Anne Perry - The Face of a Stranger

Imogen took the matter into her own hands. She turned towards Monk.

"You were saying that you were driven to an inevitable conclusion, Mr. Monk. Pray tell us what it is." She stared at him and her eyes were angry, almost defensive. She seemed more inwardly alive and sensitive to hurt than anyone else he had ever seen. For seconds he could not think of words to answer her. The moments hung in the air. Her chin came a little higher, but she did not look away.

"I-" he began, and failed. He tried again. "That- that it was someone he knew who killed him." Then his voice came mechanically. "Someone well known to him, of his own position and social circle."

"Nonsense!" Charles interrupted him sharply, coming into the center of the room as if to confront him physically. "People of Joscelin Grey's circle do not go around murdering people. If that's the best you can do, then you had better give up the case and hand it over to someone more skilled."

"You are being unnecessarily rude, Charles." Imogen's eyes were bright and there was a touch of color in her face. "We have no reason to suppose that Mr. Monk is not skilled at his job, and quite certainly no call to suggest it."

Charles's whole body tightened; the impertinence was intolerable.

"Imogen," he began icily; then remembering the feminine frailty he had asserted, altered his tone. "The matter is naturally upsetting to you; I understand that. Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave us. Retire to your room and rest for a little while. Return when you have composed yourself. Perhaps a tisane?"

"I am not tired, and I do not wish for a tisane. I am perfectly composed, and the police wish to question me." She swung around. "Don't you, Mr. Monk?"

He wished he could remember what he knew of them, but although he strained till his brain ached, he could recall nothing. All his memories were blurred and colored by the overwhelming emotion she aroused in him, the hunger for something always just out of reach, like a great music that haunts the senses but cannot quite be caught, disturbingly and unforgettably sweet, evocative of a whole life on the brink of remembrance.

But he was behaving like a fool. Her gentleness, something in her face had woken in him the memory of a time when he had loved, of the softer side of himself which he had lost when the carriage had crashed and obliterated the past. There was more in him than the detective, brilliant, ambitious, sharp tongued, solitary. There had been those who loved him, as well as the rivals who hated, the subordinates who feared or admired, the villains who knew his skill, the poor who looked for justice-or vengeance. Imogen reminded him that he had a humanity as well, and it was too precious for him to drown in reason. He had lost his balance, and if he were to survive this nightmare- Runcorn, the murder, his career-he must regain it.

"Since you knew Major Grey," he tried again, "it is possible he may have confided in you any anxieties he may have had for his safety-anyone who disliked him or was harassing him for any reason." He was not being as articulate as he wished, and he cursed himself for it.

“Did he mention any envies or rivalries to you?''

"None at all. Why would anyone he knew kill him?" she asked. "He was very charming; I never knew of him picking a quarrel more serious than a few sharp words. Perhaps his humor was a little unkind, but hardly enough to provoke more than a passing irritation."

"My dear Imogen, they wouldn't!" Charles snapped. "It was robbery; it must have been."

Imogen breathed in and out deeply and ignored her husband, still regarding Monk with solemn eyes, waiting for his reply.

"I believe blackmail," Monk replied. "Or perhaps jealousy over a woman."

"Blackmail!" Charles was horrified and his voice was thick with disbelief. "You mean Grey was blackmailing someone? Over what, may I ask?"

"If we knew that, sir, we should almost certainly know who it was," Monk answered. "And it would solve the case."

"Then you know nothing." There was derision back again in Charles's voice.

"On the contrary, we know a great deal. We have a suspect, but before we charge him we must have eliminated all the other possibilities." That was overstating the case dangerously, but Charles's smug face, his patronizing manner roused Monk's temper beyond the point where he had complete control. He wanted to shake him, to force him but of his complacency and his infuriating superiority.

"Then you are making a mistake." Charles looked at him through narrow eyes. "At least it seems most likely you are."

Monk smiled dryly. "I am trying to avoid that, sir, by exploring every alternative first, and by gaining all the information anyone can give. I'm sure you appreciate that!"

From the periphery of his vision Monk could see Hester smile and was distinctly pleased.

Charles grunted.

"We do really wish to help you," Imogen said in the silence. "My husband is only trying to protect us from unpleasantness, which is most delicate of him. But we were exceedingly fond of Joscelin, and we are quite strong enough to tell you anything we can."

" 'Exceedingly fond' is overstating it, my dear," Charles said uncomfortably. "We liked him, and of course we felt an extra affection for him for George's sake."

"George?" Monk frowned, he had not heard George mentioned before.

"My younger brother," Charles supplied.

"He knew Major Grey?" Monk asked keenly. "Then may I speak with him also?"

"I am afraid not. But yes, he knew Grey quite well. I believe they were very close, for a while."

"For a while? Did they have some disagreement?"

"No, George is dead."

"Oh." Monk hesitated, abashed. "I am sorry."

"Thank you." Charles coughed and cleared his throat. "We were fond of Grey, but to say we were extremely so is too much. My wife is, I think, quite naturally transferring some of our affection for George to George's friend."

"I see." Monk was not sure what to say. Had Imogen seen in Joscelin only her dead brother-in-law's friend, or had Joscelin himself charmed her with his wit and talent to please? There had been a keenness in her face when she had spoken of him. It reminded him of Rosamond Shelburne: there was the same gentleness in it, the same echo of remembered times of happiness, shared laughter and grace. Had Charles been too blind to see it-or too conceited to understand it for what it was?

An ugly, dangerous thought came to his mind and refused to be ignored. Was the woman not Rosamond, but Imogen Latterly? He wanted intensely to disprove it. But how? If Charles had been somewhere else at the time, provably so, then the whole question was over, dismissed forever.

He stared at Charles's smooth face. He looked irritable, but totally unconscious of any guilt. Monk tried frantically to think of an oblique way to ask him. His brain was like glue, heavy and congealing. Why in God's name did Charles have to be Imogen's husband?

Was there another way? If only he could remember what he knew of them. Was this fear unreasonable, the result of an imagination free of the sanity of memory? Or was it memory slowly returning, hi bits and pieces, that woke that very fear?

The stick in Joscelin Grey's hall stand. The image of it was so clear in his head. If only he could enlarge it, see the hand and the arm, the man who held it. That was the knowledge that lay like a sickness in his stomach; he knew the owner of the stick, and he knew with certainty that Lovel Grey was a complete stranger to him. When he had been to Shelbume not one member of the household had greeted him with the slightest flicker of recognition. And why should they pretend? In fact to do so would in itself have been suspicious, since they had no idea he had lost his memory. Lovel Grey could not be the owner of that stick with the brass chain embossed around the top.