AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Well, Mr. Grimwade?" he said with sudden softness. "What other women?"
Grimwade mistook the lowering tone for a further threat.
"One to see Mr. Scarsdale, sir; although 'e paid me 'andsome not to say so."
"What time was it?"
“About eight o'clock.''
Scarsdale had said he had heard someone at eight. Was it his own visitor he was talking about, trying to play safe, in case someone else had seen her too?
"Did you go up with her?" He looked at Grimwade.
"No sir, on account o' she'd bin 'ere before, an' knew 'er way, like. An' I knew as she was expected." He gave a slight leer, knowingly, as man to man.
Monk acknowledged it. "And the one at quarter to ten?" he asked. "The visitor for Mr. Yeats, I think you said? Had he been here before too?"
"No sir. I went up with 'im, 'cos 'e didn't know Mr. Yeats very well an' 'adn't called 'ere before. I said that to Mr. Lamb."
"Indeed." Monk forbore from criticizing him over the omission of Scarsdale's woman. He would defeat his own purpose if he antagonized him any further. "So you went up with this man?"
"Yes sir." Grimwade was firm. "Saw Mr. Yeats open the door to 'im,"
"What did he look like, this man?"
Grimwade screwed up his eyes. "Oh, big man, 'e was, solid and—'ere!" His face dropped. "You don't think it was 'im wot done it, do yer?" He breathed out slowly, his eyes wide. "Gor'—it must 'a' bin. When I thinks of it now!"
"It might have," Monk agreed cautiously. "It's possible. Would you know him if you saw him again?"
Grimwade's face fell. "Ah, there you 'ave me, sir; I
don't think as I would. Yer see, I didn't see 'im close, like, when 'e was down 'ere. An' on the stairs I only looked where I was goin', it bein' dark. 'E 'ad one o' them 'eavy coats on, as it was a rotten night an' rainin' somethin' wicked. A natural night for anyone to 'ave 'is coat turned up an' 'is 'at drawn down. I reckon 'e were dark, that's about all I could say fer sure, an' if 'e 'ad a beard, it weren't much of a one."
"He was probably clean-shaven, and probably dark." Monk tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He must not let irritation push the man into saying something to please him, something less than true.
" 'E were big, sir," Grimwade said hopefully. "An' 'e were tall, must 'ave bin six feet. That lets out a lot o' people, don't it?"
"Yes, yes it does," Monk agreed. "When did he leave?"
"I saw 'im out o' the corner o' me eye, sir. 'E went past me window at about 'alf past ten, or a little afore."
"Out of the corner of your eye? You're sure it was him?"
" 'Ad ter be; 'e didn't leave before, ner after, an' 'e looked the same. Same coat, and 'at, same size, same 'eight. Weren't no one else like that lives 'ere."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No, 'e looked like 'e was in a bit of an 'urry. Maybe 'e wanted ter get 'ome. It were a beastly rotten night, like I said, sir; not fit fer man ner beast."
"Yes I know. Thank you, Mr. Grimwade. If you remember anything more, tell me, or leave a message for me at the police station. Good day."
"Good day, sir," Grimwade said with intense relief.
Monk decided to w
ait for Scarsdale, first to tax him with his lie about the woman, then to try and learn something more about Joscelin Grey. He realized with faint surprise that he knew almost nothing about him, except the manner of his death. Grey's life was as blank an outline as his own, a shadow man, circumscribed by a few
physical facts, without color or substance that could have induced love or hate. And surely there had been hate in whoever had beaten Grey to death, and then gone on hitting and hitting him long after there was any purpose? Was there something in Grey, innocently or knowingly, that had generated such a passion, or was he merely the catalyst of something he knew nothing of—and its victim?
