The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [88]
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes I do. I’m very sorry I have to distress you now by speaking of Major Grey’s death. But we must find whoever killed him.”
She shuddered.
“How could anyone be so vile? What evil gets into a man that he could beat another to death like that? A fight I deplore, but I can understand it; but to go on, to mutilate a man after he is dead! The newspapers say it was dreadful. Of course my husband does not know I read them—having known the poor man, I felt I had to. Do you understand it, Mr. Monk?”
“No, I don’t. In all the crimes I have investigated, I have not seen one like this.” He did not know if it was true, but he felt it. “He must have been hated with a passion hard to conceive.”
“I cannot imagine it, such a violence of feeling.” She closed her eyes and shook her head fractionally. “Such a wish to destroy, to—to disfigure. Poor Joscelin, to have been the victim of such a—a creature. It would frighten me even to think someone could feel such an intensity of hatred for me, even if I were quite sure they could not touch me, and I were innocent of its cause. I wonder if poor Joscelin knew?”
It was a thought that had not occurred to Monk before— had Joscelin Grey had any idea that his killer hated him? Had he known, but merely thought him impotent to act?
“He cannot have feared him,” he said aloud. “Or he would hardly have allowed him into his rooms while he was alone.”
“Poor man.” She hunched her shoulders involuntarily, as if chilled. “It is very frightening to think that someone with that madness in their hearts could walk around, looking like you or me. I wonder if anyone dislikes me intensely and I have no idea of it. I had never entertained such a thought before, but now I cannot help it. I shall be unable to look at people as I used to. Are people often killed by those they know quite well?”
“Yes ma’am, I am afraid so; most often of all by relatives.”
“How appalling.” Her voice was very soft, her eyes staring at some spot beyond him. “And how very tragic.”
“Yes it is.” He did not want to seem crass, nor indifferent to her horror, but he had to pursue the business of it. “Did Major Grey ever say anything about threats, or anyone who might be afraid of him—”
She lifted her eyes to look at him; her brow was puckered and another strand of hair escaped the inadequate pins. “Afraid of him? But it was he who was killed!”
“People are like other animals,” he replied. “They most often kill when they are afraid themselves.”
“I suppose so. I had not thought of that.” She shook her head a little, still puzzled. “But Joscelin was the most harmless of people! I never heard him speak as if he bore real ill will towards anyone. Of course he had a sharp wit, but one does not kill over a joke, even if it is a trifle barbed, and possibly even not in the kindest of taste.”
“Even so,” he pressed, “against whom were these remarks directed?”
She hesitated, not only in an effort to remember, but it seemed the memory was disturbing her.
He waited.
“Mostly against his own family,” she said slowly. “At least that was how it sounded to me—and I think to others. His comments on Menard were not always kind, although my husband knows more of that than I—I always liked Menard—but then that was no doubt because he and Edward were so close. Edward loved him dearly. They shared so much—” She blinked and screwed up her mild face even more. “But then Joscelin often spoke harshly of himself also—it is hard to understand.”
“Of himself?” Monk was surprised. “I’ve been to his family, naturally, and I can understand a certain resentment. But in what way of