Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

the fumbling for words, the unfamiliarity with streets, public houses, old haunts-even Runcorn's hatred of him. It did not matter anymore.
    "Yes." Monk spoke very slowly, as if letting the words fall one by one would make them believable. "But I did not kill Joscelin Grey. I fought with him, I probably hurt him—he certainly hurt me—but he was alive and swearing at me when I left." He searched Evan's countenance feature by feature. "I saw Menard Grey go in as I turned in the street. He was facing the light and I was going away from it. The outer door was still open in the wind."
    A desperate, painful relief flooded Evan's face, and he looked bony and young, and very tired. "So it was Menard who killed him." It was a statement.
    "Yes." A blossom of gratitude opened wide inside Monk, filling him with sweetness. Even without hope, it was to be treasured immeasurably. "But there is no proof."
    "But—" Evan began to argue, then the words died on his lips as he realized the truth of it. In all their searches they had found nothing. Menard had motive, but so had Charles Latterly, or Mr. Dawlish, or any other family Jos-celin had cheated, any friend he had dishonored—or Lovel Grey, whom he might have betrayed in the crudest way of all—or Monk himself. And Monk had been there. Now that they knew it, they also knew how easily provable it was, simply find the shop where he had bought that highly distinctive stick—such a piece of vanity. Mrs. Worley would remember it, and its subsequent absence. Lamb would recall seeing it in Grey's flat the moming after the murder. Imogen Latterly would have to admit Monk had been working on the case of her father's death.
    The darkness was growing closer, tighter around them, the light guttering.
    "We'll have to get Menard to confess," Evan said at last.
    Monk laughed harshly. "And how do you propose we should do that? There's no evidence, and he knows it. No one would take my word against his that I saw him, and kept silent about it till now. It will look like a rather shabby and very stupid attempt to shift the blame from myself."
    That was true, and Evan racked his mind in vain for a rebuttal. Monk was still sitting in the big chair, limp and exhausted with emotions from terror through joy and back to fear and despair again.
    "Go home," Evan said gently. "You can't stay here.
    There may be—" Then the idea came to him with a flutter of hope, growing and rising. There was one person who might help. It was a chance, but there was nothing left to lose. "Yes," he repeated. "Go home—I'll be there soon. I've just got an errand. Someone to see—" And he swung on his heel and went out of the door, leaving it ajar behind him.
    He ran down the stairs two at a time—he never knew afterwards how he did not break his neck—shot past Grim-wade, and plunged out into the rain. He ran all the way along the pavement of Mecklenburg Square along Doughty Street and accosted a hansom as it passed him, driver's coat collar up around his neck and stovepipe hat jammed forward over his brow.
    "I ain't on duty, guv!" the driver said crossly. "Finished, I am. Goin' 'ome terme supper."
    Evan ignored him and climbed in, shouting the Latter-lys' address in Thanet Street at him.
    "I told you, I ain't goin' nowhere!" the cabby repeated, louder this time. " 'Ceptin 'ome fer me supper. You'll 'ave ter get someone else!"
    "You're taking me to Thanet Street!" Evan shouted back at him. "Police! Now get on with it, or I'll have your badge!"
    "Bleedin’ rozzers," the cabby muttered sullenly, but he realized he had a madman in the back, and it would be quicker in the long run to do what he said. He lifted the reins and slapped them on the horse's soaking back, and they set off at a brisk trot.
    At Thanet Street Evan scrambled out and commanded the cabby to wait, on pain of his livelihood.
    Hester was at home when Evan was shown in by a startled maid. He was streaming water everywhere and his extraordinary, ugly, beautiful face was white. His hair was plastered crazily across his brow and he stared at her with anguished eyes.
    She had seen hope and despair too often not to recognize both.
    "Can you come with me!" he said urgently. "Please? I'll explain as we go. Miss Latterly—I—"
    "Yes." She did not need time to decide. To refuse was an impossibility. And she must leave before Charles or Imogen came from the withdrawing room, impelled by curiosity, and discovered the drenched and frantic policeman in the hall.