The business was for the importing of tobacco
from the United States of America, and a very profitable retailing of it was
promised, in alliance with a certain Turkish house. No one knew more than that;
except of course a large quantity of figures which indicated the amount of
capital necessary to begin the venture and the projected increase to the
fortunes of those who participated.

Monk did not leave the last house until well into the afternoon, but he
could not afford time for leisure. He ate briefly, purchasing fresh sandwiches
from a street seller, then went to the police station to seek the help of a man
he had learned investigated business fraud. He might at least know the name of
dealers in tobacco; perhaps he could find the Turkish house in question.

"Marner?" the man repeated agreeably, pushing his

fingers through his scant hair. "Can't say as I've ever heard of
him. You don't know his first name, you say?"

"No, but he floated a company for importing tobacco from America,
mixing it with Turkish, and selling it at a profit."

The man pulled a face.

"Sounds unpleasant—can't stand Turkish myself—but then I prefer
snuff anyway. Marner?" He shook his head. "You don't mean old Zebedee
Marner, by any chance? I suppose you've tried him, or you wouldn't ask. Very
sly old bird, that. But I never knew him mixed up with importing."

"What does he do?"

The man's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Losing your grip, Monk? What's the matter with you?" He
squinted a little. "You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to
charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all
know he's behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse
area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage
from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he's far too downy
to go anywhere near them himself." He sighed in disgust. "But then,
of course, there's a few who wouldn't say as far as that."

Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last
was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to
greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should have killed—but why
should he have been the victim?

Was there something in all this evidence that could at last convict
Zebedee Marner? Was Grey in collusion with Marner? But Grey had lost his own
money—or had he?

"Where can I find Marner?" he asked urgently. "I need
him, and time is short." There was no time to seek out addresses himself.
If this man thought he was peculiar, incompetent at his job, he would just have
to think it. Soon it would hardly matter anyway.

The man looked at Monk, interest suddenly sharpening in his face, his body
coming upright.

"Do you know something about Marner that I don't, Monk? IVe been
trying to catch that slimy bastard for years. Let me in on it?" His face
was eager, a light in his eyes as if he had seen a sudden glimpse of an elusive
happiness. "I don't want any of the credit; I won't say anything. I just
want to see his face when he's pinched."

Monk understood. He was sorry not to be able to help.

"I don't have anything on Marner," he answered. "I don't
even know if the business I'm investigating is fraudulent or not. Someone
committed suicide, and I'd like to know the reasons."

“Why?'' He was curious and his puzzlement was obvious. He cocked his
head a little to one side. "What do you care about a suicide? I thought
you were on the Grey case. Don't tell me Runcorn's let you off it—without an
arrest?"

So even this man knew of Runcorn's feelings about him. Did everyone? No
wonder Runcorn knew he had lost his memory! He must have laughed at Monk's
confusion, his fumbling.

"No." He pulled a wry face. "No, it's all part of the
same thing. Grey was involved in the business."

"Importing?" His voice rose an octave. "Don't tell me he
was killed over a shipment of tobacco!"

"Not over tobacco; but there was a lot of money invested, and
apparently the company failed."

"Oh yes? That's a new departure for Marner—"