The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  “Yes,” he added, “try the Fortescues as well.”

  In the afternoon when Evan set off full of enthusiasm after Dawlish and Fortescue, Monk went back to the police station and again sought out the man who had given him Marner’s address. The man’s face lit up as soon as Monk came in.

  “Ah, Monk, I owe you something. Good old Zebedee at last.” He waved a book in the air triumphantly. “Went down to his place on the strength of the ledger you brought, and searched the whole building. The rackets he was running.” He positively chortled with delight and hiccupped very slightly. “Swindling left and right, taking a rake-off from half the crime and vice in Limehouse—and the Isle of Dogs. God knows how many thousands of pounds must have gone through his hands, the old blackguard.”

  Monk was pleased; it was one career other than his own he had helped.

  “Good,” he said sincerely. “I always like to imagine that particular kind of bloodsucker running his belly off in the treadmills for a few years.”

  The other man grinned.

  “Me too, and that one especially. By the way, the tobacco importing company was a sham. Did you know that?” He hiccupped again and excused himself. “There was a company, but there was never any practical chance it could have done any trading, let alone make a profit. Your fellow Grey took his money out at precisely the right moment. If he wasn’t dead I should be wishing I could charge him as well.”

  Charge Grey? Monk froze. The room vanished except for a little whirling light in front of him, and the man’s face.

  “Wishing? Why only wishing?” He hardly dared ask. Hope hurt like a physical thing.

  “Because there’s no proof,” the man replied, oblivious of Monk’s ecstasy. “He did nothing actually illegal. But I’m as sure as I am that Hell’s hot, he was part of it; just too damned clever to step over the law. But he set it up—and brought in the money.”

  “But he was taken in the fraud,” Monk protested, afraid to believe. He wanted to grab the man and shake him; he resisted only with difficulty. “You’re sure beyond doubt?”

  “Of course I am.” The other raised his eyebrows. “I may not be as brilliant a detective as you are, Monk, but I know my job. And I certainly know a fraud when I see one. Your friend Grey was one of the best, and very tidy about it.” He hitched himself more comfortably in his seat. “Not much money, not enough to cause suspicion, just a small profit, and no guilt attached to him. If he made a habit of it he must have done quite nicely. Although how he got all those people to trust him with their money I don’t know. You should see the names of some of those who invested.”

  “Yes,” Monk said slowly. “I also should like to know how he persuaded them. I think I want to know that almost as much as I want to know anything.” His brain was racing, casting for clues, threads anywhere. “Any other names in that ledger, any partners of Marner’s?”

  “Employees—just the clerk in the outer office.”

  “No partners; were there no partners? Anyone else who might know the business about Grey? Who got most of the money, if Grey didn’t?”

  The man hiccupped gently and sighed. “A rather nebulous ‘Mr. Robinson,’ and a lot of money went on keeping it secret, and tidy, covering tracks. No proof so far that this Robinson actually knew exactly what was going on. We’ve got a watch on him, but nothing good enough to arrest him yet.”

  “Where is he?” He had to find out if he had seen this Robinson before, the first time he had investigated Grey. If Marner did not know him, then perhaps Robinson did?

  The man wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

  Monk took it: it was just above the Elephant Stairs in Rotherhithe, across the river. He folded it and put it in his pocket.

  “I won’t spoil your case,” he promised. “I only want to ask him one question, and it’s to do with Grey, not the tobacco fraud.”

  “It’s all right,” the other man said, sighing happily. “Murder is always more important than fraud, at least it is when it’s a lord’s son that’s been killed.” He sighed and hiccupped together. “Of course if he’d been some poor shopkeeper or chambermaid it would be different. Depends who’s been robbed, or who’s been killed, doesn’t it?”

  Monk gave a hard little grimace for the injustice of it, then thanked him and left.

  Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon to find him, eventually running him down in a gin mill in Seven Dials, but he learned everything he wanted to know almost before Robinson spoke. The man’s face tightened as soon as Monk came in and a cautious look came into his eyes.

