The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

“At first there were too many real police about,” he answered. “Always going in and out.” He spread his hands in reasonableness. Monk would have liked to call him a liar, but he could not, not yet. “Couldn’t get anyone prepared to take the risk,” Wigtight went on. “Pay a man too much for a job, and immediately he begins to wonder if there’s more to it than you’ve told him. Might start thinking I had something to be afraid of. Your lot was looking for thieves, in the beginning. Now it’s different; you’re asking about business, money—”

  “How do you know?” Monk believed him, he was forced to, but he wanted every last ounce of discomfort he could drag out.

  “Word gets about; you asked his tailor, his wine merchant, looking into the paying of his bills—”

  Monk remembered he had sent Evan to do these things. It would seem the usurer had eyes and ears everywhere. He realized now it was to be expected: that was how he found his customers, he learned weaknesses, sought out vulnerability. God, how he loathed this man and his kind.

  “Oh.” In spite of himself his face betrayed his defeat. “I shall have to be more discreet with my inquiries.”

  Wigtight smiled coldly.

  “I shouldn’t trouble yourself. It will make no difference.” He knew his success; it was a taste he was used to, like a ripe Stilton cheese and port after dinner.

  There was nothing more to say, and Monk could not stomach more of Wigtight’s satisfaction. He left, going out past the oily clerk in the front office; but he was determined to take the first opportunity to charge Josiah Wigtight with something, preferably something earning a good long spell on the prison treadmill. Perhaps it was hate of usury and all its cancerous agonies eating away the hearts of people, or hate for Wigtight particularly, for his fat belly and cold eyes; but more probably it was the bitterness of disappointment because he knew it was not the moneylender who had killed Joscelin Grey.

  All of which brought him back again to facing the only other avenue of investigation. Joscelin Grey’s friends, the people whose secrets he might have known. He was back to Shelburne again—and Runcorn’s triumph.

  But before he began on that course to one of its inevitable conclusions—either the arrest of Shelburne, and his own ruin after it; or else the admission that he could not prove his case and must accept failure; and Runcorn could not lose—Monk would follow all the other leads, however faint, beginning with Charles Latterly.

  He called in the late afternoon, when he felt it most likely Imogen would be at home, and he could reasonably ask to see Charles.

  He was greeted civilly, but no more than that. The parlor maid was too well trained to show surprise. He was kept waiting only a few minutes before being shown into the withdrawing room and its discreet comfort washed over him again.

  Charles was standing next to a small table in the window bay.

  “Good afternoon, Mr.—er—Monk,” he said with distinct chill. “To what do we owe this further attention?”

  Monk felt his stomach sink. It was as if the smell of the rookeries still clung to him. Perhaps it was obvious what manner of man he was, where he worked, what he dealt with; and it had been all the time. He had been too busy with his own feelings to be aware of theirs.

  “I am still inquiring into the murder of Joscelin Grey,” he replied a little stiltedly. He knew both Imogen and Hester were in the room but he refused to look at them. He bowed very slightly, without raising his eyes. He made a similar acknowledgment in their direction.

  “Then it’s about time you reached some conclusion, isn’t it?” Charles raised his eyebrows. “We are very sorry, naturally, since we knew him; but we do not require a day-by-day account of your progress, or lack of it.”

  “It’s as well,” Monk answered, stirred to tartness in his hurt, and the consciousness that he did not, and would never, belong in this faded and gracious room with its padded furniture and gleaming walnut. “Because I could not afford it. It is because you knew Major Grey that I wish to speak to you again.” He swallowed. “We naturally first considered the possibility of his having been attacked by some chance thief, then of its being over a matter of debt, perhaps gambling, or borrowing. We have exhausted these avenues now, and are driven back to what has always, regrettably, seemed the most probable—”

  “I thought I had explained it to you, Mr. Monk.” Charles’s voice was sharper. “We do not wish to know! And quite frankly, I will not have my wife or my sister distressed by hearing of it. Perhaps the women of your—” He searched for the least offensive word. “Your background—are less sensitive to such things: unfortunately they may be more used to violence and the sordid aspects of life. But my sister and my wife are gentlewomen, and do not even know of such things. I must ask you to respect their feelings.”

