Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

to be his old self—most of the time. He would play the piano, and sing for us sometimes." Her eyes looked beyond Monk to some past place in her own mind. "And he still told us funny stories and made us laugh. But there were occasions when he would think of the men who died, and I suppose his own suffering as well."
    Monk was gathering an increasingly sharp picture of Joscelin Grey: a dashing young officer, easy mannered, perhaps a trifle callow; then through experience of war with its blood and pain, and for him an entirely new kind of responsibility, returning home determined to resume as much of the old life as possible; a youngest son with little money but great charm, and a degree of courage.
    He had not seemed like a man to make enemies through wronging anyone—but it did not need a leap of imagination to conceive that he might have earned a jealousy powerful enough to have ended in murder. All that was needed for that might lie within this lovely room with its tapestries and its view of the parkland.
    "Thank you, Lady Shelburne," he said formally. "You have given me a much clearer picture of him than I had. I am most grateful." He turned to Lovel. "Thank you, my lord. If I might speak with Mr. Menard Grey—"
    "He is out," Lovel replied flatly. "He went to see one of the tenant farmers, and I don't know which so there is no point in your traipsing around looking. Anyway, you are looking for who murdered Joscelin, not writing an obituary!"
    "I don't think the obituary is finished until it contains the answer," Monk replied, meeting his eyes with a straight, challenging stare.
    "Then get on with it!" Lovel snapped. "Don't stand here in the sun—get out and do something useful."
    Monk left without speaking and closed the withdrawing room door behind him. In the hall a footman was awaiting discreetly to show him out—or perhaps to make sure that he left without pocketing the silver card tray on the hall table, or the ivory-handled letter opener.
    The weather had changed dramatically; from nowhere a swift overcast had brought a squall, the first heavy drops beginning even as he left.
    He was outside, walking towards the main drive through the clearing rain, when quite by chance he met the last member of the family. He saw her coming towards him briskly, whisking her skirts out of the way of a stray bramble trailing onto the narrower path. She was reminiscent of Fabia Shelburne in age and dress, but without the brittle glamour. This woman's nose was longer, her hair wilder, and she could never have been a beauty, even forty years ago.
    "Good afternoon." He lifted his hat in a small gesture of politeness.
    She stopped in her stride and looked at him curiously. "Good afternoon. You are a stranger. What are you doing here? Are you lost?"
    "No, thank you ma'am. I am from the Metropolitan Police. I came to report our progress on the murder of Major Grey."
    Her eyes narrowed and he was not sure whether it was amusement or something else.
    "You look a well-set-up young man to be carrying messages. I suppose you came to see Fabia?"
    He had no idea who she was, and for a moment he was at a loss for a civil reply.
    She understood instantly.
    "I'm Callandra Daviot; the late Lord Shelburne was my brother."
    "Then Major Grey was your nephew, Lady Callandra?" He spoke her correct title without thinking, and only realized it afterwards, and wondered what experience or interest had taught him. Now he was only concerned for another opinion of Joscelin Grey.
    "Naturally," she agreed. "How can that help you?"
    "You must have known him."
    Her rather wild eyebrows rose slightly.
    "Of course. Possibly a little better than Fabia. Why?"
    "You were very close to him?" he said quickly.
    "On the contrary, I was some distance removed." Now he was quite certain there was a dry humor in her eyes.
    "And saw the clearer for it?" He finished her implication.
    "I believe so. Do you require to stand here under the trees, young man? I am being steadily dripped on."
    He shook his head, and turned to accompany her back along the way he had come.
    "It is unfortunate that Joscelin was murdered," she continued. "It would have been much better if he could have died at Sebastopol—better for Fabia anyway. What do you want of me? I was not especially fond of Joscelin, nor he of me. I knew none of his business, and have no useful ideas as to who might have wished him such intense harm."
    "You were not fond of him yourself?" Monk said curiously. "Everyone