The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  “Why not?”

  “Because you required that I come and report our progress to you, ma’am.”

  Her eyebrows rose in incredulity, touched with contempt. The sarcasm passed her by entirely.

  “Surely you cannot be the only man directed to conduct such an important case? My son was a brave and distinguished soldier who risked his life for his country. Is this the best with which you can repay him?”

  “London is full of crimes, ma’am; and every man or woman murdered is a loss to someone.”

  “You can hardly equate the death of a marquis’s son with that of some thief or indigent in the street!” she snapped back.

  “Nobody has more than one life to lose, ma’am; and all are equal before the law, or they should be.”

  “Nonsense! Some men are leaders, and contribute to society; most do not. My son was one of those who did.”

  “Some have nothing to—” he began.

  “Then that is their own fault!” she interrupted. “But I do not wish to hear your philosophies. I am sorry for those in the gutter, for whatever reason, but they really do not interest me. What are you doing about apprehending this madman who killed my son? Who is he?”

  “We don’t know-”

  “Then what are you doing to find out?” If she had any feelings under her exquisite exterior, like generations of her kind she had been bred to conceal them, never to indulge herself in weakness or vulgarity. Courage and good taste were her household gods and no sacrifice to them was questioned, nor too great, made daily and without fuss.

  Monk ignored Runcorn’s admonition, and wondered in passing how often he had done so in the past. There had been a certain asperity in Runcorn’s tone this morning which surpassed simply frustration with the case, or Lady Shelburne’s letter.

  “We believe it was someone who knew Major Grey,” he answered her. “And planned to kill him.”

  “Nonsense!” Her response was immediate. “Why should anyone who knew my son have wished to kill him? He was a man of the greatest charm; everyone liked him, even those who barely knew him.” She stood up and walked over towards the window, her back half to him. “Perhaps that is difficult for you to understand; but you never met him. Lovel, my eldest son, has the sobriety, the sense of responsibility, and something of a gift to manage men; Menard is excellent with facts and figures. He can make anything profitable; but it was Joscelin who had the charm, Joscelin who could make one laugh.” There was a catch in her voice now, the sound of real grief. “Menard cannot sing as Joscelin could; and Lovel has no imagination. He will make an excellent master of Shelburne. He will govern it well and be just to everyone, as just as it is wise to be—but my God”—there was sudden heat in her voice, almost passion—“compared with Joscelin, he is such a bore!”

  Suddenly Monk was touched by the sense of loss that came through her words, the loneliness, the feeling that something irrecoverably pleasing had gone from her life and part of her could only look backwards from now on.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it deeply. “I know it cannot bring him back, but we will find the man, and he will be punished.”

  “Hanged,” she said tonelessly. “Taken out one morning and his neck broken on the rope.”

  “Yes.”

  “That is of little use to me.” She turned back to him. “But it is better than nothing. See to it that it is done.”

  It was dismissal, but he was not yet ready to go. There were things he needed to know. He stood up.

  “I mean to, ma’am; but I still need your help—”

  “Mine?” Her voice expressed surprise, and disapproval.

  “Yes ma’am. If I am to learn who hated Major Grey enough to kill him”—he caught her expression—“for whatever reason. The finest people, ma’am, can inspire envy, or greed, jealousy over a woman, a debt of honor that cannot be paid—”

  “Yes, you make your point.” She blinked and the muscles in her thin neck tightened. “What is your name?”

  “William Monk.”

  “Indeed. And what is it you wish to know about my son, Mr. Monk?”

  “To start with, I would like to meet the rest of the family.”

  Her eyebrows rose in faint, dry amusement.

  “You think I am biased, Mr. Monk, that I have told you something less than the truth?”

  “We frequently show only our most flattering sides to those we care for most, and who care for us,” he replied quietly.

  “How perceptive of you.” Her voice was stinging. He tried to guess what well-covered pain was behind those words.

  “When may I speak to Lord Shelburne?” he asked. “And anyone else who knew Major Grey well?”

  “If you consider it necessary, I suppose you had better.” She went back to the door. “Wait here, and I shall ask him to see you, when it is convenient.” She pulled the door open and walked through without looking back at him.

  He sat down, half facing the window. Outside a woman in a plain stuff dress walked past, a basket on her arm. For a wild moment memory surged back to him. He saw in his mind a child as well, a girl with dark hair, and he knew the cobbled street beyond the trees, going down to the water. There was something missing; he struggled for it, and then knew it was wind, and the scream of gulls. It was a memory of happiness, of complete safety. Childhood—perhaps his mother, and Beth?

  Then it was gone. He fought to add to it, focus it more sharply and see the details again, but nothing else came.

  He was an adult back in Shelburne, with the murder of Joscelin Grey.

  He waited for another quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Lord Shelburne came in. He was about thirty-eight or forty, heavier of build than Joscelin Grey, to judge by the description and the clothes; but Monk wondered if Joscelin had also had that air of confidence and slight, even unintentional superiority. He was darker than his mother and the balance of his face was different, sensible, without a jot of humor in the mouth.

  Monk rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy—and hated himself for doing it.