  “Good day, Mr. Monk; I didn’t expect to see you again. What is it this time?”

  Monk felt the excitement shiver through him. He swallowed hard.

  “Still the same thing—”

  Robinson’s voice was low and sibilant, and there was a timber in it that struck Monk with an almost electric familiarity. The sweat tingled on his skin. It was real memory, actual sight and feelings coming back at last. He stared hard at the man.

  Robinson’s narrow, wedge-shaped face was stiff.

  “I’ve already told you everything I know, Mr. Monk. Anyway, what does it matter now Joscelin Grey is dead?”

  “And you told me everything you knew before? You swear it?”

  Robinson snorted with a faint contempt.

  “Yes I swear it,” he said wearily. “Now will you please go away? You’re known around ’ere. It don’t do me no good to ’ave the police nosing around and asking questions. People think I ’ave something to ’ide.”

  Monk did not bother to argue with him. The fraud detective would catch up with him soon enough.

  “Good,” he said simply. “Then I don’t need to trouble you again.” He went out into the hot, gray street milling with peddlers and waifs, his feet hardly feeling the pavement beneath. So he had known about Grey before he had been to see him, before he had killed him.

  But why was it he had hated Grey so much? Marner was the principal, the brains behind the fraud, and the greatest beneficiary. And it seemed he had made no move against Marner.

  He needed to think about it, sort out his ideas, decide where at least to look for the last missing piece.

  It was hot and close, the air heavy with the humidity coming up from the river, and his mind was tired, staggering, spinning with the burden of what he had learned. He needed food and something to drink away this terrible thirst, to wash the stench of the rookeries from his mouth.

  Without realizing it he had walked to the door of an eating house. He pushed it open and the fresh smell of sawdust and apple cider engulfed him. Automatically he made his way to the counter. He did not want ale, but fresh bread and sharp, homemade pickle. He could smell them, pungent and a little sweet.

  The potman smiled at him and fetched the crusty bread, crumbling Wensleydale cheese, and juicy onions. He passed over the plate.

  “’Aven’t seen yer for a w’ile, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I s’pose you was too late to find that fellow you was looking for?”

  Monk took the plate in stiff hands, awkwardly. He could not draw his eyes from the man’s face. Memory was coming back; he knew he knew him.

  “Fellow?” he said huskily.

  “Yes.” The potman smiled. “Major Grey; you was looking for ’im last time you was ’ere. It was the same night ’e was murdered, so I don’t s’pose you ever found ’im.”

  Something was just beyond Monk’s memory, the last piece, tantalizing, the shape of it almost recognizable at last.

  “You knew him?” he said slowly, still holding the plate in his hands.

  “Bless you, ’course I knew ’im, sir. I told you that.” He frowned. “’Ere, don’t you remember?”

  “No.” Monk shook his head. It was too late now to lie. “I had an accident that night I don’t remember what you said. I’m sorry. Can you tell me again?”

  The man shook his head and continued wiping a glass. “Too late now, sir.
Major Grey was murdered that night. You’ll not see ’im now. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “But you knew him,” Monk repeated. “Where? In the army? You called him ‘Major’!”

  “That’s right. Served in the army with ’im, I did, till I got invalided out.”

  “Tell me about him! Tell me everything you told me that night!”

  “I’m busy right now, sir. I got to serve or I’ll not make me livin’,” the man protested. “Come back later, eh?”

  Monk fished in his pocket and brought out all the money he had, every last coin. He put it on the counter.

  “No, I need it now.”

  The man looked at the money, shining in the light. He met Monk’s eyes, saw the urgency in them, understood something of importance. He slid his hand over the money and put it rapidly in the pocket under his apron before picking up the cloth again.

  “You asked me what I knew of Major Grey, sir. I told you when I first met ’im and where—in the army in the Crimea. ’E were a major, and I were just a private o’ course. But I served under ’im for a long time. ’E were a good enough officer, not specially good nor specially bad; just like most. ’E were brave enough, as fair as most to ’is men. Good to ’is ’orses, but then most well-bred gents is.”

