The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [18]
“I suppose you’d better see the physical evidence, not that there is much. And then I daresay you’d like to see the flat, at least get a feeling for the scene?”
Monk stood up also.
“Yes I would. You never know, something might suggest itself.” Although he could imagine nothing. If Lamb had not succeeded, and this keen, delicate young junior, what was he going to find? He felt failure begin to circle around him, dark and enclosing. Had Runcorn given him this knowing he would fail? Was it a discreet and efficient way of getting rid of him without being seen to be callous? How did he even know for sure that Runcorn was not an old enemy? Had he done him some wrong long ago? The possibility was cold and real. The shadowy outline of himself that had appeared so far was devoid of any quick acts of compassion, any sudden gentlenesses or warmth to seize hold of and to like. He was discovering himself as a stranger might, and what he saw so far did not excite his admiration. He liked Evan far more than he liked himself.
He had imagined he had hidden his complete loss of memory, but perhaps it was obvious, perhaps Runcorn had seen it and taken this chance to even some old score? God, how he wished he knew what kind of man he was, had been. Who loved him, who hated him—and who had what cause? Had he ever loved a woman, or any woman loved him? He did not even know that!
Evan was walking quickly ahead of him, his long legs carrying him at a surprisingly fast pace. Everything in Monk wanted to trust him, and yet he was almost paralyzed by his ignorance. Every foothold he trod on dissolved into quicksand under his weight. He knew nothing. Everything was surmise, constantly shifting guesses.
He behaved automatically, having nothing but instinct and ingrained habit to rely on.
The physical evidence was astonishingly bare, set out like luggage in a lost-and-found office, ownerless; pathetic and rather embarrassing remnants of someone else’s life, robbed now of their purpose and meaning—a little like his own belongings in Grafton Street, objects whose history and emotion were obliterated.
He stopped beside Evan and picked up a pile of clothes. The trousers were dark, well cut from expensive material, now spotted with blood. The boots were highly polished and only slightly worn on the soles. Personal linen was obviously changed very recently; shirt was expensive; cravat silk, the neck and front heavily stained. The jacket was tailored to high fashion, but ruined with blood, and a ragged tear in the sleeve. They told him nothing except a hazard at the size and build of Joscelin Grey, and an admiration for his pocket and his taste. There was nothing to be deduced from the bloodstains, since they already knew what the injuries had been.
He put them down and turned to Evan, who was watching him.
“Not very helpful, is it, sir?” Evan looked at them with a mixture of unhappiness and distaste. There was something in his face that might have been real pity. Perhaps he was too sensitive to be a police officer.
“No, not very,” Monk agreed dryly. “What else was there?”
“The weapon, sir.” Evan reached out and picked up a heavy ebony stick with a silver head. It too was encrusted with blood and hair.
Monk winced. If he had seen such grisly things before, his immunity to them had gone with his memory.
“Nasty.” Evan’s mouth turned down, his hazel eyes on Monk’s face.
Monk was conscious of him, and abashed. Was the distaste, the pity, for him? Was Evan wondering why a senior officer should be so squeamish? He conquered his revulsion with an effort and took the stick. It was unusually heavy.
“War wound,” Evan observed, still watching him. “From what witnesses say, he actually walked with it: I mean it wasn’t an ornament.”
“Right leg.” Monk recalled the medical report. “Accounts for the weight.” He put the stick down. “Nothing else?”
“Couple of broken glasses, sir, and a decanter