  “You’re the police fellow?” Shelburne said with a slight frown. He remained standing, so Monk was obliged to also. “Well, what is it you want? I really can’t imagine how anything I can tell you about my brother could help you find the lunatic who broke in and killed him, poor devil.”

  “No one broke in, sir,” Monk corrected him. “Whoever it was, Major Grey gave entrance to him himself.”

  “Really?” The level brows rose a fraction. “I find that very unlikely.”

  “Then you are not acquainted with the facts, sir.” Monk was irked by the condescension and the arrogance of a man who presumed to know Monk’s job better than he did, simply because he was a gentleman. Had he always found it so hard to bear? Had he been quick-tempered? Runcorn had said something about lack of diplomacy, but he could not remember what it was now. His mind flew back to the church the day before, to the woman who had hesitated as she passed him down the aisle. He could see her face as sharply here at Shelburne as he had then; the rustle of taffeta, the faint, almost imaginary perfume, the widening of her eyes. It was a memory that made his heart beat faster and excitement catch in his throat.

  “I know my brother was beaten to death by a lunatic.” Shelburne’s voice cut across him, scattering his thoughts. “And you haven’t caught him yet. Those are facts!”

  Monk forced his attention to the present.

  “With respect, sir.” He tried to choose his words with tact. “We know that he was beaten to death. We do not know by whom, or why; but there were no marks of forced entry, and the only person unaccounted for who could possibly have entered the building appears to have visited someone else. Whoever attacked Major Grey took great care about the way he did it, and so far as we know, did not steal anything.”

  “And you deduce from that that it was someone he knew?” Shelburne was skeptical.

  “That, and the violence of the crime,” Monk agreed, standing across the roo
m from him so he could see Shelburne’s face in the light. “A simple burglar does not go on hitting his victim long after he is quite obviously dead.”

  Shelburne winced. “Unless he is a madman! Which was rather my point. You are dealing with a madman, Mr.—er.” He could not recall Monk’s name and did not wait for it to be offered. It was unimportant. “I think there’s scant chance of your catching him now. You would probably be better employed stopping muggings, or pickpockets, or whatever it is you usually do.”

  Monk swallowed his temper with difficulty. “Lady Shelburne seems to disagree with you.”

  Lovel Grey was unaware of having been rude; one could not be rude to a policeman.

  “Mama?” His face flickered for an instant with unaccustomed emotion, which quickly vanished and left his features smooth again. “Oh, well; women feel these things. I am afraid she has taken Joscelin’s death very hard, worse than if he’d been killed in the Crimea.” It appeared to surprise him slightly.

  “It’s natural,” Monk persisted, trying a different approach. “I believe he was a very charming person—and well liked?”

  Shelburne was leaning against the mantelpiece and his boots shone in the sun falling wide through the French window. Irritably he kicked them against the brass fender.

  “Joscelin? Yes, I suppose he was. Cheerful sort of fellow, always smiling. Gifted with music, and telling stories, that kind of thing. I know my wife was very fond of him. Great pity, and so pointless, just some bloody madman.” He shook his head. “Hard on Mother.”

  “Did he come down here often?” Monk sensed a vein more promising.

  “Oh, every couple of months or so. Why?” He looked up. “Surely you don’t think someone followed him from here?”

  “Every possibility is worth looking into, sir.” Monk leaned his weight a little against the sideboard. “Was he here shortly before he was killed?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he was; couple of weeks, or less. But I think you are mistaken. Everyone here had known him for years, and they all liked him.” A shadow crossed his face. “Matter of fact, I think he was pretty well the servants’ favorite. Always had a pleasant word, you know; remembered people’s names, even though he hadn’t lived here for years.”

  Monk imagined it: the solid, plodding older brother, worthy but boring; the middle brother still an outline only; and the youngest, trying hard and finding that charm could bring him what birth did not, making people laugh, unbending the formality, affecting an interest in the servants’ lives and families, winning small treats for himself that his brothers did not—and his mother’s love.

  “People can hide hatred, sir,” Monk said aloud. “And they usually do, if they have murder in mind.”

  “I suppose they must,” Lovel conceded, straightening up and standing with his back to the empty fireplace. “Still, I think you’re on the wrong path. Look for some lunatic in London, some violent burglar; there must be loads of them. Don’t you have contacts, people who inform to the police? Why don’t you try them?”

  “We have, sir—exhaustively. Mr. Lamb, my predecessor, spent weeks combing every possibility in that direction. It was the first place to look.” He changed the subject suddenly, hoping to catch him less guarded. “How did Major Grey finance himself, sir? We haven’t uncovered any business interest yet.”

  “What on earth do you want to know that for?” Lovel was startled. “You cannot imagine he had the sort of business rivals who would beat him to death with a stick! That’s ludicrous!”

  “Someone did.”

  He wrinkled his face with distaste. “I had not forgotten that! I really don’t know what his business interests were. He had a small allowance from the estate, naturally.”

  “How much, sir?”

  “I hardly think that needs to concern you.” Now the irritation was back; his affairs had been trespassed upon by a policeman. Again his boot kicked absently at the fender behind him.

