The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

admiration. He
liked Evan far more than he liked himself.
    He had imagined he had hidden his complete loss of memory, but perhaps
it was obvious, perhaps Runcorn had seen it and taken this chance to even some
old score? God, how he wished he knew what kind of man he was, had been. Who
loved him, who hated him—and who had what cause? Had he ever loved a woman, or
any woman loved him? He did not even know that!
    Evan was walking quickly ahead of him, his long legs carrying him at a
surprisingly fast pace. Everything in Monk wanted to trust him, and yet he was
almost paralyzed by his ignorance. Every foothold he trod on dissolved into
quicksand under his weight. He knew nothing. Everything was surmise, constantly
shifting guesses.
    He behaved automatically, having nothing but instinct and ingrained
habit to rely on.
    The physical evidence was astonishingly bare, set out like luggage in a
lost-and-found office, ownerless; pathetic and rather embarrassing remnants of
someone else's life, robbed now of their purpose and meaning—a little like his
own belongings in Grafton Street, objects whose history and emotion were
obliterated.
    He stopped beside Evan and picked up a pile of clothes. The trousers
were dark, well cut from expensive material, now spotted with blood. The boots
were highly polished and only slightly worn on the soles. Personal linen was
obviously changed very recently; shirt was expensive; cravat silk, the neck
and front heavily stained. The jacket was tailored to high fashion, but ruined
with blood, and a ragged tear in the sleeve. They told him nothing except a
hazard at the size and build of Joscelin Grey, and an admiration for his pocket
and his taste. There was nothing to be deduced from the bloodstains, since they
already knew what the injuries had been.
    He put them down and turned to Evan, who was watching him.
    "Not very helpful, is it, sir?" Evan looked at them with
    a mixture of unhappiness and distaste. There was something in his face
that might have been real pity. Perhaps he was too sensitive to be a police
officer.
    "No, not very," Monk agreed dryly. "What else was
there?"
    "The weapon, sir." Evan reached out and picked up a heavy
ebony stick with a silver head. It too was encrusted with blood and hair.
    Monk winced. If he had seen such grisly things before, his immunity to
them had gone with his memory.
    "Nasty." Evan's mouth turned down, his hazel eyes on Monk's
face.
    Monk was conscious of him, and abashed. Was the distaste, the pity, for
him? Was Evan wondering why a senior officer should be so squeamish? He
conquered his revulsion with an effort and took the stick. It was unusually
heavy.
    "War wound," Evan observed, still watching him. "From
what witnesses say, he actually walked with it: I mean it wasn't an
ornament."
    "Right leg." Monk recalled the medical report. "Accounts
for the weight." He put the stick down. "Nothing else?"
    "Couple of broken glasses, sir, and a decanter broken too. Must
have been on the table that was knocked over, from the way it was lying; and a
couple of ornaments. There's a drawing of the way the room was, in Mr. Lamb's
file, sir. Not that I know of anything it can tell us. But Mr. Lamb spent hours
poring over it."
    Monk felt a quick stab of compassion for Lamb, then for himself. He
wished for a moment that he could change places with Evan, leave the decisions,
the judgments to someone else, and disclaim the failure. He hated failure! He
realized now what a driving, burning desire he had to solve this crime—to
win—to wipe that smile off Runcorn's face.
    "Oh—money, sir." Evan pulled out a cardboard box and opened
it. He picked up a fine pigskin wallet and,
    separately, several gold sovereigns, a couple of cards from a club and
an exclusive dining room. There were about a dozen cards of his own, engraved
"Major the Honorable Joscelin Grey, Six, Mecklenburg Square, London."
    "Is that all?" Monk asked.
    "Yes sir, the