Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger
he could not bear to be still. He hardly noticed anything about the furniture or the pleasant, rather ordinary paintings and the worn carpet. What was he going to say? He had charged into a world where he did not belong, because of something he dreamed in a woman's face. She probably found him distasteful, and would not have suffered him if she were not so concerned about her father-in-law, hoping he could use his skills to discover something that would ease her grief. Suicide was a terrible shame, and in the eyes of the church financial disgrace would not excuse it. He could still be buried in unconsecrated ground if the conclusion were in- . evitable.
It was too late to back away now, but it crossed his mind. He even considered concocting an excuse, another
reason for calling, something to do with Grey and the letter in his flat, when the parlor maid returned and there was no time.
"Mrs. Latterly will see you, sir, if you come this way."
Obediently, heart thumping and mouth dry, he followed the maid.
The withdrawing room was medium sized, comfortable, and originally furnished with the disregard for money of those who have always possessed it, but the ease, the unos-tentation of those for whom it has no novelty. Now it was still elegant, but the curtains were a little faded in portions where the sun fell on them, and the fringing on the swags with which they were tied was missing a bobble here and there. The carpet was not of equal quality with the piecrust tables or the chaise longue. He felt pleasure in the room immediately, and wondered where in his merciless self-improvement he had learned such taste.
His eyes went to Mrs. Latterly beside the fire. She was no longer in black, but dark wine, and it brought a faint flush to her skin. Her throat and shoulders were as delicate and slender as a child's, but there was nothing of the child in her face. She was staring at him with luminous eyes, wide now, and too shadowed to read their expression.
Monk turned quickly to the others. The man, fairer than she and with less generous mouth, must be her husband, and the other woman sitting opposite with the proud face with so much anger and imagination in it he knew immediately; they had met and quarreled at Shelburne Hall— Miss Hester Latterly.
"Good evening, Monk." Charles Latterly did not stand. "You remember my wife?" He gestured vaguely towards Imogen. "And my sister, Miss Hester Latterly. She was in the Crimea when our father died." There was a strong accent of disapproval in his voice and it was apparent that he resented Monk's involvement in the affair.
Monk was assailed by an awful thought—had he somehow disgraced himself, been too brash, too insensitive to their pain and added not only to their loss but the manner of it? Had he said something appallingly thoughtless, or been too familiar? The blood burned up his face and he stumbled into speech to cover the hot silence.
"Good evening, sir." Then he bowed very slightly to Imogen and then to Hester. "Good evening, ma'am; Miss Latterly." He would not mention that they had already met. It was not a fortunate episode.
"What can we do for you?" Charles asked, nodding towards a seat, indicating that Monk might make himself comfortable.
Monk accepted, and another extraordinary thought occurred to him. Imogen had been very discreet, almost furtive in speaking to him in St. Marylebone Church. Was it conceivable neither her husband nor her sister-in-law knew that she had pursued the matter beyond the first, formal acknowledgment of the tragedy and the necessary formalities? If that were so he must not betray her now.
He drew a deep breath, hoping he could make sense, wishing to God he could remember anything at all of what Charles had told him, and what he had learned from Imogen alone. He would have to bluff, pretend there was something new, a connection with the murder of Grey; it was the only other case he was working on, or could remember anything at all about. These people had known him, however slightly. He had been working for them shortly before the accident; surely they could tell him something about himself?
But that was less than half a truth. Why lie to himself? He was here because of Imogen Latterly. It was purposeless, but her face haunted his mind, like a memory from the past of which the precise nature is lost, or a ghost from the imagination, from the realm of daydreams so often repeated it seems they must surely have been real.
They were
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