The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [145]
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 sniffing 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,