  Monk could sense the color burning up his face. He ached to be equally rude in return, but his awareness of Imogen, only a few feet from him, was overwhelming. He did not care in the slightest what Hester thought; in fact it would be a positive pleasure to quarrel with her, like the sting in the face of clean, icy water—invigorating.

  “I had no intention of distressing anyone unnecessarily, sir.” He forced the words out, muffled between his teeth. “And I have not come for your information, but to ask you some further questions. I was merely trying to give you the reason for them, that you might feel freer to answer.”

  Charles blinked at him. He was half leaning against the mantel shelf, and he stiffened.

  “I know nothing whatsoever about the affair, and naturally neither do my family.”

  “I am sure we should have helped you if we could,” Imogen added. For an instant Monk thought she looked abashed by Charles’s so open condescension.

  Hester stood up and walked across the room opposite Monk.

  “We have not been asked any questions yet,” she pointed out to Charles reasonably. “How do we know whether we could answer them or not? And I cannot speak for Imogen, of course, but I am not in the least offended by being asked; indeed if you are capable of considering the murder, then so am I. We surely have a duty.”

  “My dear Hester, you don’t know what you are speaking of.” Charles’s face was sharp and he put his hand out towards her, but she avoided it. “What unpleasant things may be involved, quite beyond your experience!”

  “Balderdash!” she said instantly. “My experience has included a multitude of things you wouldn’t have in your nightmares. I’ve seen men hacked to death by sabers, shot by cannon, frozen, starved, wasted by disease—”

  “Hester!” Charles exploded. “For the love of heaven!”

  “So don’t tell me I cannot survive the drawing room discussion of one wretched murder,” she finished.

  Charles’s face was very pink and he ignored Monk. “Has it not crossed your very unfeminine mind that Imogen has feelings, and has led a considerably more decorous life than you have chosen for yourself?” he demanded. “Really, sometimes you are beyond enduring!”

  “Imogen is not nearly as helpless as you seem to imagine,” Hester retorted, but there was a faint blush to her cheeks. “Nor, I think, does she wish to conceal truth because it may be unpleasant to discuss. You do her courage little credit.”

  Monk looked at Charles and was perfectly sure that had they been alone he would have disciplined his sister in whatever manner was open to him—which was probably not a great deal. Personally Monk was very glad it was not his problem.

  Imogen took the matter into her own hands. She turned towards Monk.

  “You were saying that you were driven to an inevitable conclusion, Mr. Monk. Pray tell us what it is.” She stared at him and her eyes were angry, almost defensive. She seemed more inwardly alive and sensitive to hurt than anyone else he had ever seen. For seconds he could not think of words to answer her. The moments hung in the air. Her chin came a little higher, but she did not look away.

  “I—” he began, and failed. He tried again. “That—that it was someone he knew who killed him.” Then his voice came
mechanically. “Someone well known to him, of his own position and social circle.”

  “Nonsense!” Charles interrupted him sharply, coming into the center of the room as if to confront him physically. “People of Joscelin Grey’s circle do not go around murdering people. If that’s the best you can do, then you had better give up the case and hand it over to someone more skilled.”

  “You are being unnecessarily rude, Charles.” Imogen’s eyes were bright and there was a touch of color in her face. “We have no reason to suppose that Mr. Monk is not skilled at his job, and quite certainly no call to suggest it.”

  Charles’s whole body tightened; the impertinence was intolerable.

  “Imogen,” he began icily; then remembering the feminine frailty he had asserted, altered his tone. “The matter is naturally upsetting to you; I understand that. Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave us. Retire to your room and rest for a little while. Return when you have composed yourself. Perhaps a tisane?”

  “I am not tired, and I do not wish for a tisane. I am perfectly composed, and the police wish to question me.” She swung around. “Don’t you, Mr. Monk?”

