Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

army in the
    Crimea. 12 were a major, and I were just a private o' course. But I served under 'im for a long time. 'E were a good enough officer, not specially good nor specially bad; just like most. 'E were brave enough, as fair as most to 'is men. Good to 'is 'orses, but then most well-bred gents is."
    The man blinked. "You didn't seem terribly interested in that," he went on, still absently working on the glass. "You listened, but it didn't seem to weigh much with you. Then you asked me about the Battle o' the Alma, where some Lieutenant Latterly 'ad died; an' I told you as we wasn't at the Battle o' the Alma, so I couldn't tell you about this Lieutenant Latterly—"
    "But Major Grey spent the last night before the battle with Lieutenant Latterly." Monk grabbed at his arm. "He lent him his watch. Latterly was afraid; it was a lucky piece, a talisman. It had belonged to his grandfather at Waterloo."
    "No sir, I can't say about any Lieutenant Latterly, but Major Grey weren't nowhere near the Battle o' the Alma, and 'e never 'ad no special watch."
    "Are you sure?" Monk was gripping the man's wrist, unaware of hurting him.
    "O' course I'm sure, sir." The man eased his hand. "I was there. An' 'is watch were an ordinary gold plate one, and as new as 'is uniform. It weren't no more at Waterloo than 'e were."
    "And an officer called Dawlish?"
    The potman frowned, rubbing his wrist. "Dawlish? I don't remember you asking me about 'im."
    "I probably didn't. But do you remember him?"
    "No sir, I don't recall an officer o' that name."
    "But you are sure of the Battle of the Alma?"
    "Yes sir, I'd swear before God positive. If you'd been in the Crimea, sir, you'd not forget what battle you was at, and what you wasn't. I reckon that's about the worst war there's ever been, for cold and muck and men dyin'."
    "Thank you."
    "Don't you want your bread an' cheese, sir? That pickle's 'omemade special. You should eat it. You look right peaked, you do."
    Monk took it, thanked him automatically, and sat down at one of the tables. He ate without tasting and then walked out into the first spots of rain. He could remember doing this before, remember the slow building anger. It had all been a lie, a brutal and carefully calculated lie to earn first acceptance from the Latterlys, then their friendship, and finally to deceive them into a sufficient sense of obligation, over the lost watch, to repay him by supporting his business scheme. Grey had used his skill to play like an instrument first their grief, then their debt. Perhaps he had even done the same with the Dawlishes.
    The rage was gathering up inside him again. It was coming back exactly as it had before. He was walking faster and faster, the rain beating in his face now. He "was unaware of it. He splashed through the swimming gutters into the street to hail a cab. He gave the address in Mecklenburg Square, as he knew he had done before.
    When he got out he went into the building. Grimwade handed him the key this time; the first time there had been no one there.
    He went upstairs. It seemed new, strange, as if he were reliving the first time when it was unknown to him. He got to the top and hesitated at the door. Then he had knocked. Now he slipped the key into the lock. It swung open quite easily and he went in. Before Joscelin Grey had come to the door, dressed in pale dove, his fair face handsome, smiling, just a little surprised. He could see it now as if it had been only a few minutes ago.
    Grey had asked him in, quite casually, unperturbed. He had put his stick in the hall stand, his mahogany stick with the brass chain embossed in the handle. It was still there. Then he had followed Grey into the main room. Grey had been very composed, a slight smile on his face. Monk had told him what he had come for: about the tobacco business, the failure, Latterly's death, the fact that Grey had
    lied, that he had never known George Latterly, and there had been no watch.
    He could see Grey now as he had turned from the sideboard, holding out a drink for Monk, taking one himself. He had smiled again, more widely.
    "My dear fellow, a harmless little lie." His voice had been light, very easy, very calm. "I told them what an excellent fellow poor George was, how brave, how charming, how well loved. It was what they wanted to hear. What does it matter whether it was true or not?"
    "It was a lie," Monk had shouted back. "You didn't even know George Latterly. You did it purely for money."
    Grey had