  The man blinked. “You didn’t seem terribly interested in that,” he went on, still absently working on the glass. “You listened, but it didn’t seem to weigh much with you. Then you asked me about the Battle o’ the Alma, where some Lieutenant Latterly ’ad died; an’ I told you as we wasn’t at the Battle o’ the Alma, so I couldn’t tell you about this Lieutenant Latterly—”

  “But Major Grey spent the last night before the battle with Lieutenant Latterly.” Monk grabbed at his arm. “He lent him his watch. Latterly was afraid; it was a lucky piece, a talisman. It had belonged to his grandfather at Waterloo.”

  “No sir, I can’t say about any Lieutenant Latterly, but Major Grey weren’t nowhere near the Battle o’ the Alma, and ’e never ’ad no special watch.”

  “Are you sure?” Monk was gripping the man’s wrist, unaware of hurting him.

  “O’ course I’m sure, sir.” The man eased his hand. “I was there. An’ ’is watch were an ordinary gold plate one, and as new as ’is uniform. It weren’t no more at Waterloo than ’e were.”

  “And an officer called Dawlish?”

  The potman frowned, rubbing his wrist. “Dawlish? I don’t remember you asking me about ’im.”

  “I probably didn’t. But do you remember him?”

  “No sir, I don’t recall an officer o’ that name.”

  “But you are sure of the Battle of the Alma?”

  “Yes sir, I’d swear before God positive. If you’d been in the Crimea, sir, you’d not forget what battle you was at, and what you wasn’t. I reckon that’s about the worst war there’s ever been, for cold and muck and men dyin’.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you want your bread an’ cheese, sir? That pickle’s ’omemade special. You should eat it. You look right peaked, you do.”

  Monk took it, thanked him automatically, and sat down at one of the tables. He ate without tasting and then walked out into the first spots of rain. He could remember doing this before, remember the slow building anger. It had all been a lie, a brutal and carefully calculated lie to earn first acceptance from the Latterlys, then their friendship, and finally to deceive them into a sufficient sense of obligation, over the lost watch, to repay him by supporting his business scheme. Grey had used his skill to play like an instrument first their grief, then their debt. Perhaps he had even done the same with the Dawlishes.

  The rage was gathering up inside him again. It was coming back exactly as it had before. He was walking faster and faster, the rain beating in his face now. He was unaware of it. He splashed through the swimming gutters into the street to hail a cab. He gave the address in Mecklenburg Square, as he knew he had done before.

  When he got out he went into the building. Grimwade handed him the key this time; the first time there had been no one there.

  He went upstairs. It seemed new, strange, as if he were reliving the first time when it was unknown to him. He got to the top and hesitated at the door. Then he had knocked. Now he slipped the key into the lock. It swung open quite easily and he went in. Before Joscelin Grey had come to the door, dressed in pale dove, his fair face handsome, smiling, just a little surprised. He could see it now as if it had been only a few minutes ago.

  Grey had asked him in, quite casually, unperturbed. He had put his stick in the hall stand, his mahogany stick with the brass chain embossed in the handle. It was still there. Then he had followed Grey into the main room. Grey had been very composed, a slight smile on his face. Monk had told him what he had come for: about the tobacco business, the failure, Latterly’s death, the fact that Grey had lied, that he had never known George Latterly, and there had been no watch.

  He could see Grey now as he had turned from the sideboard, holding out a drink for Monk, taking one himself. He had smiled again, more widely.

  “My dear fellow, a harmless little lie.” His voice had been light, very easy, very calm. “I told them what an excellent fellow poor George was, how brave, how charming, how well loved. It was what they wanted to hear. What does it matter whether it was true or not?”

  “It was a lie,” Monk had shouted back. “You didn’t even know George Latterly. You did it purely for money.”

  Grey had grinned.

  “So I did, and what’s more, I shall do it again, and again. I have an endless stream of gold watches, or whatever; and there’s not a thing you can do about it, policeman. I shall go on as long as anyone is left who remembers the Crimea—which will be a hell of a long time—and shall damned well never run out of the dead!”

