Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

firstborn.
    Lovel himself contributed nothing, and Rosamond only enough to satisfy her mother-in-law, of whom she seemed in awe far more than of her husband.
    Monk did not see Lady Callandra Daviot, rather to his disappointment. He would have liked her candor on the subject, although he was not sure she would have expressed herself as freely in front of the grieving family as she had in the garden in the rain.
    He thanked them and excused himself in time to find Evan and walk down to the village for a pint of cider before the train back to London.
    "Well?" Monk asked as soon as they were out of sight of the house.
    "Ah." Evan could scarcely suppress his enthusiasm; his stride was surprisingly long, his lean body taut with energy, and he splashed through puddles on the road with complete disregard for his soaking boots. "It's fascinating. I've never been inside a really big house before, I mean inside to know it. My father was a clergyman, you know, and I went along to the manor house sometimes
    when I was a child—but it was nothing like this. Good Lord, those servants see things that would paralyze me with shame—I mean the family treat them as if they were deaf and blind."
    "They don't think of them as people," Monk replied. "At least not people in the same sense as themselves. They are two different worlds, and they don't impinge, except physically. Therefore their opinions don't matter. Did you learn anything else?" He smiled slightly at Evan's innocence.
    Evan grinned. "I'll say, although of course they wouldn't intentionally tell a policeman, or anyone else, anything they thought confidential about the family. It would be more than their livelihood was worth. Very closemouthed, they thought they were."
    "So how did you learn?" Monk asked curiously, looking at Evan's innocent, imaginative features.
    Evan blushed very slightly. "Threw myself on Cook's mercy." He looked down at the ground, but did not decrease his pace in the slightest. "Slandered my landlady appallingly, I'm afraid. Spoke very unkindly about her cooking—oh, and I stood outside for some time before going in, so my hands were cold—" He glanced up at Monk, then away again. "Very motherly sort, Lady Shel-burne's cook." He smiled rather smugly. "Daresay I did a lot better than you did."
    "I didn't eat at all," Monk said tartly.
    "I'm sorry." Evan did not sound it.
    "And what did your dramatic debut earn you, apart from luncheon?" Monk asked. "I presume you overheard a good deal—while you were busy being pathetic and eating them out of house and home?"
    "Oh yes—did you know that Rosamond comes from a well-to-do family, but a bit come-lately? And she fell for Joscelin first, but her mother insisted she marry the eldest brother, who also offered for her. And she was a good, obedient girl and did as she was told. At least that is what I read between the lines of what the tweeny was saying to
    the laundry maid—before the parlor maid came in and stopped them gossiping and they were packed off to their duties."
    Monk whistled through his teeth.
    "And," Evan went on before he could speak, "they had no children for the first few years, then one son, heir to the title, about a year and a half ago. Someone particularly spiteful is said to have observed that he has the typical Shelburne looks, but more like Joscelin than Lovel—so the second footman heard said in the public house. Blue eyes—you see, Lord Shelburne is dark—so is she-at least her eyes are—"
    Monk stopped in the road, staring at him.
    "Are you sure?"
    "I'm sure that's what they say, and Lord Shelburne must have heard it—at last—" He looked appalled. "Oh God! That's what Runcorn meant, isn't it? Very nasty, very nasty indeed." He was comical in his dismay, suddenly the enthusiasm gone out of him. "What on earth are we going to do? I can imagine how Lady Fabia will react if you try opening that one up!"
    "So can I," Monk said grimly. "And I don't know what we are going to do."

6

    Hester Latterly stood in the small withdrawing room of her brother's house in Thanet Street, a little off the Marylebone Road, and stared out of the window at the carriages passing. It was a smaller house, far less attractive than the family home on Regent Square. But after her father's death that house had had to be sold. She had always imagined that Charles and Imogen would move out of this house and back to Regent Square in such an event, but apparently the funds were needed to settle affairs, and