The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [50]
Evan frowned. They were walking south along Grey’s Inn Road.
“Do you think so?” He looked sideways at Monk. “Doesn’t ring right to me. And we haven’t found any unaccounted income yet. Of course, we haven’t really looked. And blackmail victims can be driven to a very deep hatred indeed, for which I cannot entirely blame them. When a man has been tormented, stripped of all he has, and then is still threatened with ruin, there comes a point when reason breaks.”
“We’ll have to check on the social company he kept,” Monk replied. “Who might have made mistakes damaging enough to be blackmailed over, to the degree that ended in murder.”
“Perhaps if he was homosexual?” Evan suggested it with returning distaste, and Monk knew he did not believe his own word. “He might have had a lover who would pay to keep him quiet—and if pushed too far, kill him?”
“Very nasty.” Monk stared at the wet pavement. “Runcorn was right.” And thought of Runcorn set his mind on a different track.
He sent Evan to question all the local tradesmen, people at the club Grey had been at the evening he was killed, anything to learn about his associates.
Evan began at the wine merchant’s whose name they had found on a bill head in Grey’s apartments. He was a fat man with a drooping mustache and an unctuous manner. He expressed desolation over the loss of Major Grey. What a terrible misfortune. What an ironic stroke of fate that such a fine officer should survive the war, only to be struck down by a madman in his own home. What a tragedy. He did not know what to say—and he said it at considerable length while Evan struggled to get a word in and ask some useful question.
When at last he did, the answer was what he had guessed it would be. Major Grey—the Honorable Joscelin Grey-was a most valued customer. He had excellent taste—but what else would you expect from such a gentleman? He knew French wine, and he knew German wine. He liked the best. He was provided with it from this establishment. His accounts? No, not always up to date—but paid in due course. The nobility were that way with money—one had to learn to accommodate it. He could add nothing—but nothing at all. Was Mr. Evan interested in wine? He could recommend an excellent Bordeaux.
No, Mr. Evan, reluctantly, was not interested in wine; he was a country parson’s son, well educated in the gentilities of life, but with a pocket too short to indulge in more than the necessities, and a few good clothes, which would stand him in better stead than even the best of wines. None of which he explained to the merchant.
Next he tried the local eating establishments, beginning with the chophouse and working down to the public alehouse, which also served an excellent stew with spotted dick pudding, full of currants, as Evan could attest.
“Major Grey?” the landlord said ruminatively. “Yer mean ’im as was murdered? ’Course I knowed ’im. Come in ’ere reg’lar, ’e did.”
Evan did not know whether to believe him or not. It could well be true; the food was cheap and filling and the atmosphere not unpleasant to a man who had served in the army, two years of it in the battlefields of the Crimea. On the other hand it could be a boost to his business—already healthy—to say that a famous victim of murder had dined here. There was a grisly curiosity in many people which would give the place an added interest to them.
“What did he look like?” Evan asked.
“’Ere!” The landlord looked at him suspiciously. “You on the case—or not, then? Doncher know?”
“I never met him alive,” Evan replied reasonably. “It makes a lot of difference, you know.”
The landlord sucked his teeth. “’Course it do—sorry, guv, a daft question. ’E were tall, an’ not far from your build, kind o’ slight—but ’e were real natty wiv it! Looked like a gennelman, even afore ’e opened ’is mouf. Yer can tell. Fair ’air, ’e ’ad; an’ a smile as was summat luv’ly.”
“Charming,” Evan said, more as an observation than a question.
“Not ’alf,” the landlord agreed.