Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

own word. "He might have had a lover who would pay to keep him quiet—and if pushed too for, kill him?"
    "Very nasty." Monk stared at the wet pavement. "Run-corn was right." And thought of Runcorn set his mind on a different track.
    He sent Evan to question all the local tradesmen, people at the club Grey had been at the evening he was killed, anything to learn about his associates.
    * * * * *
    Evan began at the wine merchant's whose name they had found on a bill head in Grey's apartments. He was a fat man with a drooping mustache and an unctuous manner. He expressed desolation over the loss of Major Grey. What a terrible misfortune. What an ironic stroke of fete that such a fine officer should survive the war, only to be struck down by a madman in his own home. What a tragedy. He did not know what to say—and he said it at considerable length while Evan struggled to get a word in and ask some useful question.
    When at last he did, the answer was what he had guessed it would be. Major Grey—the Honorable Joscelin Grey— was a most valued customer. He had excellent taste—but what else would you expect from such a gentleman? He knew French wine, and he knew German wine. He liked the best. He was provided with it from this establishment. His accounts? No, not always up to date—but paid in due course. The nobility were that way with-money—one had
    to learn to accommodate it. He could add nothing—but nothing at all. Was Mr. Evan interested in wine? He could recommend an excellent Bordeaux.
    No, Mr. Evan, reluctantly, was not interested in wine; he was a country parson's son, well educated in the gentilities of life, but with a pocket too short to indulge in more than the necessities, and a few good clothes, which would stand him in better stead than even the best of wines. None of which he explained to the merchant.
    Next he tried the local eating establishments, beginning with the chophouse and working down to the public alehouse, which also served an excellent stew with spotted dick pudding, full of currants, as Evan could attest.
    "Major Grey?" the landlord said ruminatively. "Yer mean 'im as was murdered? 'Course I knowed 'im. Come in 'ere reg'lar, 'e did."
    Evan did not know whether to believe him or not. It could well be true; the food was cheap and filling and the atmosphere not unpleasant to a man who had served in the army, two years of it in the battlefields of the Crimea. On the other hand it could be a boost to his business— already healthy—to say that a famous victim of murder had dined here. There was a grisly curiosity in many people which would give the place an added interest to them.
    "What did he look like?" Evan asked.
    " 'Ere!" The landlord looked at him suspiciously. "You on the case—or not, then? Doncher know?"
    "I never met him alive," Evan replied reasonably. "It makes a lot of difference, you know.''
    The landlord sucked his teeth. " 'Course it do—sorry, guv, a daft question. 'E were tall, an' not far from your build, kind o' slight—but 'e were real natty wiv it! Looked like a gennelman, even afore 'e opened 'is mouf. Yer can tell. Fair 'air, 'e 'ad; an' a smile as was summat luv'ly."
    "Charming," Evan said, more as an observation than a question.
    "Not 'alf," the landlord agreed.
    "Popular?" Evan pursued.
    "Yeah. Used ter tell a lot o' stories. People like that— passes the time."
    "Generous?" Evan asked.
    "Gen'rous?" The landlord's eyebrows rose. "No—not gen'rous. More like 'e took more'n 'e gave. Reckon as 'e din't 'ave that much. An' folk liked ter treat 'im—like I said, 'e were right entertainin'. Flash sometimes. Come in 'ere of an occasion an' treat everyone 'andsome— but not often, like—mebbe once a monf."
    "Regularly?"
    "Wotcher mean?"
    "At a set time in the month?"
    "Oh no—could be any time, twice a monf, or not fer two monfs."
    Gambler, Evan thought to himself. "Thank you," he said aloud. "Thank you very much." And he finished the cider and placed sixpence on the table and left, going out reluctantly into the fading drizzle.
    He spent the rest of the afternoon going to bootmakers, hatters, shirtmakers and tailors, from whom he learned precisely what he expected—nothing that his common sense had not already told him.
    He bought a fresh eel pie from a vendor on Guilford Street outside the Foundling Hospital, then took a hansom all the way to St. James's, and got out at Boodles, where Joscelin Grey had been a member.
    Here his questions had to be a lot