Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

d'you understand? All the power of the land gone!"
    Monk controlled his sense of being patronized; he was perfectly aware of the laws of primogeniture.
    "Yes, thank you. Where did Joscelin Grey's money come from?"
    Scarsdale waved his hands, which were small, with wide knuckles and very short nails. "Oh business interests, I presume. I don't believe he had a great deal, but he didn't appear in any want. Always dressed well. Tell a lot from a fellow's clothes, you know." Again he looked at Monk with a faint curl of his lip, then saw the quality of Monk's jacket and the portion of his shirt that was visible, and changed his mind, his eyes registering confusion.
    "And as far as you know he was neither married nor betrothed?'' Monk kept a stiff face and hid at least most of his satisfaction.
    Scarsdale was surprised at his inefficiency.
    "Surely you know that?"
    "Yes, we know there was no official arrangement," Monk said, hastening to cover his mistake. "But you are in a position to know if there was any other relationship, anyone in whom he—had an interest?"
    Scarsdale's rather full mouth turned down at the corners.
    "If you mean an arrangement of convenience, not that I am aware of. But then a man of breeding does not inquire into the personal tastes—or accommodations—of another gentleman."
    "No, I didn't mean a financial matter," Monk answered with the shadow of a sneer. "I meant some lady he might have—admired—or even been courting."
    Scarsdale colored angrily. "Not as far as I know."
    "Was he a gambler?"
    "I have no idea. I don't gamble myself, except with friends, of course, and Grey was not among them. I haven't heard anything, if that's what you mean."
    Monk realized he would get no more this evening, and he was tired. His own mystery was heavy at the back of his mind. Odd, how emptiness could be so intrusive. He rose to his feet.
    "Thank you, Mr. Scarsdale. If you should hear anything to throw light on Major Grey's last few days, or who might have wished him harm, I am sure you will let us know. The sooner we apprehend this man, the safer it will be for everyone."
    Scarsdale rose also, his face tightening at the subtle and unpleasant reminder that it had happened just across the hall from his own flat, threatening his security even as he stood there.
    "Yes, naturally," he said a little sharply. "Now if you
    will be good enough to permit me to change—I have a dinner engagement, you know."
    * * * * *
    Monk arrived at the police station to find Evan waiting for him. He was surprised at the sharpness of his pleasure at seeing him. Had he always been a lonely person, or was this just the isolation from memory, from all that might have been love or warmth in himself? Surely there was a friend somewhere—someone with whom he had shared pleasure and pain, at least common experience? Had there been no woman—in the past, if not now—some stored-up memory of tenderness, of laughter or tears? If not he must have been a cold fish. Was there perhaps some tragedy? Or some wrong?
    The nothingness was crowding in on him, threatening to engulf the precarious present. He had not even the comfort of habit.
    Evan's acute face, all eyes and nose, was infinitely welcome.
    "Find out anything, sir?" He stood up from the wooden chair in which he had been sitting.
    "Not a lot," Monk answered with a voice that was suddenly louder, firmer than the words warranted. "I don't see much chance of anyone having got in unseen, except the man who visited Yeats at about quarter to ten. Grim-wade says he was a biggish man, muffled up, which is reasonable on a night like that. He says he saw him leave at roughly half past ten. Took him upstairs, but didn't see him closely, and wouldn't recognize him again."
    Evan's face was a mixture of excitement and frustration.
    "Damn!" he exploded. "Could be almost anyone then!" He looked at Monk quickly. "But at least we have a fair idea how he got in. That's a great step forward; congratulations, sir!"
    Monk felt a quick renewal of his spirits. He knew it was not justified; the step was actually very small. He sat down in the chair behind the desk.
    "About six feet," he reiterated. "Dark and probably clean-shaven. I suppose that does narrow it a little."
    "Oh it narrows it quite a lot, sir," Evan said eagerly, resuming his own seat. "At least we know that it wasn't a chance thief. If he called on Yeats, or said he did, he had planned it, and taken the trouble to scout the building. He knew who