The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [32]
Runcorn was fidgeting with impatience.
“Lamb spent a lot of time checking out the villains we know,” Monk continued. “He’s written up in his report that he’s spoken to every snout and informer in the area. Not a peep. No one knows anything; or if they do, they’re not saying. Lamb was of the opinion they were telling the truth. I don’t know what else he could have done.” His experience offered nothing, but neither could his intelligence suggest any omission. All his sympathy was with Lamb.
“Constable Harrison found a watch with the initials J.G. on it in a pawnbroker’s—but we don’t know it was Grey’s.”
“No,” Runcorn agreed fiercely, running his finger with distaste along the deckle edge of the notepaper. It was a luxury he could not afford. “Indeed you don’t! So what are you doing, then? Take it to Shelburne Hall—get it identified.”
“Harrison’s on his way.”
“Can’t you at least find out how the bloody man got in?”
“I think so,” Monk said levelly. “There was a visitor for one of the other residents, a Mr. Yeats. He came in at nine forty-five and left at roughly ten thirty. He was a biggish man, dark, well muffled. He’s the only person unaccounted for; the others were women. I don’t want to leap to conclusions too soon, but it looks as if he could be the murderer. Otherwise I don’t know any way a stranger could have got in. Grimwade locks up at midnight, or earlier if all the residents are in, and after that even they have to ring the bell and get him up.”
Runcorn put the letter carefully on Monk’s desk.
“And what time did he lock up that night?” he asked.
“Eleven,” Monk replied. “No one was out.”
“What did Lamb say about this man who visited Yeats?” Runcorn screwed up his face.
“Not much. Apparently he only spoke to Yeats once, and then he spent most of the time trying to find out something about Grey. Maybe he didn’t realize the importance of the visitor at that time. Grimwade said he took him up to Yeats’s door and Yeats met him. Lamb was still looking for a thief off the street then—”
“Then!” Runcorn leapt on the word, sharp, eager. “So what are you looking for now?”
Monk realized what he had said, and that he meant it. He frowned, and answered as carefully as he could.
“I think I’m looking for someone who knew him, and hated him; someone who intended to kill him.”
“Well for God’s sake don’t say so to the Dowager Lady Shelburne!” Runcorn said dangerously.
“I’m hardly likely to be speaking to her,” Monk answered with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“Oh yes you are!” There was a ring of triumph in Runcorn’s voice and his big face was glowing with color. “You are going down to Shelburne today to assure Her Ladyship that we are doing everything humanly possible to apprehend the murderer, and that after intensive effort and brilliant work, we at last have a lead to discovering this monster.” His lip curled very faintly. “You’re generally so blunt, damn near rude, in spite of your fancy airs, she won’t take you for a liar.” Suddenly his tone altered again and became soft. “Anyway, why do you think it was someone who knew him? Maniacs can kill with a hell of a mess; madmen strike over and over again, hate for no reason.”
“Possibly.” Monk stared back at him, matching dislike for dislike. “But they don’t scout out the names of other residents, call upon them, and then go and kill someone else. If he was merely a homicidal lunatic, why didn’t he kill Yeats? Why go and look for Grey?”
Runcorn’s eyes were wide; he resented it, but he took the point.
“Find out everything you can about this Yeats,” he ordered. “Discreetly, mind! I don’t want him scared away!