Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

spoke. "There's blood on that chair as well." He pointed to the heavy stuffed one lying on its back. "That's where he was, with his head on the floor. We're looking for a violent man, sir." He shivered slightly.
    "Yes." Monk stared around, trying to visualize what must have happened in this room nearly six weeks ago, the fear and the impact of flesh on flesh, shadows moving, shadows because he did not know them, furniture crashing over, glass splintering. Then suddenly it became real, a flash sharper and more savage than anything his imagination had called up, red moments of rage and terror, the thrashing stick; then it was gone again, leaving him trembling and his stomach sick. What in God's name had happened in this room that the echo of it still hung here, like an agonized ghost, or a beast of prey?
    He turned and walked out, oblivious of Evan behind him, fumbling for the door. He had to get out of here, into the commonplace and grubby street, the sound of voices, the demanding present. He was not even sure if Evan followed him.

3

    As soon as Monk was out in the street he felt better, but he could not completely shake the impression that had come to him so violently. For an instant it had been real enough to bring his body out in hot, drenching sweat, and then leave him shivering and nauseous at the sheer bestiality of it.
    He put up his hand shakily and felt his wet cheek. There was a hard, angular rain driving on the wind.
    He turned to see Evan behind him. But if Evan had felt that savage presence, there was no sign of it in his face. He was puzzled, a little concerned, but Monk could read no more in him than that.
    "A violent man." Monk repeated Evan's words through stiff lips.
    "Yes sir," Evan said solemnly, catching up to him. He started to say something, then changed his mind. "Where are you going to begin, sir?" he asked instead.
    It was a moment before Monk could collect his thoughts to reply. They were walking along Doughty Street to Guil-ford Street.
    "Recheck the statements," he answered, stopping on the corner curb as a hansom sped past them, its wheels spraying filth. "That's the only place I know to begin. I'll
    do the least promising first. The street sweeper boy is there." He indicated the child a few yards from them, busy shoveling dung and at the same time seizing a penny that had been thrown him. "Is he the same one?"
    "I think so, sir; I can't see his face from here." That was something of a euphemism; the child's features were hidden by dirt and the hazards of his occupation, and the top half of his head was covered by an enormous cloth cap, to protect him from the rain.
    Monk and Evan stepped out onto the street towards him.
    "Well?" Monk asked when they reached the boy.
    Evan nodded.
    Monk fished for a coin; he felt obliged to recompense the child for the earnings he might lose in the time forfeited. He came up with twopence and offered it.
    "Alfred, I am a policeman. I want to talk to you about the gentleman who was killed in Number Six in the square."
    The boy took the twopence.
    "Yeah guv, I dunno anyfink what I din't tell ve ovver rozzer as asked me." He sniffed and looked up hopefully. A man with twopence to spend was worth pleasing.
    "Maybe not," Monk conceded, "but I'd like to talk to you anyway." A tradesman's cart clattered by them towards Grey's Inn Road, splashing them with mud and leaving a couple of cabbage leaves almost at their feet. "Can we go to the footpath?" Monk inquired, hiding his distaste. His good boots were getting soiled and his trou-ser legs were wet.
    The boy nodded, then acknowledging their lack of skill in dodging wheels and hooves with the professional's condescension for the amateur, he steered them to the curb again.
    "Yers guv?" he asked hopefully, pocketing the twopence somewhere inside the folds of his several jackets and sniffing hard. He refrained from wiping his hand across his face in deference to their superior status.
    "You saw Major Grey come home the day he was killed?" Monk asked with appropriate gravity.
    "Yers guv, and vere weren't nob'dy followin' 'im, as fer as I could see."
    "Was the street busy?"
    "No, wicked night, it were, for July, raining summink 'orrible. Nob'dy much abaht, an' everyone goin' as fast as veir legs'd carry 'em."
    "How long have you been at this crossing?"
    "Couple o' years." His faint fair eyebrows rose with surprise; obviously it was a question he had not expected.
    "So you must know most of the people who live around