  He wished he could remember what he knew of them, but although he strained till his brain ached, he could recall nothing. All his memories were blurred and colored by the overwhelming emotion she aroused in him, the hunger for something always just out of reach, like a great music that haunts the senses but cannot quite be caught, disturbingly and unforgettably sweet, evocative of a whole life on the brink of remembrance.

  But he was behaving like a fool. Her gentleness, something in her face had woken in him the memory of a time when he had loved, of the softer side of himself which he had lost when the carriage had crashed and obliterated the past. There was more in him than the detective, brilliant, ambitious, sharp tongued, solitary. There had been those who loved him, as well as the rivals who hated, the subordinates who feared or admired, the villains who knew his skill, the poor who looked for justice—or vengeance. Imogen reminded him that he had a humanity as well, and it was too precious for him to drown in reason. He had lost his balance, and if he were to survive this nightmare—Runcorn, the murder, his career—he must regain it.

  “Since you knew Major Grey,” he tried again, “it is possible he may have confided in you any anxieties he may have had for his safety—anyone who disliked him or was harassing him for any reason.” He was not being as articulate as he wished, and he cursed himself for it.

  “Did he mention any envies or rivalries to you?”

  “None at all. Why would anyone he knew kill him?” she asked. “He was very charming; I never knew of him picking a quarrel more serious than a few sharp words. Perhaps his humor was a little unkind, but hardly enough to provoke more than a passing irritation.”

  “My dear Imogen, they wouldn’t!” Charles snapped. “It was robbery; it must have been.”

  Imogen breathed in and out deeply and ignored her husband, still regarding Monk with solemn eyes, waiting for his reply.

  “I believe blackmail,” Monk replied. “Or perhaps jealousy over a woman.”

  “Blackmail!” Charles was horrified and his voice was thick with disbelief. “You mean Grey was blackmailing someone? Over what, may I ask?”

  “If we knew that, sir, we should almost certainly know who it was,” Monk answered. “And it would solve the case.”

  “Then you know nothing.” There was derision back again in Charles’s voice.

  “On the contrary, we know a great deal. We have a suspect, but before we charge him we must have eliminated all the other possibilities.” That was overstating the case dangerously, but Charles’s smug face, his patronizing manner roused Monk’s temper beyond the point where he had complete control. He wanted to shake him, to force him but of his complacency and his infuriating superiority.

  “Then you are making a mistake.” Charles looked at him through narrow eyes. “At least it seems most likely you are.”

  Monk smiled dryly. “I am trying to avoid that, sir, by exploring every alternative first, and by gaining all the information anyone can give. I’m sure you appreciate that!”

  From the periphery of his vision Monk could see Hester smile and was distinctly pleased.

  Charles grunted.

  “We do really wish to help you,” Imogen said in the silence. “My husband is only trying to protect us from unpleasantness, which is most delicate of him. But we were exceedingly fond of Joscelin, and we are quite strong enough to tell you anything we can.”

  “ ‘Exceedingly fond’ is overstating it, my dear,” Charles said uncomfortably. “We liked him, and of course we felt an extra affection for him for George’s sake.”

  “George?” Monk frowned, he had not heard George mentioned before.

  “My younger brother,” Charles supplied.

  “He knew Major Grey?” Monk asked keenly. “Then may I speak with him also?”

  “I am afraid not. But yes, he knew Grey quite well. I believe they were very close, for a while.”

  “For a while? Did they have some disagreement?”

  “No, George is dead.”

  “Oh.” Monk hesitated, abashed. “I am sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Charles coughed and cleared his throat. “We were fond of Grey, but to say we were extremely so is too much. My wife is, I think, quite naturally transferring some of our affection for George to George’s friend.”

