The Face of a Stranger (8 page)

The local tavern turned out to be a pleasant, noisy place which served
them ale and a sandwich with civility, but something of a wary eye, knowing
them to be strangers and perhaps guessing from their clothes that they were
police. One or two ribald comments were offered, but apparently Grey had not
patronized the place and there was no particular sympathy for him, only the
communal interest in the macabre that murder always wakens.

Afterwards Evan went back
to
the police station, and Monk
returned to Mecklenburg Square
_r
and Grimwade. He began at the
beginning.

"Yes sir," Grimwade said patiently. "Major Grey came in
about quarter after six, or a bit before, and 'e looked 'is usual self to
me."

"He came by cab?" Monk wanted to be sure he had not led the
man, suggested the answer he wanted.

"Yes sir."

"How do you know? Did you see the cab?"

"Yes sir, I did." Grimwade wavered between nervousness and
affront. "Stopped right by the door 'ere; not a night to walk a step as
you didn't 'ave to."

"Did you see the cabby?"

" 'Ere, I don't understand what you're getting after." Now the
affront was definitely warning.

"Did you see him?" Monk repeated.

Grimwade screwed up his face. "Don't recall as I did," he
conceded.

"Did he get down off the box, help Major Grey with a parcel, or a
case or anything?"

"Not as I remember; no, 'e didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I am sure. 'E never got through that door."

That theory at least was gone. He should have been too old at this to be
disappointed, but he had no experience to call on. It seemed to come to him
easily enough, but possibly most of it was common sense.

"He went upstairs alone?" He tried a last time, to remove
every vestige of doubt.

"Yes sir, 'e did."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nothing special, as I can think of. I don't remember nothin', so I
reckon it can't 'ave bin. 'E never said nothin' about bein' afraid, or as 'e
was expecting anyone."

"But there were visitors to the buildings that afternoon and
evening?"

"Nobody as would be a-murderin' anyone."

"Indeed?" Monk raised his eyebrows. "You're not suggesting
Major Grey did that to himself in some kind of bizarre accident, are you? Or of
course there is the other alternative—that the murderer was someone already
here?"

Grimwade's face changed rapidly from resignation through extreme offense
to blank horror. He stared at Monk, but no words came to his brain.

"You have another idea? I thought not—neither have I." Monk
sighed. "So let us think again. You said there were two visitors after
Major Grey came in: one woman at about seven o'clock, and a man later on at
about quarter to ten. Now, who did the woman come to see, Mr. Grim-wade, and
what did she look like? And please, no cosmetic alterations for the sake of
discretion!"

"No wot?"

"Tell me the truth, man!" Monk snapped. "It could become
very embarrassing for your tenants if we have to investigate it for
ourselves."

Grimwade glared at him, but he took the point perfectly.

"A local lady of pleasure, sir; called Mollie Ruggles," he
said between his teeth. " 'Andsome piece, with red 'air. I know where she
lives, but I expec' you understand it would come real gratify in' if you could
see your way clear to bein' discreet about 'oo told yef she was 'ere?" His
expression was comical in its effort to expunge his dislike and look appealing.

Monk hid a sour amusement—it would only alienate the man.

"I will," he agreed. It would be in his own interest

also. Prostitutes could be useful informants, if well treated. "Who
did she come to see?"

"Mr. Taylor, sir; 'e lives in flat number five. She comes to see
'im quite reg'lar."

"And it was definitely her?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you take her to Mr. Taylor's door?"

"Oh no, sir. Reckon as she knows 'er way by now. And Mr.
Taylor—well ..." He hunched his shoulders. "It wouldn't be tactful,
now would it, sir? Not as I suppose you 'as ter be tactful, in your
callin'!" he added meaningfully.

"No." Monk smiled slightly. "So you didn't leave your
position when she came?"

"No sir."

"Any other women come, Mr. Grimwade?" He looked at him very
directly.

Grimwade avoided his eyes.

"Do I have to make my own inquiries?" Monk threatened.
"And leave detectives here to follow people?"

Grimwade was shocked. His head came up sharply.

"You wouldn't do that, sir! They're gentlemen as lives 'ere! They'd
leave. They won't put up with that kind o' thing!"

"Then don't make it necessary."

"You're an 'ard man, Mr. Monk." But there was a grudging
respect behind the grievance in his voice. That was small victory in itself.

"I want to find the man who killed Major Grey," Monk answered
him. "Someone came into these buildings, found his way upstairs into that
flat and beat Major Grey with a stick, over and over until he was dead, and
then went on beating him afterwards." He saw Grimwade wincing, and felt
the revulsion himself. He remembered the horror he had felt when actually
standing in the room. Did walls retain memory? Could violence or hatred remain
in the air after a deed was finished, and touch the sensitive, the imaginative
with a shadow of the horror?

No, that was ridiculous. It was not the imaginative, but the
nightmare-ridden who felt such things. He was letting his own fear, the horror
of his still occasionally recurring dreams and the hollowness of his past
extend into the present and warp his judgment. Let a little more time pass, a
little more identity build, learn to know himself, and he would grow firmer
memories in reality. His sanity would come back; he would have a past to root
himself in, other emotions, and people.

Or could it be—could it possibly be that it was some sort of mixed,
dreamlike, distorted recollection coming back to him? Could he be recalling
snatches of the pain and fear he must have felt when the coach turned over on
him, throwing him down, imprisoning him, the scream of terror as the horse
fell, the cab driver flung headlong, crushed to death on the stones of the street?
He must have known violent fear, and in the instant before unconsciousness,
have felt sharp, even blinding pain as his bones broke. Was that what he had
sensed? Had it been nothing to do with Grey at all, but his own memory
returning, just a flash, a sensation, the fierceness of the feeling long before
the clarity of actual perception came back?

