by Anne Perry
But Monk’s weight and strength told, and perhaps his rage was even stronger than Grey’s fear and all his held-in anger of years of being slighted and passed over.
Monk could remember quite clearly now the moment when he had wrested the heavy stick out of Grey’s hands and struck at him with it, trying to destroy the hideousness, the blasphemy he saw, the obscenity the law was helpless to curb.
Then he had stopped, breathless and terrified by his own violence and the storm of his hatred. Grey was splayed out on the floor, swearing like a trooper.
Monk had turned and gone out, leaving the door swinging behind him, blundering down the stairs, turning his coat collar up and pulling his scarf up to hide the abrasion on his face where Grey had hit him. He had passed Grimwade in the hall. He remembered a bell ringing and Grimwade leaving his position and starting upstairs.
Outside the weather was fearful. As soon as he had opened the door the wind had blown it against him so hard it had knocked him backwards. He had put his head down and plunged out, the rain engulfing him, beating in his face cold and hard. He had his back to the light, going into the darkness between one lamp and the next.
There was a man coming towards him, towards the light and the door still open in the wind—for a moment he saw his face before he turned and went in. It was Menard Grey.
Now it all made obvious and tragic sense—it was not George Latterly’s death, or the abuse of it, which had spurred Joscelin Grey’s murder, it was Edward Dawlish’s—and Joscelin’s own betrayal of every ideal his brother believed.
And then the joy vanished just as suddenly as it had come, the relief evaporated, leaving him shivering cold. How could he prove it? It was his word against Menard’s. Grimwade had been up the stairs answering the bell, and seen nothing. Menard had gone in the door Monk had left open in the gale. There was nothing material, no evidence—only Monk’s memory of Menard’s face for a moment in the gaslight.
They would hang him. He could imagine the trial now, himself standing in the dock, the ridiculousness of trying to explain what manner of man Joscelin Grey had been, and that it was not Monk, but Joscelin’s own brother Menard who had killed him. He could see the disbelief in their faces, and the contempt for a man who would try to escape justice by making such a charge.
Despair closed around him like the blackness of the night, eating away strength, crushing with the sheer weight of it. And he began to be afraid. There would be the few short weeks in the stone cell, the stolid warders, at once pitying and contemptuous, then the last meal, the priest, and the short walk to the scaffold, the smell of rope, the pain, the fighting for breath—and oblivion.
He was still drowned and paralyzed by it when he heard the sound on the stairs. The latch turned and Evan stood in the doorway. It was the worst moment of all. There was no point in lying, Evan’s face was full of knowledge, and pain. And anyway, he did not want to.
“How did you know?” Monk said quietly.
Evan came in and closed the door. “You sent me after Dawlish. I found an officer who’d served with Edward Dawlish. He didn’t gamble, and Joscelin Grey never paid any debts for him. Everything he knew about him he learned from Menard. He took a hell of a chance lying to the family like that—but it worked. They’d have backed him financially, if he hadn’t died. They blamed Menard for Edward’s fall from honor, and forbade him in the house. A nice touch on Joscelin’s part.”
Monk stared at him. It made perfect sense. And yet it would never even raise a reasonable doubt in a juror’s mind.
“I think that is where Grey’s money came from—cheating the families of the dead,” Evan continued. “You were so concerned about the Latterly case, it wasn’t a great leap of the imagination to assume he cheated them too—and that is why Charles Latterly’s father shot himself.” His eyes were soft and intense with distress. “Did you come this far the first time too—before the accident?”
So he knew about the memory also. Perhaps it was all far more obvious than he believed; the fumbling for words, the unfamiliarity with streets, public houses, old haunts—even Runcorn’s hatred of him. It did not matter anymore.
“Yes.” Monk spoke very slowly, as if letting the words fall one by one would make them believable. “But I did not kill Joscelin Grey. I fought with him, I probably hurt him—he certainly hurt me—but he was alive and swearing at me when I left.” He searched Evan’s countenance feature by feature. “I saw Menard Grey go in as I turned in the street. He was facing the light and I was going away from it. The outer door was still open in the wind.”
