Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

with him personally. Unless, of course, he knew Grey well?"
    "No sir," Evan said, but his eyes showed his total comprehension. Obviously Scarsdale still smarted under Grey's contempt, and Monk could imagine it vividly. "No, he disclaimed all personal acquaintance with him. And either that's a lie or else it's very odd. If he were the gentleman he pretends to be, he would surely know Grey, at least to speak to. They were immediate neighbors, after all."
    Monk did not want to court disappointment.
    "It may be no more than social pretension, but worth inquiring into." He looked at the papers again. "What else is there?" He glanced up at Evan. "Who found him, by the way?"

    Evan came over and sorted out two more reports from the bottom of the pile. He handed them to Monk.
    "Cleaning woman and the porter, sir. Their accounts agree, except that the porter says a bit more, because naturally we asked him about the evening as well."
    Monk was temporarily lost. "As well?"
    Evan flushed faintly with irritation at his own lack of clarity.
    "He wasn't found until the following morning, when the woman who cleans and cooks for him arrived and couldn't get in. He wouldn't give her a key, apparently didn't trust her; he let her in himself, and if he wasn't there then she just went away and came another time. Usually he leaves some message with the porter."
    "I see. Did he go away often? I assume we know where to?" There was an instinctive edge of authority to his voice now, and impatience.
    "Occasional weekend, so for as the porter knows; sometimes longer, a week or two at a country house, in the season," Evan answered.
    "So what happened when Mrs.—what's her name?— arrived?"
    Evan stood almost to attention. "Huggins. She knocked as usual, and when she got no answer after the third attempt, she went down to see the porter, Grimwade, to find out if there was a message. Grimwade told her he'd seen Grey arrive home the evening before, and he hadn't gone out yet, and to go back and try again. Perhaps Grey had been in the bathroom, or unusually soundly asleep, and no doubt he'd be standing at the top of the stairs by now, wanting his breakfast."
    "But of course he wasn't," Monk said unnecessarily.
    "No. Mrs. Huggins came back a few minutes later all fussed and excited—these women love a little drama—and demanded that Grimwade do something about it. To her endless satisfaction"—Evan smiled bleakly—"she said that he'd be lying there murdered in his own blood, and they should do something immediately, and call the police. She
    must have told me that a dozen times." He pulled a small face. "She's now convinced she has the second sight, and I spent a quarter of an hour persuading her that she should stick to cleaning and not give it up in favor of fortune-telling—although she's already a heroine, of sorts, in the local newspaper—and no doubt the local pub!"
    Monk found himself smiling too.
    "One more saved from a career in the fairground stalls— and still in the service of the gentry," he said. "Heroine for a day—and free gin every time she retells it for the next six months. Did Grimwade go back with her?"
    "Yes, with a master key, of course."
    "And what did they find, exactly?" This was perhaps the most important single thing: the precise facts of the discovery of the body.
    Evan concentrated till Monk was not sure if he was remembering the witness's words or his own sight of the rooms.
    "The small outer hall was perfectly orderly," Evan began. "Usual things you might expect to see, stand for coats and things, and hats, rather a nice stand for sticks, umbrellas and so forth, box for boots, a small table for calling cards, nothing else. Everything was neat and tidy. The door from that led directly into the sitting room; and the bedroom and utilities were off that." A shadow passed over his extraordinary face. He relaxed a little and half unconsciously leaned against the window frame.
    "That next room was a different matter altogether. The curtains were drawn and the gas was still burning, even though it was daylight outside. Grey himself was lying half on the floor and half on the big chair, head downward. There was a lot of blood, and he was in a pretty dreadful state." His eyes did not waver, but it was with an effort, and Monk could see it. "I must admit," he continued, "I've seen a few deaths, but this was the most brutal, by a long way. The man had been beaten to death with something quite thin—I mean not a