Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

looked up, startled. His face was tight.
    "Rather a lot of letters here, sir. I'm not sure really what to make of them. There are several from his sister-in-law, Rosamond Grey; a rather sharp one from his brother Lovel—that's Lord Shelburne, isn't it? A very recent note from his mother, but only one, so it looks as if he didn't keep hers. There are several from a Dawlish family, just prior to his death; among them an invitation to stay at their home for a week. They seem to have been friendly." He puckered his mouth slightly. "One is from Miss Amanda Dawlish, sounds quite eager. In fact there are a number of invitations, all for dates after his death. Apparently he didn't keep old ones. And I'm afraid there's no diary. Funny." He looked up at Monk. "You'd think a man like that would have a social diary, wouldn't you?"
    "Yes you would!" Monk moved forward. "Perhaps the murderer took it. You're quite sure?"
    "Not in the desk." Evan shook his head. "And IVe checked for hidden drawers. But why would anyone hide a social diary anyway?"
    "No idea," Monk said honestly, taking a step nearer to the desk and peering at it. "Unless it was the murderer who took it. Perhaps his name figures heavily. We'll have to try these Dawlishes. Is there an address on the letters?"
    "Oh yes, I've made a note of it."
    "Good. What else?"
    "Several bills. He wasn't very prompt in paying up, but I knew that already from talking to the tradesmen. Three from his tailor, four or five from a shirtmaker, the one I visited, two from the wine merchant, a rather terse letter from the family solicitor in reply to a request for an increased allowance.''
    "In the negative, I take it?"
    "Very much so."
    "Anything from clubs, gambling and so on?"
    "No, but then one doesn't usually commit gambling debts to paper, even at Boodles, unless you are the one who is collecting, of course." Then he smiled suddenly. "Not that I can afford to know—except by hearsay!"
    Monk relaxed a little. "Quite," he agreed. "Any other letters?"
    "One pretty cool one from a Charles Latterly, doesn't say much—"
    "Latterly?" Monk froze.
    "Yes. You know him?" Evan was watching him.
    Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs. Latterly at St. Marylebone had said "Charles," and he had feared it might have been her husband.
    "I was working on a Latterly case some time ago," he said, struggling to keep his voice level. "It's probably coincidence. I was looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn't find it."
    "Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some scandal to hush up, or—"
    "No!" He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying his feelings. He moderated his tone. "No, not at all. Poor man is dead anyway. Died before Grey did."
    "Oh." Evan turned back to the desk. "That's about all, I'm afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from these, and they'll lead us to more."
    "Yes, yes quite. I'll take Latterly's address, all the same."
    "Oh, right." Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.
    Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.
    They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.
    "Lunch," Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent, obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of daily life.
    "Right." Evan fell in step beside him. "There's a good public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent dumplings. That is—" he stopped suddenly. "It's very ordinary—don't know if you—"
    "Fine," Monk agreed. "Sounds just what we need. I'm frozen after being in that place. I don't know why, but it seems cold, even inside."
    Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. "It might be imagination, but it always chills me. I'm not used to murder yet. I suppose you're above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven't got that far—"
    "Don't!" Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to. "Don't get used to it!" He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden sensitivity, but he did not care. "I mean," he said more softly, aware