He must learn more of himself, what he had been doing that night, where
he was going, or had come from. What manner of man had he been, whom had he
cared for, whom wronged, or whom owed? What had mattered to him? Every man had
relationships, every man had feelings, even hungers; every man who was alive
at all stirred some sort of passions in others. There must be people somewhere
who had feelings about him—more than professional rivalry and
resentment—surely? He could not have been so negative, of so little purpose
that his whole life had left no mark on another soul.

As soon as he was off duty, he must leave Grey, stop building the
pattern piece by piece of his life, and take up the few clues to his own, place
them together with whatever skill he possessed.

Grimwade was still waiting for him, watching curiously, knowing that he
had temporarily lost his attention.

Monk looked back at him.

"Well, Mr. Grimwade?" he said with sudden softness. "What
other women?"

Grimwade mistook the lowering tone for a further threat.

"One to see Mr. Scarsdale, sir; although 'e paid me 'andsome not to
say so."

"What time was it?"

“About eight o'clock.''

Scarsdale had said he had heard someone at eight. Was it his own visitor
he was talking about, trying to play safe, in case someone else had seen her
too?

"Did you go up with her?" He looked at Grimwade.

"No sir, on account o' she'd bin 'ere before, an' knew 'er way,
like. An' I knew as she was expected." He gave a slight leer, knowingly,
as man to man.

Monk acknowledged it. "And the one at quarter to ten?" he
asked. "The visitor for Mr. Yeats, I think you said? Had he been here
before too?"

"No sir. I went up with 'im, 'cos 'e didn't know Mr. Yeats very
well an' 'adn't called 'ere before. I said that to Mr. Lamb."

"Indeed." Monk forbore from criticizing him over the omission
of Scarsdale's woman. He would defeat his own purpose if he antagonized him any
further. "So you went up with this man?"

"Yes sir." Grimwade was firm. "Saw Mr. Yeats open the
door to 'im,"

"What did he look like, this man?"

Grimwade screwed up his eyes. "Oh, big man, 'e was, solid
and—'ere!" His face dropped. "You don't think it was 'im wot done it,
do yer?" He breathed out slowly, his eyes wide. "Gor'—it must 'a'
bin. When I thinks of it now!"

"It might have," Monk agreed cautiously. "It's possible.
Would you know him if you saw him again?"

Grimwade's face fell. "Ah, there you 'ave me, sir; I

don't think as I would. Yer see, I didn't see 'im close, like, when 'e
was down 'ere. An' on the stairs I only looked where I was goin', it bein'
dark. 'E 'ad one o' them 'eavy coats on, as it was a rotten night an' rainin'
somethin' wicked. A natural night for anyone to 'ave 'is coat turned up an' 'is
'at drawn down. I reckon 'e were dark, that's about all I could say fer sure,
an' if 'e 'ad a beard, it weren't much of a one."

"He was probably clean-shaven, and probably dark." Monk tried
to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He must not let irritation push
the man into saying something to please him, something less than true.

" 'E were big, sir," Grimwade said hopefully. "An' 'e
were tall, must 'ave bin six feet. That lets out a lot o' people, don't
it?"

"Yes, yes it does," Monk agreed. "When did he
leave?"

"I saw 'im out o' the corner o' me eye, sir. 'E went past me window
at about 'alf past ten, or a little afore."

"Out of the corner of your eye? You're sure it was him?"

" 'Ad ter be; 'e didn't leave before, ner after, an' 'e looked the
same. Same coat, and 'at, same size, same 'eight. Weren't no one else like that
lives 'ere."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No, 'e looked like 'e was in a bit of an 'urry. Maybe 'e wanted
ter get 'ome. It were a beastly rotten night, like I said, sir; not fit fer man
ner beast."

"Yes I know. Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. If you remember anything
more, tell me, or leave a message for me at the police station. Good day."

"Good day, sir," Grimwade said with intense relief.

Monk decided to wait for Scarsdale, first to tax him with his lie about
the woman, then to try and learn something more about Joscelin Grey. He
realized with faint surprise that he knew almost nothing about him, except the
manner of his death. Grey's life was as blank an outline as his own, a shadow
man, circumscribed by a few

physical facts, without color or substance that could have induced love
or hate. And surely there had been hate in whoever had beaten Grey to death,
and then gone on hitting and hitting him long after there was any purpose? Was
there something in Grey, innocently or knowingly, that had generated such a
passion, or was he merely the catalyst of something he knew nothing of—and its
victim?

He went back outside into the square and found a seat from which he
could see the entrance of Number 6.

It was more than an hour before Scarsdale arrived, and already beginning
to get darker and colder, but Monk was compelled by the importance it had for
him to wait.

He saw him arrive on foot, and followed a few paces after him, inquiring
from Grimwade in the hall if it was indeed Scarsdale.

"Yes sir," Grimwade said reluctantly, but Monk was not
interested in the porter's misfortunes.

"D' yer need me ter take yer up?"

"No thank you; I'll find it." And he took the stairs two at a
time and arrived on the landing just as the door was closing. He strode across
from the stair head and knocked briskly. There was a second's hesitation, then
the door opened. He explained his identity and his errand tersely.

Scarsdale was not pleased to see him. He was a small, wiry man whose
handsomest feature was his fair mustache, not matched by slightly receding
hair and undistinguished features. He was smartly, rather fussily dressed.

"I'm sorry, I can't see you this evening," he said brusquely.
"I have to change to go out for dinner. Call again tomorrow, or the next
day."

Monk was the bigger man, and in no mood to be summarily dismissed.

"I have other people to call on tomorrow," he said, placing
himself half in Scarsdale's way. "I need certain information from you
now."