The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [19]
Monk felt a quick stab of compassion for Lamb, then for himself. He wished for a moment that he could change places with Evan, leave the decisions, the judgments to someone else, and disclaim the failure. He hated failure! He realized now what a driving, burning desire he had to solve this crime—to win—to wipe that smile off Runcorn’s face.
“Oh—money, sir.” Evan pulled out a cardboard box and opened it. He picked up a fine pigskin wallet and, separately, several gold sovereigns, a couple of cards from a club and an exclusive dining room. There were about a dozen cards of his own, engraved “Major the Honorable Joscelin Grey, Six, Mecklenburg Square, London.”
“Is that all?” Monk asked.
“Yes sir, the money is twelve pounds seven shillings and sixpence altogether. If he were a thief, it’s odd he didn’t take that.”
“Perhaps he was frightened—he may have been hurt himself.” It was the only thing he could think of. He motioned Evan to put the box away. “I suppose we’d better go and have a look at Mecklenburg Square.”
“Yes sir.” Evan straightened up to obey. “It’s about half an hour’s walk. Are you well enough for it yet?”
“A couple of miles? For heaven’s sake, man, it was my arm I broke, not both my legs!” He reached sharply for his jacket and hat.
Evan had been a little optimistic. Against the wind and stepping carefully to avoid peddlers and groups of fellow travelers on the footpath, and traffic and horse dung in the streets, it was a good forty minutes before they reached Mecklenburg Square, walked around the gardens and stopped outside Number 6. The boy sweeping the crossing was busy on the corner of Doughty Street, and Monk wondered if it was the same one who had been there on that evening in July. He felt a rush of pity for the child, out in all weather, often with sleet or snow driving down the funnel of the high buildings, dodging in among the carriages and drays, shoveling droppings. What an abysmal way to earn your keep. Then he was angry with himself—that was stupid and sentimental nonsense. He must deal with reality. He squared his chest and marched into the foyer. The porter was standing by a small office doorway, no more than a cubbyhole.
“Yes sir?” He moved forward courteously, but at the same time blocking their further progress.
“Grimwade?” Monk asked him.
“Yes sir?” The man was obviously surprised and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say as I remember you. I’m not usually bad about faces—” He let it hang, hoping Monk would help him. He glanced across at Evan, and a flicker of memory lit in his face.
“Police,” Monk said simply. “We’d like to take another look at Major Grey’s flat. You have the key?”
The man’s relief was very mixed.
“Oh yes, sir, and we ain’t let nobody in. Lock’s still as Mr. Lamb left it.”
“Good, thank you.” Monk had been preparing to show some proof of his identity, but the porter was apparently quite satisfied with his recognition of Evan, and turned back to his cubbyhole to fetch the key.
He came with it a moment later and led them upstairs with the solemnity due the presence of the dead, especially those who had died violently. Monk had the momentarily unpleasant impression that they would find Joscelin Grey’s corpse still lying there, untouched and waiting for them.
It was ridiculous, and he shook it off fiercely. It was beginning to assume the repetitive quality of a nightmare, as if events could happen more than once.
“Here we are, sir.” Evan was standing at the door, the porter’s key in his hand. “There’s a back door as well, of course, from the kitchen, but it opens onto the same landing, about twelve yards along, for services, errands, and the like.”
Monk recalled his attention.
“But one would still have to pass the porter at the gate?”
“Oh yes, sir. I suppose there’s not much point in having