by Anne Perry
But that was a long time ago. He was well over thirty now, probably over thirty-five. What had he done in more than twenty years? Why had he not returned? That was something else he had yet to learn. His police record was there in his office, and in Runcorn’s hate. What about himself, his personal life? Or had he no one, was he only a public man?
And what before the police? His files here went back only twelve years, so there must have been more than eight years before that. Had he spent them all learning, climbing, improving himself with his faceless mentor, his eyes always on the goal? He was appalled at his own ambition, and the strength of his will. It was a little frightening, such single-mindedness.
He was at the Latterlys’ door, ridiculously nervous. Would she be in? He had thought about her so often; he realized only now and with a sense of having been foolish, vulnerable, that she had probably not thought of him at all. He might even have to explain who he was. He would seem clumsy, gauche, when he said he had no further news.
He hesitated, unsure whether to knock at all, or to leave, and come again when he had a better excuse. A maid came out into the areaway below him, and in order not to appear a loiterer, he raised his hand and knocked.
The parlor maid came almost immediately. Her eyebrows rose in the very slightest of surprise.
“Good evening, Mr. Monk; will you come in, sir?” It was sufficiently courteous not to be in obvious haste to get him off the doorstep. “The family have dined and are in the withdrawing room, sir. Do you wish me to ask if they will receive you?”
“Yes please. Thank you.” Monk gave her his coat and followed her through to a small morning room. After she had gone he paced up and down because 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 inevitable.
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 unostentation 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 all looking at him, still waiting.
“It is possible …” His voice was rough at first. He cleared his throat. “I have discovered something quite new. But before I tell you I must be perfectly sure, more especially since it concerns other people.” That should prevent them, as a matter of good taste, from pressing him. He coughed again. “It is some time since I spoke to you last, and I made no notes, as a point of discretion-”
“Thank you,” Charles said slowly. “That was considerate of you.” He seemed to find it hard to say the words, as if it irritated him to acknowledge that policemen might possess such delicate virtues.
Hester was staring at him with frank disbelief.
“If I could go over the details we know again?” Monk asked, hoping desperately they would fill in the gaping blanks in his mind; he knew only what Runcorn had told him, and that was in turn only what he had told Runcorn. Heaven knew, that was barely enough to justify spending time on the case.
“Yes, yes of course.” Again it was Charles who spoke, but Monk felt the eyes of the women on him also: Imogen anxious, her hands clenched beneath the ample folds of her skirt, her dark eyes wide; Hester was thoughtful, ready to criticize. He must dismiss them both from his mind, concentrate on making sense, picking up the threads from Charles, or he would make a complete fool of himself, and he could not bear that in front of them.
“Your father died in his study,” he began. “In his home in Highgate on June fourteenth.” That much Runcorn had said.
“Yes.” Charles agreed. “It was early evening, before dinner. My wife and I were staying with them at the time. Most of us were upstairs changing.”
“Most of you?”
“Perhaps I should say ‘both of us.’ My mother and I were. My wife was late coming in. She had been over to see Mrs. Standing, the vicar’s wife, and as it transpired my father was in his study.”
The means of death had been a gunshot. The next question was easy.
“And how many of you heard the report?”
“Well, I suppose we all heard it, but my wife was the only
one to realize what it was. She was coming in from the back garden entrance and was in the conservatory.”
Monk turned to Imogen.
She was looking at him, a slight frown on her face as if she wanted to say something, but dared not. Her eyes were troubled, full of dark hurt.
“Mrs. Latterly?” He forgot what he had intended to ask her. He was conscious of his hands clenched painfully by his sides and had to ease the fingers out deliberately. They were sticky with sweat.
“Yes, Mr. Monk?” she said quietly.
He scrambled for something sensible to say. His brain was blank. What had he said to her the first time? She had come to him; surely she would have told him everything she knew? He must ask her something quickly. They were all waiting, watching him. Charles Latterly cool, disliking the effrontery, Hester exasperated at his incompetence. He already knew what she thought of his abilities. Attack was the only defense his mind could think of.