  “Of course it concerns me, sir.” Monk had command of his temper now. He was in control of the conversation, and he had a direction to pursue. “Your brother was murdered, probably by someone who knew him. Money may well come into it; it is one of the commonest motives for murder.”

  Lovel looked at him without replying.

  Monk waited.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Lovel said at last. “Four hundred pounds a year—and of course there was his army pension.”

  To Monk it sounded a generous amount; one could run a very good establishment and keep a wife and family, with two maids, for less than a thousand pounds. But possibly Joscelin Grey’s tastes had been a good deal more extravagant: clothes, clubs, horses, gambling, perhaps women, or at least presents for women. They had not so far explored his social circle, still believing it to have been an intruder from the streets, and Grey a victim of ill fortune rather than someone of his own acquaintance.

  “Thank you,” he replied to Lord Shelburne. “You know of no other?”

  “My brother did not discuss his financial affairs with me.”

  “You say your wife was fond of him? Would it be possible for me to speak to Lady Shelburne, please? He may have said something to her the last time he was here that could help us.”

  “Hardly, or she would have told me; and naturally I should have told you, or whoever is in authority.”

  “Something that meant nothing to Lady Shelburne might have meaning for me,” Monk pointed out. “Anyway, it is worth trying.”

  Lovel moved to the center of the room as if somehow he would crowd Monk to the door. “I don’t think so. And she has already suffered a severe shock; I don’t see any purpose in distressing her any further with sordid details.”

  “I was going to ask her about Major Grey’s personality, sir,” Monk said with the shadow of irony in his voice. “His friends and his interests, nothing further. Or was she so attached to him that would distress her too much?”

  “I don’t care for your impertinence!” Lovel said sharply. “Of course she wasn’t. I just don’t want to rake the thing over any further. It is not very pleasant to have a member of one’s family beaten to death!”

  Monk faced him squarely. There was not more than a yard between them.

  “Of course not, but that surely is all the more reason why we must find the man.”

  “If you insist.” With ill humor he ordered Monk to follow him, and led him out of the very feminine sitting room along a short corridor into the main hall. Monk glanced around as much as was possible in the brief time as Shelburne paced ahead of him towards one of the several fine doorways. The walls were paneled to shoulder height in wood, the floor parqueted and scattered with Chinese carpets of cut pile and beautiful pastel shades, and the whole was dominated by a magnificent staircase dividing halfway up and sweeping to left and right at either end of a railed landing. There were pictures in ornate gold frames on all sides, but he had no time to look at them.

  Shelburne opened the withdrawing room door and waited impatiently while Monk followed him in, then closed it. The room was long and faced south, with French windows looking onto a lawn bordered with herbaceous flowers in brilliant bloom. Rosamond Shelburne was sitting on a brocaded chaise longue, embroidery hoop in her hand. She looked up when they came in. She was at first glance not unlike her mother-in-law: she had the same fair hair and good brow, the same shape of eye, although hers were dark brown, and there was a different balance to her features, the resolution was not yet hard, there was humor, a width of imagination waiting to be given flight. She was dressed soberly, as befitted one who had recently lost a brother-in-law, but the wide skirt was the color of wine in shadow, and only her beads were black.

  “I am sorry, my dear.” Shelburne glanced pointedly at Monk. “But this man is from the police, and he thinks you may be able to tell him something about Joscelin that will help.” He strode past her and stopped by the first window, glancing at the sun across the grass.

  Rosamond’s fair skin colored very slight
ly and she avoided Monk’s eyes.

  “Indeed?” she said politely. “I know very little of Joscelin’s London life, Mr.—?”

  “Monk, ma’am,” he answered. “But I understand Major Grey had an affection for you, and perhaps he may have spoken of some friend, or an acquaintance who might lead us to another, and so on?”

  “Oh.” She put her needle and frame down; it was a tracery of roses around a text. “I see. I am afraid I cannot think of anything. But please be seated, and I will do my best to help.”

  Monk accepted and questioned her gently, not because he expected to learn a great deal from her directly, but because indirectly he watched her, listening to the intonations of her voice, and the fingers turning in her lap.

  Slowly he discovered a picture of Joscelin Grey.

  “He seemed very young when I came here after my marriage,” Rosamond said with a smile, looking beyond Monk and out of the window. “Of course that was before he went to the Crimea. He was an officer then; he had just bought his commission and he was so”—she searched for just the right word—“so jaunty! I remember that day he came in in his uniform, scarlet tunic and gold braid, boots gleaming. One could not help feeling happy for him.” Her voice dropped. “It all seemed like an adventure then.”

  “And after?” Monk prompted, watching the delicate shadows in her face, the search for something glimpsed but not understood except by a leap of instinct.

  “He was wounded, you know?” She looked at him, frowning.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Twice—and ill too.” She searched his eyes to see if he knew more than she, and there was nothing in his memory to draw on. “He suffered very much,” she continued. “He was thrown from his horse in the charge at Balaclava and sustained a sword wound in his leg at Sebastopol. He refused to speak much to us about being in hospital at Scutari; he said it was too terrible to relate and would distress us beyond bearing.” The embroidery slipped on the smooth nap of her skirt and rolled away on the floor. She made no effort to pick it up.