A desperate, painful relief flooded Evan’s face, and he looked bony and young, and very tired. “So it was Menard who killed him.” It was a statement.
“Yes.” A blossom of gratitude opened wide inside Monk, filling him with sweetness. Even without hope, it was to be treasured immeasurably. “But there is no proof.”
“But—” Evan began to argue, then the words died on his lips as he realized the truth of it. In all their searches they had found nothing. Menard had motive, but so had Charles Latterly, or Mr. Dawlish, or any other family Joscelin had cheated, any friend he had dishonored—or Lovel Grey, whom he might have betrayed in the cruelest way of all—or Monk himself. And Monk had been there. Now that they knew it, they also knew how easily provable it was, simply find the shop where he had bought that highly distinctive stick—such a piece of vanity. Mrs. Worley would remember it, and its subsequent absence. Lamb would recall seeing it in Grey’s flat the morning after the murder. Imogen Latterly would have to admit Monk had been working on the case of her father’s death.
The darkness was growing closer, tighter around them, the light guttering.
“We’ll have to get Menard to confess,” Evan said at last.
Monk laughed harshly. “And how do you propose we should do that? There’s no evidence, and he knows it. No one would take my word against his that I saw him, and kept silent about it till now. It will look like a rather shabby and very stupid attempt to shift the blame from myself.”
That was true, and Evan racked his mind in vain for a rebuttal. Monk was still sitting in the big chair, limp and exhausted with emotions from terror through joy and back to fear and despair again.
“Go home,” Evan said gently. “You can’t stay here. There may be—” Then the idea came to him with a flutter of hope, growing and rising. There was one person who might help. It was a chance, but there was nothing left to lose. “Yes,” he repeated. “Go home—I’ll be there soon. I’ve just got an errand. Someone to see—” And he swung on his heel and went out of the door, leaving it ajar behind him.
He ran down the stairs two at a time—he never knew afterwards how he did not break his neck—shot past Grimwade, and plunged out into the rain. He ran all the way along the pavement of Mecklenburg Square along Doughty Street and accosted a hansom as it passed him, driver’s coat collar up around his neck and stovepipe hat jammed forward over his brow.
“I ain’t on duty, guv!” the driver said crossly. “Finished, I am. Goin’ ’ome ter me supper.”
Evan ignored him and climbed in, shouting the Latterly’s address in Thanet Street at him.
“I told you, I ain’t goin’ nowhere!” the cabby repeated, louder this time. “’Ceptin ’ome fer me supper. You’ll ’ave ter get someone else!”
“You’re taking me to Thanet Street!” Evan shouted back at him. “Police! Now get on with it, or I’ll have your badge!”
“Bleedin’ rozzers,” the cabby muttered sullenly, but he realized he had a madman in the back, and it would be quicker in the long run to do what he said. He lifted the reins and slapped them on the horse’s soaking back, and they set off at a brisk trot.
At Thanet Street Evan scrambled out and commanded the cabby to wait, on pain of his livelihood.
Hester was at home when Evan was shown in by a startled maid. He was streaming water everywhere and his extraordinary, ugly, beautiful face was white. His hair was plastered crazily a
cross his brow and he stared at her with anguished eyes.
She had seen hope and despair too often not to recognize both.
“Can you come with me!” he said urgently. “Please? I’ll explain as we go. Miss Latterly—I—”
“Yes.” She did not need time to decide. To refuse was an impossibility. And she must leave before Charles or Imogen came from the withdrawing room, impelled by curiosity, and discovered the drenched and frantic policeman in the hall. She could not even go back for her cloak—what use would it be in this downpour anyway? “Yes—I’ll come now.” She walked past him and out of the front door. The wall of rain hit her in the face and she ignored it, continuing across the pavement, over the bubbling gutter and up into the hansom before either Evan or the driver had time to hand her up.
