Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

virgin blank and Beth could tell him nothing whatsoever of his life since leaving, when she was still little more than a child. Apparently he had not written of it, only trivialities, items of ordinary news such as one might read in the journals or newspapers, and small matters of his welfare and concern for hers. This was the first time he had visited her in eight years, something he was not proud to learn. He seemed a cold man, obsessed with his own ambition. Had that compelled him to work so hard, or had he been so poor? He would like to think there was some excuse, but to judge from the money in his desk at Grafton Street, it had not lately been finance.
    He racked his brains to recall any emotion, any flash of memory as to what sort of man he was, what he had valued, what sought. Nothing came, no explanations for his self-absorption.
    He said good-bye to her and Rob, thanking them rather awkwardly for their kindness, surprising and embarrassing them, and because of it, himself too; but he meant it so deeply. Because they were strangers to him, he felt as if they had taken him in, a stranger, and offered him acceptance, even trust. They looked confused, Beth coloring shyly. But he did not try to explain; he did not have words, nor did he wish them to know.
    * * * * *
    London seemed enormous, dirty and indifferent when he got off the train and walked out of the ornate, smoke-grimed station. He took a hansom to Grafton Street, announced his return to Mrs. Worley, then went upstairs and changed his clothes from those worn and crumpled by his journey. He took himself to the police station Runcorn had named when speaking to the nurse. With the experience of Beth and Northumberland behind him he began to feel a little confidence. It was still another essay into the unknown, but with each step accomplished without unpleasant surprise, his apprehension lessened.
    When he climbed out of the cab and paid the driver he stood on the pavement. The police station was as unfamiliar as everything else—not strange, simply without any spark of femiliarity at all. He opened the doors and went inside, saw the sergeant at the duty desk and wondered how many hundreds of times before he had done exactly this.
    " 'Arternoon, Mr. Monk." The man looked up with slight surprise, and no pleasure. "Nasty haccident. Better now, are yer, sir?"
    There was a chill in his voice, a wariness. Monk looked at him. He was perhaps forty, round-faced, mild and perhaps a trifle indecisive, a man who could be easily befriended, and easily crushed. Monk felt a stirring of shame, and knew no reason for it whatever, except the caution in the man's eyes. He was expecting Monk to say something to which he would not be able to reply with assurance. He was a subordinate, and slower with words, and he knew it.
    "Yes I am, thank you." Monk could not remember the man's name to use it. He felt contempt for himself—what kind of a man embarrasses someone who cannot retaliate? Why? Was there some long history of incompetence or deceit that would explain such a thing?
    "You'll be wantin' Mr. Runcorn, sir." The sergeant seemed to notice no change in Monk, and to be keen to speed him on his way.
    "Yes, if he's in—please?"
    The sergeant stepped aside a little and allowed Monk through the counter.
    Monk stopped, feeling ridiculous. He had no idea which way to go, and he would raise suspicion if he went the wrong way. He had a hot, prickly sensation that there would be little allowance made for him—he was not liked.
    "You o'right, sir?" the sergeant said anxiously.
    "Yes—yes I am. Is Mr. Runcorn still"—he took a glance around and made a guess—"at the top of the stairs?"
    "Yes sir, right w'ere 'e always was!"
    "Thank you." And he set off up the steps rapidly, feeling a fool.
    Runcorn was in the first room on the corridor. Monk knocked and went in. It was dark and littered with papers and cabinets and baskets for filing, but comfortable, in spite of a certain institutional bareness. Gas lamps hissed gently on the walls. Runcorn himself was sitting behind a large desk, chewing a pencil.
    " Ah!" he said with satisfaction when Monk came in.”Fit for work, are you? About time. Best thing, work. Good for a man to work. Well, sit down then, sit down. Think better sitting down."
    Monk obeyed, his muscles tight with tension. He imagined his breathing was so loud it must be audible above the gas.
    "Good. Good," Runcorn went on. "Lot of cases, as always; I'll wager there's