Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

She could not even go back for her cloak—what use would it be in this downpour anyway? "Yes—I'll come now." She walked past him and out of the front door. The wall of rain hit her in the face and she ignored it, continuing across the pavement, over the bubbling gutter and up into the hansom before either Evan or the driver had time to hand her up.
    Evan scrambled behind her and slammed the door, shouting his instructions to drive to Grafton Street. Since the cabby had not yet been paid, he had little alternative.
    “What has happened, Mr. Evan?'' Hester asked as soon as they were moving. "I can see that it is something very terrible. Have you discovered who murdered Joscelin Grey?"
    There was no point in hesitating now; the die was cast.
    "Yes, Miss Latterly. Mr. Monk retraced all the steps of his first investigation—with your help," He took a deep breath. He was cold now that the moment came; he was wet to the skin and shaking. "Joscelin Grey made his living by finding the families of men killed in the Crimea, pretending he had known the dead soldier and befriended him—either lending him money, paying the debts he left, or giving him some precious personal belonging, like the watch hcqlaimed to have lent your brother, then when the family could not give it back to him—which they never could, since it did not exist—they felt in his debt, which he used to obtain invitations, influence, financial or social backing. Usually it was only a few hundred guineas, or to be a guest at their expense. In your father's case it was to his ruin and death. Either way Grey did not give a damn what happened to his victims, and he had every intention of continuing."
    "What a vile crime," she said quietly. "He was totally
    despicable. I am glad that he is dead—and perhaps sorry for whoever killed him. You have not said who it was?" Suddenly she was cold also. "Mr. Evan—?"
    "Yes ma'am—Mr. Monk went to his flat in Mecklenburg Square and faced him with it. They fought—Mr. Monk beat him, but he was definitely alive and not mortally hurt when Mr. Monk left. But as Monk reached the street he saw someone else arrive, and go towards the door which was still swinging open in the wind."
    He saw Hester's face pale in the glare of the streetlamps through the carriage window.
    "Who?"
    "Menard Grey," he replied, waiting in the dark again to judge from her voice, or her silence, if she believed it. "Probably because Joscelin dishonored the memory of his friend Edward Dawlish, and deceived Edward's father into giving him hospitality, as he did your father—and the money would have followed."
    She said nothing for several minutes. They swayed and rattled through the intermittent darkness, the rain battering on the roof and streaming past in torrents, yellow where the gaslight caught it.
    “How very sad,'' she said at last, and her voice was tight with emotion as though the pity caused a physical pain in her throat.”Poor Menard. I suppose you are going to arrest him? Why have you brought me? I can do nothing."
    "We can't arrest him," he answered quietly. "There is no proof."
    "There—" She swiveled around in her seat; he felt her rather than saw her. "Then what are you going to do? They'll think it was Monk. They'll charge him—they'll—" She swallowed. "They'll hang him."
    "I know. We must make Menard confess. I thought you might know how we could do that? You know the Greys far better than we could, from the outside. And Joscelin was responsible for your father's death—and your mother's, indirectly."
    Again she sat silent for so long he was afraid he had offended her, or reminded her of grief so deep she was unable to do anything but nurse its pain inside her. They were drawing close to Grafton Street, and soon they must leave the cab and face Monk with some resolution—or admit failure. Then he would be faced with the task he dreaded so much the thought of it made him sick. He must either tell Runcorn the truth, that Monk fought with Jos-celin Grey the night of his death—or else deliberately conceal the fact and lay himself open to certain dismissal from the police force—and the possible charge of accessory to murder.
    They were in the Tottenham Court Road, lamps gleaming on the wet pavements, gutters awash. There was no time left.
    "Miss Latterly."
    "Yes. Yes," she said firmly. "I will come with you to Shelburne Hall. I have thought about it, and the only way I can see success is if you tell Lady Fabia the truth