The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [90]
It transpired that he knew remarkably little about the business he had half committed himself to support. His involvement was with Joscelin Grey personally, and it was this which had caused him to promise funds, and the use of his good name. “Charming fellow,” he said, half facing Monk as he stood by the parlor fire. “Hard when you’re brought up in a family, part of it and all that, then the eldest brother marries and suddenly you’re nobody.” He shook his head grimly. “Dashed hard to make your way if you’re not suited to the church, and invalided out of the army. Only thing really is to marry decently.” He looked at Monk to see if he understood. “Don’t know why young Joscelin didn’t, certainly a handsome enough chap, and pleasing with women. Had all the charm, right words to say, and so on. Amanda thought the world of him.” He coughed. “My daughter, you know. Poor girl was very distressed over his death. Dreadful thing! Quite appalling.” He stared down at the embers and a sharp sadness filled his eyes and softened the lines around his mouth. “Such a decent man. Expect it in the Crimea, die for your country, and so on; but not this. Lost her first suitor at Sebastopol, poor girl; and of course her brother at Balaclava. That’s where he met young Grey.” He swallowed hard and looked up at Monk, as if to defy his emotions. “Damned good to him.” He took a deep breath and fought to control a conflict of emotions that were obviously acutely painful. “Actually spoke to each other night before the battle. Like to think of that, someone we’ve met, with Edward the night before he was killed. Been a great source of—” He coughed again and was forced to look away, his eyes brimming. “Comfort to us, my wife and I. Taken it hard, poor woman; only son, you know. Five daughters. And now this.”
“I understand Menard Grey was also a close friend of your son’s,” Monk said, as much to fill the silence as that it might have mattered.
Dawlish stared at the coals. “Prefer not to speak of it,” he replied with difficulty, his voice husky. “Thought a lot of him—but he led Edward into bad ways—no doubt about it. It was Joscelin who paid his debts—so he did not die with dishonor.”
He swallowed convulsively. “We became fond of Joscelin, even on the few weekends he stayed with us.” He lifted the poker out of its rest and jabbed at the fire fiercely. “I hope to heaven you catch the madman who did it.”
“We’ll do everything we can, sir.” Monk wanted to say all sorts of other things to express the pity he felt for so much loss. Thousands of men and horses had died, frozen, starved, or been massacred or wasted by disease on the bitter hillsides of a country they neither knew nor loved. If he had ever known the purpose of the war in the Crimea he had forgotten it now. It could hardly have been a war of defense. Crimea was a thousand miles from England. Presumably from the newspapers it was something to do with the political ramifications of Turkey and its disintegrating empire. It hardly seemed a reason for the wretched, pitiful deaths of so many, and the grief they left behind.
Dawlish was staring at him, waiting for him to say something, expecting a platitude.
“I am sorry your son had to die in such a way.” Monk held out his hand automatically. “And so young. But at least Joscelin Grey was able to assure you it was with courage and dignity, and that his suffering was brief.”
Dawlish took his hand before he had time to think.
“Thank you.” There was a faint flush on his skin and he was obviously moved. He did not even realize until after Monk had gone that he had shaken hands with a policeman as frankly as if he had been a gentleman.
That evening Monk found himself for the first time caring about Grey personally. He sat in his own quiet room with nothing but the faint noises from the street in the distance below. In the small kindnesses to the Dawlishes,