The Face of a Stranger

Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon to find him, eventually ru

"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.

"IVe 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, spi

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. 12 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.