Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

Charles does not know about," Hester went on.
    "Are you threatening me?" Imogen asked, her enormous eyes quite frank.
    "No I am not!" Hester was annoyed, with herself for being clumsy as well as Imogen for thinking such a thing. "I didn't know there was anything to threaten you with. I was going to say that unless it is unavoidable, I shall not tell him. Was it something to do with Joscelin Grey?"
    Imogen choked on her sandwich and had to sit forward sharply to avoid suffocating herself altogether.
    “No,'' she said when at last she caught her breath. “No it was not. I can see that perhaps it was foolish, on reflection. But at the time I really hoped—"
    "Hoped«what? For goodness sake, explain yourself."
    Slowly, with a good deal of help, criticism and consolation from Hester, Imogen recounted detail by detail exactly what she had done, what she had told Monk, and why.
    * * * * *
    Four hours later, in the golden sunlight of early evening, Hester stood in the park by the Serpentine watching the light dimple on the water. A small boy in a blue smock carrying a toy boat under his arm passed by with his nursemaid. She was dressed in a plain stuff dress, had a starched lace cap on her head and walked as uprightly as any soldier on parade. An off-duty bandsman watched her with admiration.
    Beyond the grass and trees two ladies of fashion rode along Rotten Row, their horses gleaming, harnesses jingling and hooves falling with a soft thud on the earth.
    Carriages rattling along Knightsbridge towards Piccadilly seemed in another world, like toys in the distance.
    She heard Monk's step before she saw him. She turned when he was almost upon her. He stopped a yard away; their eyes met. Lengthy politeness would be ridiculous between them. There was no outward sign of fear in him— his gaze was level and unflinching—but she knew the void and the imagination that was there.
    She was the first to speak.
    "Imogen came to you after my father's death, in the rather fragile hope that you might discover some evidence that it was not suicide. The family was devastated. First George had been killed in the war, then Papa had been shot in what the police were kind enough to say might have been an accident, but appeared to everyone to be suicide. He had lost a great deal of money. Imogen was trying to salvage something out of the chaos—for Charles's sake, and for my mother's." She stopped for a moment, trying to keep her composure, but the pain of it was still very deep.
    Monk stood perfectly still, not intruding, for which she was grateful. It seemed he understood she must tell it all without interruption in order to be able to tell it at all.
    She let out her breath slowly, and resumed.
    "It was too late for Mama. Her whole world had collapsed. Her youngest son dead, financial disgrace, and then her husband's suicide—not only his loss but the shame of the manner of it. She died ten days later—she was simply broken—" Again she was obliged to stop for several minutes. Monk said nothing, but stretched out his hand and held hers, hard, firmly, and the pressure of his fingers was like a lifeline to the shore.
    In the distance a dog scampered through the grass, and a small boy chased a penny hoop.
    "She came to you without Charles's knowing—he would not have approved. That is why she never mentioned it to you again—and of course she did not know you hadj forgotten. She says you questioned her about everything that
    had happened prior to Papa's death, and on successive meetings you asked her about Joscelin Grey. I shall tell you what she told me—"
    A couple in immaculate riding habits cantered down the Row. Monk still held her hand.
    "My family first met Joscelin Grey in March. They had none of them heard of him before and he called on them quite unexpectedly. He came one evening. You never met him, but he was very charming—even I can remember that from his brief stay in the hospital where I was in Scutari. He went out of his way to befriend other wounded men, and often wrote letters for those too ill to do it for themselves. He often smiled, even laughed and made small jokes. It did a great deal for morale. Of course his wound was not as serious as many, nor did he have cholera or dysentery."
    Slowly they began to walk, so as not to draw attention to themselves, close together.
    She forced her mind back to that time, the smell, the closeness of pain, the constant tiredness and the pity. She pictured Joscelin Grey as she