“Why do you think, Mrs. Latterly, that you suspected a shot, when no one else did?” His voice was loud in the silence, like the sudden chimes of a clock in an empty room. “Were you afraid even then that your father-in-law contemplated taking his life, or that he was in some danger?”
The color came to her face quickly and there was anger in her eyes.
“Of course not, Mr. Monk; or I should not have left him alone.” She swallowed, and her next words were softer. “I knew he was distressed, we all knew that; but I did not imagine it was serious enough to think of shooting himself—nor that he was sufficiently out of control of his feelings or his concentration that he would be in danger of having an accident.” It was a brave attempt.
“I think if you have discovered something, Mr. Monk,” Hester interrupted stiffly, “you had better ascertain what it is, and then come back and tell us. Your present fumbling around is pointless and unnecessarily distressing. And your suggestion that my sister-in-law knew something that she did not report at the time is offensive.” She looked him up and down with some disgust. “Really, is this the best you can do? I don’t know how you catch anyone, unless you positively fall over them!”
“Hester!” Imogen spoke quite sharply, although she kept her eyes averted. “It is a question Mr. Monk must ask. It is possible I may have seen or heard something to make me anxious—and only realize it now in retrospect.”
Monk felt a quick, foolish surge of pleasure. He had not deserved defending.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He tried to smile at her, and felt his lips grimacing. “Did you at that time know the full extent of your father-in-law’s financial misfortune?”
“It was not the money that killed him,” Imogen replied before Charles could get his own words formed and while Hester was still standing in resigned silence—at least temporarily. “It was the disgrace.” She bit her lip on all the distress returned to her. Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper, tight with pity. “You see, he had advised so many of his friends to invest. He had lent his name to it, and they had put in money because they trusted him.”
Monk could think of nothing to say, and platitudes offended him in the face of real grief. He longed to be able to comfort her, and knew it was impossible. Was this the emotion that surged through him so intensely—pity? And the desire to protect?
“The whole venture has brought nothing but tragedy,” Imogen went on very softly, staring at the ground. “Papa-in-law, then poor Mama, and now Joscelin as well.”
For an instant everything seemed suspended, an age between the time she spoke and the moment overwhelming realization of what she had said came to Monk.
“You knew Joscelin Grey?” It was as if another person spoke for him and he was still distant, watching strangers, removed from him, on the other side of a glass.
Imogen frowned a little, confused by his apparent unreason; there was a deep color in her face and she lowered her eyes the moment after she had spoken, avoiding everyone else’s, especially her husband’s.
“For the love of heaven!” Charles’s temper snapped. “Are you completely incompetent, man?”
Monk had no idea what to say. What on earth had Grey to do with it? Had he known him?
What were they thinking of him? How could he possibly make sense of it now? They could only conclude he was mad, or was playing some disgusting joke. It was the worst possible taste—life was not sacred to them, but death most certainly was. He could feel the embarrassment burning in his face, and was as conscious of Imogen as if she were touching him, and of Hester’s eyes filled with unutterable contempt.
Again it was Imogen who rescued him.
“Mr. Monk never met Joscelin, Charles,” she said quietly. “It is very easy to forget a name when you do not know the person to whom it belongs.”
Hester stared from one to the other of them, her clear, intelligent eyes filled with a growing perception that something was profoundly wrong.
“Of course,” Imogen said more briskly, covering her feelings. “Mr. Monk did not come until after Papa was dead; there was no occasion.” She did not look at her husband, but she was obviously speaking to him. “And if you recall, Joscelin did not return after that.”
“You can hardly blame him.” Charles’s voice contained a sharpening of criticism, an implication that Imogen was somehow being unfair. “He was as distressed as we were. He wrote me a very civil letter, expressing his condolences.” He put his hands in his pocket, hard, and hunched his shoulders. “Naturally, he felt it unsuitable to call, in the circumstances. He quite understood our association must end; very delicate of him, I thought.” He looked at Imogen with impatience, and ignored Hester altogether.
