Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

something you did not dare to tell me."
    Discovered! Was she connected with some case? It must be old; he had been working on Joscelin Grey since he came back, and before that the accident. He fished for something that would not commit him and yet still make sense.
    "No, I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything else." His voice was dry, artificial to his own ears. Please God he did not sound so foolish to her!
    "Oh." She looked down. It seemed for a moment as if she could not think of anything else to say, then she lifted her head again and met his eyes very squarely. He could only think how dark they were—not brown, but a multitude of shadows. "You may tell me the truth, Mr. Monk, whatever it is. Even if he killed himself, and for whatever reason, I would rather know.''
    "It is the truth," he said simply. "I had an accident about seven weeks ago. I was in a cab that overturned and I broke my arm and ribs and cracked my head. I can't even remember it. I was in hospital for nearly a month, and then went north to my sister's to regain my strength. I'm afraid I haven't done anything about it since then."
    "Oh dear." Her face was tight with concern. "I am sorry. Are you all right now? Are you sure you are better?"
    She sounded as if it mattered to her. He found himself wanned ridiculously by it. He forced from his mind the idea that she was merely compassionate, or well-mannered.
    "Yes, yes thank you; although there are blanks in my memory." Why had he told her that? To explain his behavior—in case it hurt her? He was taking too much upon himself. Why should she care, more than courtesy required? He remembered Sunday now; she had worn black then too, but expensive black, silk and fashionable. The man accompanying her had been dressed as Monk could not afford to be. Her husband? The thought was acutely depressing, even painful. He did not even think of the other woman.
    "Oh." Again she was lost for words.
    He was fumbling, trying to find a clue, sharply conscious of her presence; even faintly, although she was several feet away, of her perfume. Or was it imagination?
    "What was the last thing I told you?" he asked. "I mean—" He did not know what he meant.
    But she answered with only the merest hesitation.
    "Not a great deal. You said Papa had certainly discovered that the business was fraudulent but you did not know yet whether he had faced the other partners with it or not. You had seen someone, although you did not name him, but a certain Mr. Robinson disappeared every time you went after him." Her face tightened. "You did not know whether Papa could have been murdered by them, to keep his silence, or if he took his own life, for shame. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to discover. It just seemed so dreadful that he should choose that way rather than fight them, show them for what they are. It's no crime to be deceived!" There was a spark of anger in her now, as though she were fighting to keep control of herself. "I wanted to believe he would have stayed alive, and fought them, faced his friends, even those who lost money, rather than—" She stopped, otherwise she would have wept. She stood quite still, swallowing hard.
    "I'm sorry," he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her, but he was hurtfully aware of the difference between them. It would be a familiarity and would break the moment's trust, the illusion of closeness.
    She waited a moment longer, as if for something which did not come; then she abandoned it.
    "Thank you. I am sure you have done everything you could. Perhaps I saw what I wished to see."
    There was a movement up the aisle, towards the door of the church, and the vicar came down, looking vague, and behind him the same woman with the highly individual face whom Monk had seen on the first occasion in the church. She also was dressed in dark, plain clothes, and her thick hair with a very slight wave was pulled back in a manner that owed more to expediency than fashion.
    "Mrs. Latterly, is that you?" the vicar asked uncertainly, peering forward. "Why my dear, what are you doing here all by yourself? You mustn't brood, you know. Oh!" He saw Monk. "I beg your pardon. I did not realize you had company."
    "This is Mr. Monk," she said, explaining him. "From the police. He was kind enough to help us when Papa . . . died."
    The vicar looked at Monk with disapproval.
    "Indeed. I do think, my dear child, that it would be wiser for all of us if you were to let the matter rest. Observe mourning, of course,