Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

it was a printed sheet for a service of Evensong at a church he did not know.
    Perhaps it was close by. He felt a quickening of hope. Maybe he was a member of the congregation. The minister would know him. He might have friends there, a belief, even an office or a calling of some sort. He folded up the paper again carefully and put it in the desk, then went into the bedroom to wash and shave again, and change into his best clothes, and the coat from which the sheet had come. By five o'clock he was ready, and he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Worley where St. Marylebone Church might be.
    His disappointment was shattering when she showed complete ignorance, Temper boiled inside him at the frustration. She must know. But her placid, blunt face was expressionless.
    He was about to argue, to shout at her that she must know, when he realized how foolish it would be. He would only anger her, drive from himself a friend he sorely needed.
    She was staring at him, her face puckered.
    "My, you are in a state. Let me ask Mr. Worley for yer; he's a rare fine understanding o' the city. O' course I expect it's on the Marylebone Road, but ezac'ly where I'm sure I wouldn't know. It's a long street, that is."
    "Thank you," he said carefully, feeling foolish. "It's rather important."
    "Going to a wedding, are yer?" She looked at his carefully brushed dark coat. "What you want is a good cabby, what knows 'is way, and'll get you there nice and prompt, like."
    It was an obvious answer, and he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. He thanked her, and when Mr. Worley had been asked, and given his opinion that it might be opposite York Gate, he went out to look for a cab.
    Evensong had already begun when he hurried up the steps and into the vestry. He could hear the voices lifted rather thinly in the first hymn. It sounded dutiful rather
    than joyous. Was he a religious man; or, it would be truer to ask, had he been? He felt no sense of comfort or reverence now, except for the simple beauty of the stonework.
    He went in as quickly as he could, walking almost on the sides of his polished boots to make no noise. One or two heads turned, sharp with criticism. He ignored them and slid into a back pew, fumbling for a hymnbook.
    Nothing sounded familiar; he followed the hymn because the tune was trite, full of musical cliches. He knelt when everyone else knelt, and rose as they rose. He missed the responses.
    When the minister stepped into the pulpit to speak, Monk stared at him, searching his face for some nicker of memory. Could he go to this man and confide in him the truth, ask him to tell him everything he knew? The voice droned on in one platitude after another; his intention was benign, but so tied in words as to be almost incomprehensible. Monk sank deeper and deeper into a feeling of helplessness. The man did not seem able to remember his own train of thought from one sentence to the next, let alone the nature and passions of his flock.
    When the last amen had been sung, Monk watched the people file out, hoping someone would touch his memory, or better still, actually speak to him.
    He was about to give up even that when he saw a young woman in black, slender and of medium height, dark hair drawn softly back from a face almost luminous, dark eyes and fragile skin, mouth too generous and too big for it. It was not a weak face, and yet it was one that could have moved easily to laughter, or tragedy. There was a grace in the way she walked that compelled him to watch her.
    As she drew level she became aware of him and turned. Her eyes widened and she hesitated. She drew in her breath as if to speak.
    He waited, hope surging up inside him, and a ridiculous excitement, as if some exquisite realization were about to come.
    Then the moment vanished; she seemed to regain a
    mastery of herself, her chin lifted a little, and she picked up her skirt unnecessarily and continued on her way.
    He went after her, but she was lost in a group of people, two of whom, also dressed in black, were obviously accompanying her. One was a tall, fair man in his mid-thirties with smooth hair and a long-nosed, serious face; the other was a woman of unusual uprightness of carriage and features of remarkable character. The three of them walked towards the street and waiting vehicles and none of them turned their heads again.
    Monk rode home in a rage of confusion, fear, and wild, disturbing hope.

4

    But when Monk arrived on Monday morning, breathless and a