Anne Perry - Slaves of Obsession

Monk himself was not sure. The blackmail letter Alberton had shown him was comparatively innocuous. It was awkwardly worded, made up from pieces cut from newspapers and pasted onto a sheet of very ordinary paper one might buy at any stationer’s. It had stated that the payments could be interpreted as purchase of several forms, and in light of the way in which Gilmer had died, public knowledge of it would ruin Alberton’s standing in society. No suggestion had been made that either Alberton or Casbolt was responsible for Gilmer’s death. Possibly the blackmailer was afraid they could prove themselves elsewhere at the time. More likely such a threat was unnecessary. He thought he could obtain what he wanted without going so far.

“If I find out,” Monk promised, “I shall be happy to assist you to dispense justice. I gather it was a male brothel where he was found?”

“That’s right,” Walters agreed. “And before you ask me what he was doing there, I’ll tell you that I don’t know. The owner said he took pity on him and fetched him in off the streets, an act of charity.” There was no irony in his eyes, and his look dared Monk to differ. “Could be true. Gilmer, poor devil, was in little state to be any use as a worker, and he had neither strength nor money to be a client, assuming he was that way inclined, which no one seems to know. We’ve just got it down officially as death by natural causes. But we all know damned well that someone beat him pretty badly too. Could have had them for assault if the poor sod hadn’t died anyway.”

“Any idea who it was that beat him?” Monk asked, hearing the edge in his own voice. “Privately, even if you couldn’t prove it?”

“Ideas,” Walters said darkly. “Not much more. Clients in places like that don’t leave their names on a list. Some of them have some pretty sordid tastes that they can’t exercise at home and aren’t keen to have known.”

“Think it was a client?”

“Sure of it. Why? Your friend one of them?” The sneer in Walters’s voice was too bitter to hide.

“He says not. If you tell me when Gilmer died, exactly, I may be able to ascertain where my friend was.”

Walters took out his notebook and rifled through it.

“Between eight and midnight on September twenty-eighth last year. Is your friend being blackmailed over Gilmer’s death?”

“No, over having given him some money, which is open to misinterpretation.”

“Nobody gave him much, poor devil.” Walters shrugged. “Got himself into debt pretty badly. Thought it might have been one of his creditors beat him to teach him to pay up more promptly. We went and interviewed the man we suspected.” He smiled, showing his teeth. It was more of a snarl, although there was definitely pleasure in it. “Somewhat vigorously,” he added. “But he said Gilmer had paid everything he owed. Didn’t believe that for a moment, but the bastard could unarguably prove where he was all that night. He spent it in jail! Only time I was sorry to see him there.”

“Do you know how much it was?” Monk enquired. He knew exactly how much Alberton had said he gave Gilmer.

“No. Why?” Walters said quickly. “Do you know something about it?”

Monk smiled at him. “I might. How much was it?”

“Told you, I don’t know. But it was over fifty pounds.”

Alberton had paid sixty-five. Monk was unreasonably pleased. He realized only now how profoundly he had wanted to find Alberton honest.

“That answer you?” Walters was staring at him.

“No,” Monk said quickly. “It confirms what I thought. My friend claimed to have paid it. It looks as if he did.”

“Why?”

“Compassion,” Monk said immediately. “Are you thinking it was for services rendered? I’d like to meet the boy that commands that much!”

Walters grinned. His eyes opened wide. “Looks like a good man caught in an unpleasant situation.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Monk agreed. “Thank you for your help.”

Walters straightened up. “Hope it turns out to be true,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like to think someone helped him … whatever he was.”

“Did you know of him when he was alive?” Monk rose slowly also.

“No. Learned the rest when we were looking into his death. Got too much to do to investigate prostitution, if they aren’t causing a public nuisance.” He shrugged. “Anyway, most of the time the ‘powers that be’ would rather we didn’t draw attention to it, and they’d certainly rather we didn’t take names and addresses.” He did not need to explain what he meant. “But let me know if you find out who did that to him, will you?”

“I will,” Monk promised, picking his way through the piles of papers to the door. “Because I’d like you to meet up with him … and because I owe it to you.”

It was early afternoon, and far too hot to be comfortable, when Monk reached the large house in Kensington which was Lawrence FitzAlan’s studio. The midsummer sun beat on the pavements, shimmering back in waves that made the vision dance. The gutters were dry and the unswept manure was pungent in the air.

The maid who answered the door was remarkably pretty, and Monk wondered if FitzAlan painted her as well. He had already decided how he would approach the artist, and had no compunction whatever in lying. Perhaps based quite unfairly on Walters’s anger, he had formed a dislike of FitzAlan.

“Good afternoon,” he said as charmingly as he could, and he knew that was very effective indeed; he had used it often enough. “I should very much like to have a portrait painted of my wife, and so I have naturally come to the finest artist I know of. May I make an appointment to see Mr. FitzAlan at his earliest convenience? Unfortunately, I am in London only a short while before returning to Rome for a month or two.”

She looked at him with interest. With his dark hair and lean face he filled her idea of a mysterious Italian very well. She invited him into an ornate hall in which were several expensive pieces of statuary, and went to tell her master of the visitor.

FitzAlan was a flamboyant man with a high sense of his own talent, which Monk could see, having glanced at the canvases in his studio, was very real. Five were turned face out in various places, hung or stacked so they were well displayed, although to the casual eye they appeared to be placed with no regard. The draftsmanship was excellent, the play of light and shade dramatic, the faces arresting. In spite of himself Monk found his eye going to them instead of to FitzAlan.

“You are an art lover!” FitzAlan said with satisfaction.

Monk could imagine him playing this scene with every visitor, always the slight surprise in his voice, as though the world were peopled with Philistines.

Monk forced himself to meet FitzAlan’s gaze. The artist was not tall, but he was a big man, broad-shouldered, in his fifties and now running to paunch. His gingerish hair had faded but there was still plenty of it, and he wore it affectedly long. It was a proud face, strong-featured, self-indulgent.

It galled Monk to flatter him, but it was necessary if he were to remain long enough to learn what he wanted to.

“Yes. I apologize for my discourtesy, but your paintings took my eye, regardless of my intention to be civil. Forgive me.”

FitzAlan was pleased. “You are forgiven, my dear sir,” he said expansively. “You wish for a portrait of your wife?”

“Rather more than that, actually. A friend of mine saw a very remarkable painting of a young man, done by you,” Monk replied, making himself smile disarmingly. “But he was unable to purchase it because the owner, very naturally, would not sell. I wondered if you had any others of the same subject I might tell him of. He is very anxious to possess one. In fact, it is something of an obsession with him.”