The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [55]
Monk relaxed a little. “Quite,” he agreed. “Any other letters?”
“One pretty cool one from a Charles Latterly, doesn’t say much—”
“Latterly?” Monk froze.
“Yes. You know him?” Evan was watching him.
Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs. Latterly at St. Marylebone had said “Charles,” and he had feared it might have been her husband.
“I was working on a Latterly case some time ago,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “It’s probably coincidence. I was looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn’t find it.”
“Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some scandal to hush up, or—”
“No!” He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying his feelings. He moderated his tone. “No, not at all. Poor man is dead anyway. Died before Grey did.”
“Oh.” Evan turned back to the desk. “That’s about all, I’m afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from these, and they’ll lead us to more.”
“Yes, yes quite. I’ll take Latterly’s address, all the same.”
“Oh, right.” Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.
Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.
They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.
“Lunch,” Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent, obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of daily life.
“Right.” Evan fell in step beside him. “There’s a good public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent dumplings. That is—” he stopped suddenly. “It’s very ordinary—don’t know if you—”
“Fine,” Monk agreed. “Sounds just what we need. I’m frozen after being in that place. I don’t know why, but it seems cold, even inside.”
Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. “It might be imagination, but it always chills me. I’m not used to murder yet. I suppose you’re above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven’t got that far—”
“Don’t!” Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to. “Don’t get used to it!” He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden sensitivity, but he did not care. “I mean,” he said more softly, aware that he had startled Evan by his vehemence, “keep your brain clear, by all means, but don’t let it cease to shock you. Don’t be a detective before you’re a man.” Now that he had said it it sounded sententious and extremely trite. He was embarrassed.
Evan did not seem to notice.
“I’ve a long way to go before I’m efficient enough to do that, sir. I confess, even that room up there makes me feel a little sick. This is the first murder like this I’ve been on.” He sounded self-conscious and very young. “Of course I’ve seen bodies before, but usually accidents, or paupers who died in the street. There are quite a few of them in the winter. That’s why I’m so pleased to be on this case with you. I couldn’t learn from anyone better.”
Monk felt himself color with pleasure—and shame, because he did not deserve it. He could not think of anything at all to say, and he strode ahead through the thickening rain searching for words, and not finding them. Evan walked beside him, apparently not needing an answer.
The following Monday Monk and Evan got off the train at Shelburne and set out towards Shelburne Hall. It was one of the summer days when the wind is fresh from the east, sharp as a slap in the face, and the sky is clear and cloudless. The trees were huge green billows resting on the bosom of the earth, gently, incessantly moving, whispering. There had been