Anne Perry - The Face of a Stranger

Monk turned quickly to the others. The man, fairer than she and with less generous mouth, must be her husband, and the other woman sitting opposite with the proud face with so much anger and imagination in it he knew immediately; they had met and quarreled at Shelburne Hall- Miss Hester Latterly.

"Good evening, Monk." Charles Latterly did not stand. "You remember my wife?" He gestured vaguely towards Imogen. "And my sister, Miss Hester Latterly. She was in the Crimea when our father died." There was a strong accent of disapproval in his voice and it was apparent that he resented Monk's involvement in the affair.

Monk was assailed by an awful thought-had he somehow disgraced himself, been too brash, too insensitive to their pain and added not only to their loss but the manner of it? Had he said something appallingly thoughtless, or been too familiar? The blood burned up his face and he stumbled into speech to cover the hot silence.

"Good evening, sir." Then he bowed very slightly to Imogen and then to Hester. "Good evening, ma'am; Miss Latterly." He would not mention that they had already met. It was not a fortunate episode.

"What can we do for you?" Charles asked, nodding towards a seat, indicating that Monk might make himself comfortable.

Monk accepted, and another extraordinary thought occurred to him. Imogen had been very discreet, almost furtive in speaking to him in St. Marylebone Church. Was it conceivable neither her husband nor her sister-in-law knew that she had pursued the matter beyond the first, formal acknowledgment of the tragedy and the necessary formalities? If that were so he must not betray her now.

He drew a deep breath, hoping he could make sense, wishing to God he could remember anything at all of what Charles had told him, and what he had learned from Imogen alone. He would have to bluff, pretend there was something new, a connection with the murder of Grey; it was the only other case he was working on, or could remember anything at all about. These people had known him, however slightly. He had been working for them shortly before the accident; surely they could tell him something about himself?

But that was less than half a truth. Why lie to himself? He was here because of Imogen Latterly. It was purposeless, but her face haunted his mind, like a memory from the past of which the precise nature is lost, or a ghost from the imagination, from the realm of daydreams so often repeated it seems they must surely have been real.

They were all looking at him, still waiting.

"It is possible…" His voice was rough at first. He cleared his throat. "I have discovered something quite new. But before I tell you I must be perfectly sure, more especially since it concerns other people." That should prevent them, as a matter of good taste, from pressing him. He coughed again. "It is some time since I spoke to you last, and I made no notes, as a point of discretion-"

"Thank you," Charles said slowly. "That was considerate of you." He seemed to find it hard to say the words, as if it irritated him to acknowledge that policemen might possess such delicate virtues.

Hester was staring at him with frank disbelief.

"If I could go over the details we know again?" Monk asked, hoping desperately they would fill in the gaping blanks in his mind; he knew only what Runcorn had told him, and that was in turn only what he had told Runcorn. Heaven knew, that was barely enough to justify spending time on the case.

"Yes, yes of course." Again it was Charles who spoke, but Monk felt the eyes of the women on him also: Imogen anxious, her hands clenched beneath the ample folds of her skirt, her dark eyes wide; Hester was thoughtful, ready to criticize. He must dismiss them both from his mind, concentrate on making sense, picking up the threads from Charles, or he would make a complete fool of himself, and he could not bear that in front of them.

"Your father died in his study," he began. "In his home in Highgate on June fourteenth." That much Runcorn had said.

"Yes." Charles agreed. "It was early evening, before dinner. My wife and I were staying with them at the time. Most of us were upstairs changing."

"Most of you?"

"Perhaps I should say 'both of us.' My mother and I were. My wife was late coming in. She had been over to see Mrs. Standing, the vicar's wife, and as it transpired my father was in his study."

The means of death had been a gunshot. The next question was easy.

"And how many of you heard the report?"

"Well, I suppose we all heard it, but my wife was the only one to realize what it was. She was coming in from the back garden entrance and was in the conservatory."

Monk turned to Imogen.

She was looking at him, a slight frown on her face as if she wanted to say something, but dared not. Her eyes were troubled, full of dark hurt.

"Mrs. Latterly?" He forgot what he had intended to ask her. He was conscious of his hands clenched painfully by his sides and had to ease the fingers out deliberately. They were sticky with sweat.

"Yes, Mr. Monk?" she said quietly.

He scrambled for something sensible to say. His brain was blank. What had he said to her the first time? She had come to him; surely she would have told him everything she knew? He must ask her something quickly. They were all waiting, watching him. Charles Latterly cool, disliking the effrontery, Hester exasperated at his incompetence. He already knew what she thought of his abilities. Attack was the only defense his mind could think of.

"Why do you think, Mrs. Latterly, that you suspected a shot, when no one else did?" His voice was loud in the silence, like the sudden chimes of a clock in an empty room. "Were you afraid even then that your father-in-law contemplated taking his life, or that he was in some danger?"

The color came to her face quickly and there was anger in her eyes.

"Of course not, Mr. Monk; or I should not have left him alone." She swallowed, and her next words were softer. "I knew he was distressed, we all knew that; but I did not imagine it was serious enough to think of shooting himself-nor that he was sufficiently out of control of his feelings or his concentration that he would be in danger of having an accident." It was a brave attempt.

"I think if you have discovered something, Mr. Monk," Hester interrupted stiffly, "you had better ascertain what it is, and then come back and tell us. Your present fumbling around is pointless and unnecessarily distressing.

And your suggestion that my sister-in-law knew something that she did not report at the time is offensive." She looked him up and down with some disgust. "Really, is this the best you can do? I don't know how you catch anyone, unless you positively fall over them!"

"Hester!" Imogen spoke quite sharply, although she kept her eyes averted. "It is a question Mr. Monk must ask. It is possible I may have seen or heard something to make me anxious-and only realize it now in retrospect.''

Monk felt a quick, foolish surge of pleasure. He had not deserved defending.

"Thank you, ma'am." He tried to smile at her, and felt his lips grimacing. "Did you at that time know the full extent of your father-in-law's financial misfortune?"

"It was not the money that killed him,'' Imogen replied before Charles could get his own words formed and while Hester was still standing in resigned silence-at least temporarily. "It was the disgrace." She bit her lip on all the distress returned to her. Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper, tight with pity. "You see, he had advised so many of his friends to invest. He had lent his name to it, and they had put in money because they trusted him."

Monk could think of nothing to say, and platitudes offended him in the face of real grief. He longed to be able to comfort her, and knew it was impossible. Was this the emotion that surged through him so intensely-pity? And the desire to protect?