Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

nearer finding Joscelin Grey's killer than he had been when he began; and yet she was keenly aware both of an intelligence and a tenacity in him. He cared about it, more than simply for vanity or ambition. For justice sake he wanted to know and to do something about it.
    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