Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

Yeats?"
    "No sir, nothing helpful." Monk was stung and his voice betrayed it.
    Runcorn turned from the hat stand and smiled fully at him, his eyes bright.
    "Then you'd better abandon that and step up your inquiries into Grey's family and friends, hadn't you?" he said with ill-concealed satisfaction. "Especially women friends. There may be a jealous husband somewhere. Looks like that kind of hatred to me. Take my word, there's something very nasty at the bottom of this." He tilted his hat slightly on his head, but it simply looked askew rather than rakish. "And you, Monk, are just the man to uncover it. You'd better go and try Shelburne again!" And with that parting shot, ringing with jubilation, he swung his scarf around his neck and went out.
    * * * * *
    Monk did not go to Shelburne the next day, or even that week. He knew he would have to, but he intended when he went to be as well armed as possible, both for the best chance of success in discovering the murderer of Joscelin Grey, whom he wanted with an intense and driving sense of justice, and—fast becoming almost as important—to avoid all he could of oflFense in probing the very private lives of the Shelburnes, or whoever else might have been aroused to such a rage, over whatever jealousies, passions or perversions. Monk knew that the powerful were no less frail than the rest of men, but they were usually far fiercer in covering those frailties from the mockery and the delight
    of the vulgar. It was not a matter of memory so much as instinct, the same way he knew how to shave, or to tie his cravat.
    Instead he set out with Evan the following morning to go back to Mecklenburg Square, this time not to find traces of an intruder but to learn anything he could about Grey himself. Although they walked with scant conversation, each deep in his own thoughts, he was glad not to be alone. Grey's flat oppressed him and he could never free his mind from the violence that had happened there. It was not the blood, or even the death that clung to him, but the hate. He must have seen death before, dozens, if not scores of times, and he could not possibly have been troubled by it like this each time. It must usually have been casual death, pathetic or brainless murder, the utter selfishness of the mugger who wants and takes, or murder by the thief who finds his escape blocked. But in the death of Grey there was a quite different passion, something intimate, a bond of hatred between the killer and the killed.
    He was cold in the room, even though the rest of the building was warm. The light through the high windows was colorless as if it would drain rather than illuminate. The furniture seemed oppressive and shabby, too big for the place, although in truth it was exactly like any other. He looked at Evan to see if he felt it also, but Evan's sensitive face was puckered over with the distaste of searching another man's letters, as he opened the desk and began to go through the drawers.
    Monk walked past him into the bedroom, a little stale smelling from closed windows. There was a faint film of dust, as last time. He searched cupboards and clothes drawers, dressers, the tallboy. Grey had an excellent wardrobe; not very extensive, but a beautiful cut and quality. He had certainly possessed good taste, if not the purse to indulge it to the full. There were several sets of cuff links, all gold backed, one with his family crest engraved, two with his own initials. There were three stickpins, one with a fair-sized pearl, and a set of silver-backed brushes, a
    pigskin toilet kit. Certainly no burglar had come this far. There were many fine pocket handkerchiefs, mono-grammed, silk and linen shirts, cravats, socks, clean underwear. He was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find he knew to within a few shillings the price one would pay for each article, and wondered what aspirations had led him to such knowledge.
    He had hoped to find letters in the top drawers, perhaps those too personal to mix with bills and casual correspondence in the desk, but there was nothing, and eventually he went back to the main room. Evan was still at the desk, standing motionless. The place was totally silent, as though both of them were aware that it was a dead man's room, and felt intrusive.
    Far down in the street there was a rumble of wheels, the sharper sound of hooves, and a street seller's cry which sounded like "Ole clo'—ole clo'!"
    "Well?" He found his voice sunk to a near whisper.
    Evan