“That was like him, so very sensitive.” Imogen was looking far away. “I do miss him.”
Charles swiveled to look at her beside him. He seemed about to say something, and then changed his mind and bit it off. Instead he took his hand out of his pocket and put it around her arm. “So you didn’t meet him?” he said to Monk.
Monk was still floundering.
“No.” It was the only answer he had left himself room to make. “He was out of town.” Surely that at least could have been true?
“Poor Joscelin.” Imogen appeared unaware of her husband, or his fingers tightening on her shoulder. “He must have felt dreadful,” she went on. “Of course he was not responsible, he was as deceived as any of us, but he was the sort of person who would take it on himself.” Her voice was sad, gentle and utterly without criticism.
Monk could only guess, he dared not ask: Grey must somehow have been involved in the business venture in which Latterly Senior lost money, and so ill advised his friends. And it would seem Joscelin had lost money himself, which he could hardly afford; hence perhaps the request to the family estate for an increased allowance? The date on the letter from the solicitor was about right, shortly after Latterly’s death. Possibly it was that financial disaster that had prompted Joscelin Grey to gamble rashly, or to descend to blackmail. If he had lost enough in the business he might have been desperate, with creditors pressing, social disgrace imminent. Charm was his only stock in trade; his entertainment value was his passport to hospitality in other people’s houses the year round, and his only path to the heiress who might ultimately make him independent, no longer begging from his mother and the brother he scarcely loved.
But who? Who among his acquaintances was vulnerable enough to pay for silence; and desperate, murderous enough to kill for it?
Whose houses had he stayed in? All sorts of indiscretions were committed on long weekends away from the city. Scandal was not a matter of what was done but of what was known to have been done. Had Joscelin stumbled on some well-kept secret adultery?
But adultery was hardly worth killing over, unless there was a child to inherit, or some other domestic crisis, a suit for divorce with all its scandal, and the complete social ostracism that followed. To kill would need a secret far worse, like incest, perversion or impotence. The shame of impotence was mortal, God knew why, b
ut it was the most abhorred of afflictions, something not even whispered of.
Runcorn was right, even to speak of such a possibility would be enough to have him reported to the highest authorities, his career blocked forever, if he were not dismissed out of hand. He could never be forgiven for exposing a man to the ruin which must follow such an abominable scandal.
They were all staring at him. Charles was making no secret of his impatience. Hester was exasperated almost beyond endurance; her fingers were fiddling with the plain cambric handkerchief and her foot tapped rapidly and silently on the floor. Her opinion was in every line of her remarkable face.
“What is it you think you may know, Mr. Monk?” Charles said sharply. “If there is nothing, I would ask that you do not distress us again by raking over what can only be to us a tragedy. Whether my father took his own life or it was an accident while his mind was distracted with distress cannot be proved, and we should be obliged if you allowed those who are charitable enough to allow that it might have been an accident to prevail! My mother died of a broken heart. One of our past friends has been brutally murdered. If we cannot be of assistance to you, I would prefer that you permit us to come to terms with our grief in our own way, and do our best to resume the pattern of our lives again. My wife was quite wrong to have persisted in her hope for some more pleasant alternative, but women are tenderhearted by nature, and she finds it hard to accept a bitter truth.”
“All she wished of me was to ascertain that it was indeed the truth,” Monk said quickly, instinctively angry that Imogen should be criticized. “I cannot believe that mistaken.” He stared with chill, level eyes at Charles.
“That is courteous of you, Mr. Monk.” Charles glanced at Imogen condescendingly, to imply that Monk had been humoring her. “But I have no doubt she will come to the same conclusion, in time. Thank you for calling; I am sure you have done what you believed to be your duty.”
Monk accepted the dismissal and was in the hall before he realized what he had done. He had been thinking of Imogen, and of Hester’s scalding disdain, and he had allowed himself to be awed by the house, by Charles Latterly’s self-assurance, his arrogance, and his very natural attempts to conceal a family tragedy and mask it in something less shameful.