Anne Perry - The Face of a Stranger

She would have smiled, did it not wound so deep, but she had also seen in him a startling softness towards Imogen, an admiration and a desire to protect-something which he certainly did not feel for Hester. She had seen that look on several men's faces; Imogen had woken precisely the same emotions in Charles when they first met, and in many men since. Hester never knew if Imogen herself was aware of it or not.

Had she stirred Joscelin Grey as well? Had he fallen in love with her, the gentleness, those luminous eyes, the quality of innocence which touched everything she did?

Charles was still in love with her. He was quiet, admittedly a trifle pompous, and he had been anxious and shorter tempered than customarily since his father's death; but he was honorable, at times generous, and sometimes fun-at least he had been. Lately he had become more sober, as though a heavy weight could never be totally forgotten.

Was it conceivable that Imogen had found the witty, charming, gallant Joscelin Grey more interesting, even if only briefly? If that had been so, then Charles, for all his seeming self-possession, would have cared deeply, and the hurt might have been something he could not control.

Imogen was keeping a secret. Hester knew her well enough, and liked her, to be aware of the small tensions, the silences where before she would have confided, the placing of a certain guard on her tongue when they were together. It was not Charles she was afraid might notice and suspect; he was not perceptive enough, he did not expect to understand any woman-it was Hester. She was still as affectionate, as generous with small trinkets, the loan of a kerchief or a silk shawl, a word of praise, gratitude for a courtesy-but she was careful, she hesitated before she spoke, she told the exact truth and the impetuosity was gone.

What was the secret? Something in her attitude, an extra awareness, made Hester believe it had to do with Joscelin Grey, because Imogen both pursued and was afraid of the policeman Monk.

"You did not mention before that Joscelin Grey had known George," she said aloud.

Imogen looked out of the window. "Did I not? Well, it was probably a desire not to hurt you, dear. I did not wish to remind you of George, as well as Mama and Papa."

Hester could not argue with that. She did not believe it, but it was exactly the sort of thing Imogen would have done.

"Thank you," she replied. "It was most thoughtful of you, especially since you were so fond of Major Grey."

Imogen smiled, her far-off gaze seeing beyond the dappled light through the window, but to what Hester thought it unfair to guess.

"He was fun," Imogen said slowly. "He was so different from anyone else I know. It was a very dreadful way to die-but I suppose it was quick, and much less painful than many you have seen."

Again Hester did not know what to say.

When Monk returned to the police station Runcorn was waiting for him, sitting at his desk looking at a sheaf of papers. He put them down and pulled a face as Monk came in.

"So your thief was a moneylender," he said dryly. "And the newspapers are not interested in moneylenders, I assure you."

"Then they should be!" Monk snapped back. "They're a filthy infestation, one of the more revolting symptoms of poverty-"

"Oh for heaven's sake, either run for Parliament or be a policeman," Runcorn said with exasperation. "But if you value your job, stop trying to do both at once. And policemen are employed to solve cases, not make moral commentary.''

Monk glared at him.

"If we got rid of some of the poverty, and its parasites, we might prevent the crime before it came to the stage of needing a solution," he said with heat that surprised himself. A memory of passion was coming back, even if he could not know anything of its cause.

'' Joscelin Grey,'' Runcorn said flatly. He was not going to be diverted.

"I'm working," Monk replied.

"Then your success has been embarrassingly limited!"

"Can you prove it was Shelburne?" Monk demanded. He knew what Runcorn was trying to do, and he would fight him to the very last step. If Runcorn forced him to arrest Shelburne before he was ready, he would see to it that it was publicly Runcorn's doing.

But Runcorn was not to be drawn.

"It's your job," he said acidly. "I'm not on the case."

"Perhaps you should be." Monk raised his eyebrows as if he were really considering it. "Perhaps you should take over?"

Runcorn's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you cannot manage?" he asked very softly, a lift at the end of his words. "That it is too big for you?"

Monk called his bluff.

"If it is Shelburne, then perhaps it is. Maybe you should make the arrest; a senior officer, and all that."

Runcorn's face fell blank, and Monk tasted a certain sweetness; but it was only for a moment.

"It seems you've lost your nerve, as well as your memory," Runcorn answered with a faint sneer. "Are you giving up?"

Monk took a deep breath.

"I haven't lost anything," he said deliberately. "And I certainly haven't lost my head. I don't intend to go charging in to arrest a man against whom I have a damn good suspicion, but nothing else. If you want to, then take this case from me, officially, and do it yourself. And God help you when Lady Fabia hears about it. You'll be beyond anyone else's help, I promise you."

"Coward! By God you've changed, Monk."

"If I would have arrested a man without proof before, then I needed to change. Are you taking the case from me?"

"I'll give you another week. I don't think I can persuade the public to give you any more than that."

"Give us," Monk corrected him. "As far as they know, we are all working for the same end. Now have you anything helpful to say, like an idea how to prove it was Shelburne, without a witness? Or would you have gone ahead and done it yourself, if you had?"

The implication was not lost on Runcorn. Surprisingly, his face flushed hotly in anger, perhaps even guilt.

"It's your case," he said angrily. "I shan't take it from you till you come and admit you've failed or I'm asked to remove you."

"Good. Then I'll get on with it."

"Do that. Do that, Monk; if you can!"

Outside the sky was leaden and it was raining hard. Monk thought grimly as he walked home that the newspapers were right in their criticism; he knew little more now than he had when Evan had first showed him the material evidence. Shelburne was the only one for whom he knew a motive, and yet that wretched walking stick clung in his mind. It was not the murder weapon, but he knew he had seen it before. It could not be Joscelin Grey's, because Imogen had said quite distinctly that Grey had not been back to the Latterlys' house since her father-in-law's death, and of course Monk had never been to the house before then.

Then whose was it?

Not Shelburne's.

Without realizing it his feet had taken him not towards his own rooms but to Mecklenburg Square.

Grimwade was in the hallway.

"Evenin', Mr. Monk. Bad night, sir. I dunno wot summer's comin' ter-an' that's the truth. 'Ailstones an' all! Lay like snow, it did, in July. An' now this. Cruel to be out in, sir." He regarded Monk's soaking clothes with sympathy. "Can I 'elp yer wif summink, sir?"

"The man who came to see Mr. Yeats-"

"The murderer?" Grimwade shivered but there was a certain melodramatic savoring in his thin face.

"It would seem so," Monk conceded. "Describe him again, will you?"

Grimwade screwed up his eyes and ran his tongue around his lips.

"Well that's 'ard, sir. It's a fair while ago now, an' the more I tries to remember 'im, the fainter 'e gets. 'E were tallish, I know vat, but not outsize, as you might say. 'Aid ter say w'en somebody's away from yer a bit. W'en 'e came in 'e seemed a good couple o' hinches less than you are, although 'e seemed bigger w'en 'e left. Can be de-ceivin', sir."