Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

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."
    "Well that's something. What sort of coloring had he: fresh, sallow, pale, swarthy?"
    "Kind o' fresh, sir. But then that could 'a' bin the cold. Proper wicked night it were, somethin' cruel for July. Shockin' unseasonal. Rainin' 'ard, an' east wind like a knife."
    "And you cannot remember whether he had a beard or not?"
    "I think as 'e 'adn't, leastways if 'e 'ad, it were one o' vem very small ones wot can be 'idden by a muffler."
    "And dark hair? Or could it have been brown, or even fair?"
    "No sir, it couldn't 'a' bin fair, not yeller, like; but it could 'a' bin brahn. But I do remember as 'e 'ad very gray eyes. I noticed that as 'e were goin' out, very piercin' eyes 'e 'ad, like one o' vem fellers wot puts people inter a trance."
    "Piercing eyes? You're sure?" Monk said dubiously, skeptical of Grimwade's sense of melodrama in