Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

of the thing which was more pressing to him.
    "Runcorn seems to think it will become unpleasant, and he's expecting rather a lot from us—"
    "Naturally." Evan looked at him, his eyes perfectly clear. "That's why he rushed you into it, even though you're hardly back from being ill. It's always sticky when we have to deal with the aristocracy; and let's face it, a policeman is usually treated pretty much as the social equal of a parlor maid and about as desirable to be close to as die drains; necessary in an imperfect society, but not fit to have in the withdrawing room."
    At another time Monk would have laughed, but now it was too painful, and too urgent.
    "Why me?" he pressed.
    Evan was frankly puzzled. He hid what looked like embarrassment with formality.
    "Sir?"
    "Why me?" Monk repeated a little more harshly. He could hear the rising pitch in his own voice, and could not govern it.
    Evan lowered his eyes awkwardly.
    "Do you want an honest answer to that, sir; although you must know it as well as I do?"
    "Yes I do! Please?"
    Evan faced him, his eyes hot and troubled. "Because you are the best detective in the station, and the most ambitious. Because you know how to dress and to speak; you'll be equal to the Shelburnes, if anyone is." He hesitated, biting his lip, then plunged on. "And—and if you come unstuck either by making a mess of it and failing to find the murderer, or rubbing up against Her Ladyship and she complains about you, there are a good few who won't mind if you're demoted. And of course worse still, if it turns out to be one of the family—and you have to arrest him—"
    Monk stared at him, but Evan did not look away. Monk felt the heat of shock ripple through him.
    "Including Runcorn?" he said very quietly.
    "I think so."
    "And you?"
    Evan was transparently surprised. "No, not me," he said simply. He made no protestations, and Monk believed him.
    "Good." He drew a deep breath. "Well, we'll go and see Mr. Yeats tomorrow."
    "Yes sir." Evan was smiling, the shadow gone. "I'll be here at eight."
    Monk winced inwardly at the time, but he had to agree. He said good-night and turned to go home.
    But out in the street he started walking the other way, not consciously thinking until he realized he was moving
    in the general direction of St. Marylebone Church. It was over two miles away, and he was tired. He had already walked a long way in Shelburne, and his legs were aching, his feet sore. He hailed a cab and when the driver asked him, he gave the address of the church.
    It was very quiet inside with only die dimmest of light through the fast-graying windows. Candelabra shed little yellow arcs.
    Why the church? He had all the peace and silence he needed in his own rooms, and he certainly had no conscious thought of God. He sat down in one of the pews.
    Why had he come here? No matter how much he had dedicated himself to his job, his ambition, he must know someone, have a friend, or even an enemy. His life must have impinged on someone else's—beside Runcorn.
    He had been sitting in the dark without count of time, struggling to remember anything at all—a face, a name, even a feeling, something of childhood, like the momentary glimpse at Shelburne—when he saw the girl in black again, standing a few feet away.
    He was startled. She seemed so vivid, familiar. Or was it only that she seemed to him to be lovely, evocative of something he wanted to feel, wanted to remember?
    But she was not beautiful, not really. Her mouth was too big, her eyes too deep. She was looking at him.
    Suddenly he was frightened. Ought he to know her? Was he being unbearably rude in not speaking? But he could know any number of people, of any walk of life! She could be a bishop's daughter, or a prostitute!
    No, never with that face.
    Don't be ridiculous, harlots could have faces with just that warmth, those luminous eyes; at least they could while they were still young, and nature had not yet written itself on the outside.
    Without realizing it, he was still looking at her.
    "Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said slowly, a faint embarrassment making her blink.
    He rose to his feet. "Good evening, ma'am." He had
    no idea of her name, and now he was terrified, wishing he had never come. What should he say? How well did she know him? He could feel the sweat prickly on his body, his tongue dry, his thoughts in a stultified, wordless mass.
    "You have not spoken for such a long time," she went on. "I had begun to fear you had discovered