Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

evidence was astonishingly bare, set out like luggage in a lost-and-found office, ownerless; pathetic and rather embarrassing remnants of someone else's life, robbed now of their purpose and meaning—a little like his own belongings in Grafton Street, objects whose history and emotion were obliterated.
    He stopped beside Evan and picked up a pile of clothes. The trousers were dark, well cut from expensive material, now spotted with blood. The boots were highly polished and only slightly worn on the soles. Personal linen was obviously changed very recently; shirt was expensive; cravat silk, the neck and front heavily stained. The jacket was tailored to high fashion, but ruined with blood, and a ragged tear in the sleeve. They told him nothing except a hazard at the size and build of Joscelin Grey, and an admiration for his pocket and his taste. There was nothing to be deduced from the bloodstains, since they already knew what the injuries had been.
    He put them down and turned to Evan, who was watching him.
    "Not very helpful, is it, sir?" Evan looked at them with
    a mixture of unhappiness and distaste. There was something in his face that might have been real pity. Perhaps he was too sensitive to be a police officer.
    "No, not very," Monk agreed dryly. "What else was there?"
    "The weapon, sir." Evan reached out and picked up a heavy ebony stick with a silver head. It too was encrusted with blood and hair.
    Monk winced. If he had seen such grisly things before, his immunity to them had gone with his memory.
    "Nasty." Evan's mouth turned down, his hazel eyes on Monk's face.
    Monk was conscious of him, and abashed. Was the distaste, the pity, for him? Was Evan wondering why a senior officer should be so squeamish? He conquered his revulsion with an effort and took the stick. It was unusually heavy.
    "War wound," Evan observed, still watching him. "From what witnesses say, he actually walked with it: I mean it wasn't an ornament."
    "Right leg." Monk recalled the medical report. "Accounts for the weight." He put the stick down. "Nothing else?"
    "Couple of broken glasses, sir, and a decanter broken too. Must have been on the table that was knocked over, from the way it was lying; and a couple of ornaments. There's a drawing of the way the room was, in Mr. Lamb's file, sir. Not that I know of anything it can tell us. But Mr. Lamb spent hours poring over it."
    Monk felt a quick stab of compassion for Lamb, then for himself. He wished for a moment that he could change places with Evan, leave the decisions, the judgments to someone else, and disclaim the failure. He hated failure! He realized now what a driving, burning desire he had to solve this crime—to win—to wipe that smile off Runcorn's face.
    "Oh—money, sir." Evan pulled out a cardboard box and opened it. He picked up a fine pigskin wallet and,
    separately, several gold sovereigns, a couple of cards from a club and an exclusive dining room. There were about a dozen cards of his own, engraved "Major the Honorable Joscelin Grey, Six, Mecklenburg Square, London."
    "Is that all?" Monk asked.
    "Yes sir, the money is twelve pounds seven shillings and sixpence altogether. If he were a thief, it's odd he didn't take that."
    "Perhaps he was frightened—he may have been hurt himself." It was the only thing he could think of. He motioned Evan to put the box away. "I suppose we'd better go and have a look at Mecklenburg Square."
    "Yes sir." Evan straightened up to obey. "It's about half an hour's walk. Are you well enough for it yet?"
    "A couple of miles? For heaven's sake, man, it was my arm I broke, not both my legs!" He reached sharply for his jacket and hat.
    Evan had been a little optimistic. Against the wind and stepping carefully to avoid peddlers and groups of fellow travelers on the footpath, and traffic and horse dung in the streets, it was a good forty minutes before they reached Mecklenburg Square, walked around the gardens and stopped outside Number 6. The boy sweeping the crossing was busy on the corner of Doughty Street, and Monk wondered if it was the same one who had been there on that evening in July. He felt a rush of pity for the child, out in all weather, often with sleet or snow driving down the funnel of the high buildings, dodging in among the carriages and drays, shoveling droppings. What an abysmal way to earn your keep.. Then he was angry with himself— that was stupid and sentimental nonsense. He must deal with reality. He squared his chest and