  “I see.” Monk was not sure what to say. Had Imogen seen in Joscelin only her dead brother-in-law’s friend, or had Joscelin himself charmed her with his wit and talent to please? There had been a keenness in her face when she had spoken of him. It reminded him of Rosamond Shelburne: there was the same gentleness in it, the same echo of remembered times of happiness, shared laughter and grace. Had Charles been too blind to see it—or too conceited to understand it for what it was?

  An ugly, dangerous thought came to his mind and refused to be ignored. Was the woman not Rosamond, but Imogen Latterly? He wanted intensely to disprove it. But how? If Charles had been somewhere else at the time, provably so, then the whole question was over, dismissed forever.

  He stared at Charles’s smooth face. He looked irritable, but totally unconscious of any guilt. Monk tried frantically to think of an oblique way to ask him. His brain was like glue, heavy and congealing. Why in God’s name did Charles have to be Imogen’s husband?

  Was there another way? If only he could remember what he knew of them. Was this fear unreasonable, the result of an imagination free of the sanity of memory? Or was it memory slowly returning, in bits and pieces, that woke that very fear?

  The stick in Joscelin Grey’s hall stand. The image of it was so clear in his head. If only he could enlarge it, see the hand and the arm, the man who held it. That was the knowledge that lay like a sickness in his stomach; he knew the owner of the stick, and he knew with certainty that Lovel Grey was a complete stranger to him. When he had been to Shelburne not one member of the household had greeted him with the slightest flicker of recognition. And why should they pretend? In fact to do so would in itself have been suspicious, since they had no idea he had lost his memory. Lovel Grey could not be the owner of that stick with the brass chain embossed around the top.

  But it could be Charles Latterly.

  “Have you ever been to Major Grey’s flat, Mr. Latterly?” The question was out before he realized it. It was like a die cast, and he did not now want to know the answer. Once begun, he would have to pursue it; even if only for himself he would have to know, always hoping he was wrong, seeking the one more fact to prove himself so.

  Charles looked slightly surprised.

  “No. Why? Surely you have been there yourself? I cannot tell you anything about it!”

  “You have never been there?”

  “No, I have told you so. I had no occasion.”

  “Nor, I take it, have any of your family?” He did not look at either of the women. He knew the question would be regarded as i
ndelicate, if not outrightly impertinent.

  “Of course not!” Charles controlled his temper with some difficulty. He seemed about to add something when Imogen interrupted.

  “Would you care for us to account for our whereabouts on the day Joscelin was killed, Mr. Monk?”

  He looked carefully, but he could see no sarcasm in her. She regarded him with deep, steady eyes.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Charles snapped with mounting fury. “If you cannot treat this matter with proper seriousness, Imogen, then you had better leave us and return to your room.”

  “I am being perfectly serious,” she replied, turning away from Monk. “If it was one of Joscelin’s friends who killed him, then there is no reason why we should not be suspected. Surely, Charles, it would be better to clear ourselves by the simple fact of having been elsewhere at the time than it would be to have Mr. Monk satisfy himself we had no reason to, by investigating our affairs?”

  Charles paled visibly and looked at Imogen as if she were some venomous creature that had come out of the carpeting and bitten him. Monk felt the tightness in his stomach grip harder.

  “I was at dinner with friends,” Charles said thinly.

  Considering he had just supplied what seemed to be an alibi, he looked peculiarly wretched. Monk could not avoid it; he had to press. He stared at Charles’s pale face.

  “Where was that, sir?”

  “Doughty Street.”

  Imogen looked at Monk blandly, innocently, but Hester had turned away.

  “What number, sir?”

  “Can that matter, Mr. Monk?” Imogen asked innocently.

  Hester’s head came up, waiting.

  Monk found himself explaining to her, guilt surprising him.

  “Doughty Street leads into Mecklenburg Square, Mrs. Latterly. It is no more than a two- or three-minute walk from one to the other.”

  “Oh.” Her voice was small and flat. She turned slowly to her husband.

  “Twenty-two,” he said, teeth clenched. “But I was there all evening, and I had no idea Grey lived anywhere near.”

  Again Monk spoke before he permitted himself to think, or he would have hesitated.