The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [148]
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 across 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