Evan scrambled behind her and slammed the door, shouting his instructions to drive to Grafton Street. Since the cabby had not yet been paid, he had little alternative.
“What has happened, Mr. Evan?” Hester asked as soon as they were moving. “I can see that it is something very terrible. Have you discovered who murdered Joscelin Grey?”
There was no point in hesitating now; the die was cast.
“Yes, Miss Latterly. Mr. Monk retraced all the steps of his first investigation—with your help.” He took a deep breath. He was cold now that the moment came; he was wet to the skin and shaking. “Joscelin Grey made his living by finding the families of men killed in the Crimea, pretending he had known the dead soldier and befriended him—either lending him money, paying the debts he left, or giving him some precious personal belonging, like the watch he claimed to have lent your brother, then when the family could not give it back to him—which they never could, since it did not exist—they felt in his debt, which he used to obtain invitations, influence, financial or social backing. Usually it was only a few hundred guineas, or to be a guest at their expense. In your father’s case it was to his ruin and death. Either way Grey did not give a damn what happened to his victims, and he had every intention of continuing.”
“What a vile crime,” she said quietly. “He was totally despicable. I am glad that he is dead—and perhaps sorry for whoever killed him. You have not said who it was?” Suddenly she was cold also. “Mr. Evan—?”
“Yes ma’am—Mr. Monk went to his flat in Mecklenburg Square and faced him with it. They fought—Mr. Monk beat him, but he was definitely alive and not mortally hurt when Mr. Monk left. But as Monk reached the street he saw someone else arrive, and go towards the door which was still swinging open in the wind.”
He saw Hester’s face pale in the glare of the streetlamps through the carriage window.
“Who?”
“Menard Grey,” he replied, waiting in the dark again to judge from her voice, or her silence, if she believed it. “Probably because Joscelin dishonored the memory of his friend Edward Dawlish, and deceived Edward’s father into giving him hospitality, as he did your father—and the money would have followed.”
She said nothing for several minutes. They swayed and rattled through the intermittent darkness, the rain battering on the roof and streaming past in torrents, yellow where the gaslight caught it.
“How very sad,” she said at last, and her voice was tight with emotion as though the pity caused a physical pain in her throat. “Poor Menard. I suppose you are going to arrest him? Why have you brought me? I can do nothing.”
“We can’t arrest him,” he answered quietly. “There is no proof.”
“There—” She swiveled around in her seat; he felt her rather than saw her. “Then what are you going to do? They’ll think it was Monk. They’ll charge him—they’ll—” She swallowed. “They’ll hang him.”
“I know. We must make Menard confess. I thought you might know how we could do that? You know the Greys far better than we could, from the outside. And Joscelin was responsible for your father’s death—and your mother’s, indirectly.”
Again she sat silent for so long he was afraid he had offended her, or reminded her of grief so deep she was unable to do anything but nurse its pain inside her. They were drawing close to Grafton Street, and soon they must leave the cab and face Monk with some resolution—or admit failure. Then he would be faced with the task he dreaded so much the thought of it made him sick. He must either tell Runcorn the truth, that Monk fought with Joscelin Grey the night of his death—or else deliberately conceal the fact and lay himself open to certain dismissal from the police force—and the possible charge of accessory to murder.
They were in the Tottenham Court Road, lamps gleaming on the wet pavements, gutters awash. There was no time left.
“Miss Latterly.”
“Yes. Yes,” she said firmly. “I will come with you to Shelburne Hall. I have thought about it, and the only way I can see success is if you tell Lady Fabia the truth about Joscelin. I will corroborate it. My family were his victims as well, and she will have to believe me, because I have no interest in lying. It does not absolve my father’s suicide in the eyes of the church.” She hesitated only an instant. “Then if you proceed to tell her about Edward Dawlish as well, I think Menard may be persuaded to confess. He may see no other avenue open to him, once his mother realizes that he killed Joscelin—which she will. It will devastate her—it may destroy her.” Her voice was very low. “And they may hang Menard. But we cannot permit the law to hang Mr. Monk instead, merely because the truth is a tragedy that will wound perhaps beyond bearing. Joscelin Grey was a man who did much evil. We cannot protect his mother either from her part in it, or from the pain of knowing.”
