Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

dismissal, but he was not yet ready to go. There were things he needed to know. He stood up.
    "I mean to, ma'am; but I still need your help—"
    "Mine?" Her voice expressed surprise, and disapproval.
    "Yes ma'am. If I am to learn who hated Major Grey
    enough to kill him"—he caught her expression—"for whatever reason. The finest people, ma'am, can inspire envy, or greed, jealousy over a woman, a debt of honor that cannot be paid—"
    "Yes, you make your point." She blinked and the muscles in her thin neck tightened. "What is your name?"
    "William Monk."
    "Indeed. And what is it you wish to know about my son, Mr. Monk?"
    "To start with, I would like to meet the rest of the family."
    Her eyebrows rose in faint, dry amusement.
    "You think I am biased, Mr. Monk, that I have told you something less than the truth?"
    "We frequently show only our most flattering sides to those we care for most, and who care for us," he replied quietly.
    "How perceptive of you." Her voice was stinging. He tried to guess what well-covered pain was behind those words.
    "When may I speak to Lord Shelburne?" he asked. "And anyone else who knew Major Grey well?"
    "If you consider it necessary, I suppose you had better." She went back to the door. "Wait here, and I shall ask him to see you, when it is convenient." She pulled the door open and walked through without looking back at him.
    He sat down, half facing the window. Outside a woman in a plain stuff dress walked past, a basket on her arm. For a wild moment memory surged back to him. He saw in his mind a child as well, a girl with dark hair, and he knew the cobbled street beyond the trees, going down to the water. There was something missing; he struggled for it, and then knew it was wind, and the scream of gulls. It was a memory of happiness, of complete safety. Childhood—perhaps his mother, and Beth?
    Then it was gone. He fought to add to it, focus it more sharply and see the details again, but nothing else came.
    He was an adult back in Shelburne, with the murder of Joscelin Grey.
    He waited for another quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Lord Shelburne came in. He was about thirty-eight or forty, heavier of build than Joscelin Grey, to judge by the description and the clothes; but Monk wondered if Joscelin had also had that air of confidence and slight, even unintentional superiority. He was darker than his mother and the balance of his face was different, sensible, without a jot of humor in the mouth.
    Monk rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy—and hated himself for doing it.
    "You're the police fellow?" Shelburne said with a slight frown. He remained standing, so Monk was obliged to also. "Well, what is it you want? I really can't imagine how anything I can tell you about my brother could help you find the lunatic who broke in and killed him, poor devil."
    "No one broke in, sir," Monk corrected him. "Whoever it was, Major Grey gave entrance to him himself."
    "Really?" The level brows rose a fraction. "I find that very unlikely."
    ' "Then you are not acquainted with the facts, sir.'' Monk was irked by the condescension and the arrogance of a man who presumed to know Monk's job better than he did, simply because he was a gentleman. Had he always found it so hard to bear? Had he been quick-tempered? Runcorn had said something about lack of diplomacy, but he could not remember what it was now. His mind flew back to the church the day before, to the woman who had hesitated as she passed him down the aisle. He could see her face as sharply here at Shelburne as he had then; the rustle of taffeta, the faint, almost imaginary perfume, the widening of her eyes. It was a memory that made his heart beat faster and excitement catch in his throat.
    "I know my brother was beaten to death by a lunatic." Shelburne's voice cut across him, scattering his thoughts. "And you haven't caught him yet. Those are facts!"
    Monk forced his attention to the present.
    "With respect, sir." He tried to choose his words with tact. "We know that he was beaten to death. We do not know by whom, or why; but there were no marks of forced entry, and the only person unaccounted for who could possibly have entered the building appears to have visited someone else. Whoever attacked Major Grey took great care about the way he did it, and so far as we know, did not steal anything."
    "And you deduce from that that it was someone he knew?" Shelburne was skeptical.
    "That, and the violence of the crime,"