Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

hallway?" He looked towards the stairs, and the landing where other doorways led off—including Grey's.
    "Yes—yes I suppose so." Scarsdale was now acutely uncomfortable, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. "Although I really cannot tell you anything germane to the issue, you know." He backed into his own entranceway and Monk followed. "The young lady who visited me has no connection with poor Grey, and she neither saw nor heard anyone else!"
    Monk closed the main door, then followed him into the sitting room.
    "Then you asked her, sir?" He allowed his face to register interest.
    "Yes, of course I did!" Scarsdale was beginning to regain his composure, now that he was among his own possessions. The gas was lit and turned up; it glowed gently on polished leather, old Turkey carpet and silver-framed photographs. He was a gentleman, facing a mere member of Peel's police. "Naturally, if there had been anything that could have assisted you in your work, I should have told you." He used the word work with a vague condescension, a mark of the gulf between them. He did not invite Monk to sit, and remained standing himself, rather awkwardly between the sideboard and the sofa.
    "And this young lady, of course, is well known to you?" Monk did not try to keep his own sarcastic contempt out of his voice.
    Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult
    or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing. He chose the latter.
    "I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly.
    "You can vouch for her truthfulness," Monk elaborated, his eyes meeting Scarsdale's with a bitter smile. "Apart from her . . . work" —he deliberately chose the same word—"she is a person of perfect probity?"
    Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of cooperation from him.
    "You exceed your authority!" Scarsdale snapped. "And you are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue, or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors." He looked at Monk and decided this was not a good idea. "The woman in question has no reason to lie," he said stiffly. "She came up alone and left alone, and saw no one at either time, except Grim-wade, the porter; and you can ascertain that from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know." He sniffed very slightly. "This is not a common rooming house!" His eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.
    "Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer," Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale's face.
    Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps bigoted, but he was not stupid.
    Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.
    "You are a gentleman of similar social standing"—he winced inwardly at his own hypocrisy—"and an immediate neighbor of Major Grey's; you must be able to tell me something about him personally. I know nothing."
    Scarsdale was happy enough to change the subject, and in spite of his irritation, flattered.
    "Yes, of course," he agreed quickly. "Nothing at all?"
    "Nothing at all," Monk conceded.
    "He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?" Scarsdale's eyes widened, and at last he walked
    to the center of the room and sat down on a hard-backed, carved chair. He waved his arm vaguely, giving Monk permission to do so too.
    "Indeed?" Monk chose another hard-backed chair so as not to be below Scarsdale.
    "Oh yes, a very old family," Scarsdale said with relish. "The Dowager Lady Shelburne, his mother, of course, was the eldest daughter of the Duke of Ruthven, at least I think it was he; certainly the duke of somewhere."
    "Joscelin Grey," Monk reminded him.
    "Oh. Very pleasant fellow; officer in the Crimea, forgotten which regiment, but a very distinguished record." He nodded vigorously. "Wounded at Sebastopol, I think he said, then invalided out. Walked with a limp, poor devil. Not that it was disfiguring. Very good-looking fellow, great charm, very well liked, you know."
    "A wealthy family?"
    "Shelburne?" Scarsdale was faintly amused by Monk's ignorance and his confidence was beginning to return. "Of course. But I suppose you know, or perhaps you don't." He looked Monk up and down disparagingly. "But naturally all the money went to the eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne. Always happens that way, everything to the eldest, along with the title. Keeps the estates whole, otherwise everything would be in bits and pieces,