Страница 62 из 81
"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 ma
"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 kee
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, hi 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 Shelbume 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 ca
"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 indelicate, 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 ca
"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 di
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, i
"What number, sir?"
"Can that matter, Mr. Monk?" Imogen asked i
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.
"I find that hard to believe, sir, since you wrote to him at that address. We found your letter among his effects."
"God damn it-I-" Charles stopped, frozen.
Monk waited. The silence was so intense he imagined he could hear horses' hooves in the next street. He did not look at either of the women.
"I mean-" Charles began, and again stopped.
Monk found himself unable to avoid it any longer. He was embarrassed for them, and desperately sorry. He looked at Imogen, wanting her to know that, even if it meant nothing to her at all.
She was standing very still. Her eyes were so dark he could see nothing in mem, but there did not seem to be the hate he feared. For a wild moment he felt that if only he could have talked to her alone he could have explained, made her understand the necessity for all this, the compulsion.
"My friends will swear I was there all evening." Charles's words cut across them. "I'll give you their names. This is ridiculous; I liked Joscelin, and our misfortunes were as much his. There was no reason whatever to wish him harm, and you will find none!"