“You’ll come to Shelburne tomorrow?” He had to hear her say it again. “You are prepared to tell her your own family’s suffering at Joscelin’s hands?”
“Yes. And how Joscelin obtained the names of the dying in Scutari, as I now realize, so he could use them to cheat their families. At what time will you depart?”
Again relief swept over him, and an awe for her that she could so commit herself without equivocation. But then to go out to the Crimea to nurse she must be a woman of courage beyond the ordinary imagination, and to remain there, of a strength of purpose that neither danger nor pain could bend.
“I don’t know,” he said a trifle foolishly. “There was little purpose in going at all unless you were prepared to come. Lady Shelburne would hardly believe us without further substantiation from beyond police testimony. Shall we say the first train after eight o’clock in the morning?” Then he remembered he was asking a lady of some gentility. “Is that too early?”
“Certainly not.” Had he been able to see her face there might have been the faintest of smiles on it.
“Thank you. Then do you wish to take this hansom back home again, and I shall alight here and go and tell Mr. Monk?”
“That would be the most practical thing,” she agreed. “I shall see you at the railway station in the morning.”
He wanted to say something more, but all that came to his mind was either repetitious or vaguely condescending. He simply thanked her again and climbed out into the cold and teeming rain. It was only when the cab had disappeared into the darkness and he was halfway up the stairs to Monk’s rooms that he realized with acute embarrassment that he had left her to pay the cabby.
The journey to Shelburne was made at first with heated conversation and then in silence, apart from the small politenesses of travel. Monk was furious that Hester was present. He refrained from ordering her home again only because the train was already moving when she entered the carriage from the corridor, bidding them good-morning and seating herself opposite.
“I asked Miss Latterly to come,” Evan explained without a blush, “because her additional testimony will carry great weight with Lady Fabia, who may well not believe us, since we have an obvious interest in claiming Joscelin was a cad. Miss Latterly’s experience, and that of her family, is something she cannot so easily deny.” He did not make the mistake of claiming that Hester had any moral right to be there because of he
r own loss, or her part in the solution. Monk wished he had, so he could lose his temper and accuse him of irrelevance. The argument he had presented was extremely reasonable—in fact he was right. Hester’s corroboration would be very likely to tip the balance of decision, which otherwise the Greys together might rebut.
“I trust you will speak only when asked?” Monk said to her coldly. “This is a police operation, and a very delicate one.” That she of all people should be the one whose assistance he needed at this point was galling in the extreme, and yet it was undeniable. She was in many ways everything he loathed in a woman, the antithesis of the gentleness that still lingered with such sweetness in his memory; and yet she had rare courage, and a force of character which would equal Fabia Grey’s any day.
“Certainly, Mr. Monk,” she replied with her chin high and her eyes unflinching, and he knew in that instant that she had expected precisely this reception, and come to the carriage late intentionally to circumvent the possibility of being ordered home. Although of course it was highly debatable as to whether she would have gone. And Evan would never countenance leaving her on the station platform at Shelburne. And Monk did care what Evan felt.
He sat and stared across at Hester, wishing he could think of something else crushing to say.
She smiled at him, clear-eyed and agreeable. It was not so much friendliness as triumph.
They continued the rest of the journey with civility, and gradually each became consumed in private thoughts, and a dread of the task ahead.
When they arrived at Shelburne they alighted onto the platform. The weather was heavy and dark with the presage of winter. It had stopped raining, but a cold wind stirred in gusts and chilled the skin even through heavy coats.
They were obliged to wait some fifteen minutes before a trap arrived, which they hired to take them to the hall. This journey, too, they made huddled together and without speaking. They were all oppressed by what was to come, and the trivialities of conversation would have been grotesque.