Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

Monk agreed, standing across the room from him so he could see Shel-burne's face in the light. "A simple burglar does not go on hitting his victim long after he is quite obviously dead."
    Shelburne winced. "Unless he is a madman! Which was rather my point. You are dealing with a madman, Mr.— er." He could not recall Monk's name and did not wait for it to be offered. It was unimportant. "I think there's scant chance of your catching him now. You would probably be better employed stopping muggings, or pickpockets, or whatever it is you usually do."
    Monk swallowed his temper with difficulty, "Lady Shelburne seems to disagree with you."
    Lovel Grey was unaware of having been rude; one could not be rude to a policeman.
    "Mama?" His face flickered for an instant with unaccustomed emotion, which quickly vanished and left his features smooth again. "Oh, well; women feel these things. I am afraid she has taken Joscelin's death very hard, worse than if he'd been killed in the Crimea." It appeared to surprise him slightly.
    "It's natural," Monk persisted, trying a different approach. "I believe he was a very charming person—and well liked?"
    Shelburne was leaning against the mantelpiece and his boots shone in the sun falling wide through the French window. Irritably he kicked them against the brass fender.
    "Joscelin? Yes, I suppose he was. Cheerful sort of fellow, always smiling. Gifted with music, and telling stories, that kind of thing. I know my wife was very fond of him. Great pity, and so pointless, just some bloody madman." He shook his head. "Hard on Mother."
    "Did he come down here often?" Monk sensed a vein more promising.
    "Oh, every couple of months or so. Why?" He looked up. "Surely you don't think someone followed him from here?"
    "Every possibility is worth looking into, sir." Monk leaned his weight a little against the sideboard. "Was he here shortly before he was killed?"
    "Yes, as a matter of fact he was; couple of weeks, or less. But I think you are mistaken. Everyone here had known him for years, and they all liked him." A shadow crossed his face. "Matter of fact, I think he was pretty well the servants' favorite. Always had a pleasant word, you know; remembered people's names, even though he hadn't lived here for years."
    Monk imagined it: the solid, plodding older brother, worthy but boring; the middle brother still an outline only; and the youngest, trying hard and finding that charm could bring him what birth did not, making people laugh, unbending the formality, affecting an interest in the servants' lives and families, winning small treats for himself that his brothers did not—and his mother's love.
    "People can hide hatred, sir," Monk said aloud. "And they usually do, if they have murder in mind."
    "I suppose they must," Lovel conceded, straightening up and standing with his back to the empty fireplace. "Still, I think you're on the wrong path. Look for some lunatic in London, some violent burglar; there must be loads of them. Don't you have contacts, people who inform to the police? Why don't you try them?"
    "We have, sir—exhaustively. Mr. Lamb, my predecessor, spent weeks combing every possibility in that direction. It was the first place to look." He changed the subject
    suddenly, hoping to catch him less guarded. "How did Major Grey finance himself, sir? We haven't uncovered any business interest yet.''
    "What on earth do you want to know that for?" Lovel was startled. "You cannot imagine he had the sort of business rivals who would beat him to death with a stick! That's ludicrous!"
    "Someone did."
    He wrinkled his face with distaste. "I had not forgotten that! I really don't know what his business interests were. He had a small allowance from the estate, naturally."
    "How much, sir?"
    "I hardly think that needs to concern you." Now the irritation was back; his aifairs had been trespassed upon by a policeman. Again his boot kicked absently at the fender behind him.
    "Of course it concerns me, sir." Monk had command of his temper now. He was in control of the conversation, and he had a direction to pursue. "Your brother was murdered, probably by someone who knew him. Money may well come into it; it is one of the commonest motives for murder."
    Lovel looked at him without replying.
    Monk waited.
    "Yes, I suppose it is," Lovel said at last. "Four hundred pounds a year—and of course there was his army pension."
    To Monk it sounded a generous amount; one could run a very good establishment