The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [8]
When? When had he come?
He realized with a shock he did not know how old he was. He still had not looked at himself in the glass. Why not? Was he afraid of it? What did it matter how a man looked? And yet he was trembling.
He swallowed hard and picked up the oil lamp from the desk. He walked slowly into the bedroom and put the lamp on the dresser. There must be a glass there, at least big enough to shave himself.
It was on a swivel; that was why he had not noticed it before, his eye had been on the silver brush. He set the lamp down and slowly tipped the glass.
The face he saw was dark and very strong, broad, slightly aquiline nose, wide mouth, rather thin upper lip, lower lip fuller, with an old scar just below it, eyes intense luminous gray in the flickering light. It was a powerful face, but not an easy one. If there was humor it would be harsh, of wit rather than laughter. He could have been anything between thirty-five and forty-five.
He picked up the lamp and walked back to the main room, finding the way blindly, his inner eye still seeing the face that had stared back at him from the dim glass. It was not that it displeased him especially, but it was the face of a stranger, and not one easy to know.
The following day he made his decision. He would travel north to see his sister. She would at least be able to tell him his childhood, his family. And to judge from her letters, and the recent date of the last, she still held him in affection, whether he deserved it or not. He wrote in the morning telling her simply that he had had an accident but was considerably recovered now, and intended to visit her when he was well enough to make the journey, which he expected to be no more than another day or two at the outside.
Among the other things in the desk drawer he found a modest sum of money. Apparently he was not extravagant except at the tailor, the clothes in his wardrobe were impeccably cut and of first-quality fabric, and possibly the bookshop—if the contents of the case were his. Other than that he had saved regularly, but if for any particular purpose there was no note of it, and it hardly mattered now. He gave Mrs. Worley what she asked for a further month’s rent on account—minus the food he would not consume while he was away—and informed her he was going to visit his sister in Northumberland.
“Very good idea.” She nodded her head sagaciously. “More’n time you paid her a visit, if yer ask me. Not that yer did, o’ course! I’m not one to interfere”—she drew in her breath—“but yer in’t bin orf ter see ’er since I known yer—an that’s some years now. An’ the poor soul writes to yer reg’lar—although w’en yer writes back I’m blessed if I know!”
She put the money in her pocket and looked at him closely.
“Well, you look after yerself—eat proper and don’t go doin’ any daft caperin’s around chasin’ folk. Let ruffians alone an’ mind for yerself for a space.” And with that parting advice she smoothed her apron again and turned away, her boot heels clicking down the corridor towards the kitchen.
It was August fourth when he boarded the train in London and settled himself for the long journey.
Northumberland was vast and bleak, wind roaring over treeless, heather-darkened moors, but there was a simplicity about its tumultuous skies and clean earth that pleased him enormously. Was it familiar to him, memories stirring from childhood, or only beauty that would have woken the same emotion in him had it been as unknown as the plains of the moon? He stood a long time at the station, bag in his hand, staring out at the hills before he finally made move to begin. He would have to find a conveyance of some kind: he was eleven miles from the sea and the hamlet he wanted. In normal health he might well have walked it, but he was still weak. His rib ached when he breathed deeply, and he had not yet the full use of his broken arm.
It was not more than a pony cart, and he had paid handsomely for it, he thought.