The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [116]
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