  Monk had stared at him, helpless, anger raging inside him till he could have wept like an impotent child.

  “I didn’t know Latterly,” Grey had gone on. “I got his name from the casualty lists. They’re absolutely full of names, you’ve no idea. Although actually I got some of the better ones from the poor devils themselves—saw them die in Scutari, riddled with disease, bleeding and spewing all over the place. I wrote their last letters for them. Poor George might have been a raving coward, for all I know. But what good does it do to tell his family that? I’ve no idea what he was like, but it doesn’t take much wit to work out what they wanted to hear! Poor little Imogen adored him, and who can blame her? Charles is a hell of a bore; reminds me a bit of my eldest brother, another pompous fool.” His fair face had become momentarily ugly with envy. A look of malice and pleasure had slid into it. He looked at Monk up and down knowingly.

  “And who wouldn’t have told the lovely Imogen whatever she would listen to? I told her all about that extraordinary creature, Florence Nightingale. I painted up the heroism a bit, certainly, gave her all the glory of ‘angels of mercy’ holding lamps by the dying through the night. You should have seen her face.” He had laughed; then seeing something in Monk, a vulnerability, perhaps a memory or a dream, and understanding its depth in a flash: “Ah yes, Imogen.” He sighed. Got to know her very well. “His smile was half a leer.” Love the way she walks, all eager, full of promise, and hope. “He had looked at Monk and the slow smile spread to his eyes till the light in them was as old as appetite and knowledge itself. He had tittered slightly.” I do believe you’re taken with Imogen yourself.

  “You clod, she’d no more touch you than carry out her own refuse.”

  “She’s in love with Florence Nightingale and the glory of the Crimea!” His eyes met Monk’s, glittering bright. “I could have had her any time, all eager and quivering.” His lip curled and he had almost laughed as he looked at Monk. “I’m a soldier; I’ve seen reality, blood and passion, fought for Queen and country. I’ve seen the Charge of the Light Brigade, lain in hospital at Scutari among the dying. What do you imagine she thinks of grubby little London policemen who spend their time s
niffing about in human filth after the beggars and the degenerate? You’re a scavenger, a cleaner up of other people’s dirt—one of life’s necessities, like the drains.” He took a long gulp of his brandy and looked at Monk over the top of the glass.

  “Perhaps when they’ve got over that old idiot getting hysterical and shooting himself, I shall go back and do just that. Can’t remember when I’ve fancied a woman more.”

  It had been then, with that leer on his mouth, that Monk had taken his own glass and thrown the brandy across Grey’s face. He could remember the blinding anger as if it were a dream he had only just woken from. He could still taste the heat and the gall of it on his tongue.

  The liquid had hit Grey in his open eyes and burned him, seared his pride beyond bearing. He was a gentleman, one already robbed by birth of fortune, and now this oaf of a policeman, jumped above himself, had insulted him in his own house. His features had altered into a snarl of fury and he had picked up his own heavy stick and struck Monk across the shoulders with it. He had aimed at his head, but Monk had almost felt it before it came, and moved.

  They had closed in a struggle. It should have been self-defense, but it was far more than that. Monk had been glad of it—he had wanted to smash that leering face, beat it in, undo all that he had said, wipe from him the thoughts he had had of Imogen, expunge some of the wrong to her family. But above all towering in his head and burning in his soul, he wanted to beat him so hard he would never feed on the gullible and the bereaved again, telling them lies of invented debt and robbing the dead of the only heritage they had left, the truth of memory in those who had loved them.

  Grey had fought back; for a man invalided out of the army he had been surprisingly strong. They had been locked together struggling for the stick, crashing into furniture, upsetting chairs. The very violence of it was a catharsis, and all the pent-up fear, the nightmare of rage and the agonizing pity poured forth and he barely felt the pain of blows, even the breaking of his ribs when Grey caught him a tremendous crack on the chest with his stick.