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Monk was obliged to go back to the Grey case, although both Imogen Latterly, with her haunting eyes, and Hester, with her anger and intelligence, intruded into his thoughts. Concentration was almost beyond him, and he had to drive himself even to think of its details and try to make patterns from the amorphous mass of facts and suppositions they had so far.
He sat in his office with Evan, reviewing the growing amount of it, but it was all inconclusive of any fact, negative and not positive. No one had broken in, therefore Grey had admitted his murderer himself; and if he had admitted him, then he had been unaware of any reason to fear him. It was not likely he would invite in a stranger at that time in the evening, so it was more probably someone he knew, and who hated him with an intense but secret violence.
Or did Grey know of the hatred, but feel himself safe from it? Did he believe that person powerless to injure, either for an emotional reason, or a physical? Even that answer was still beyond him.
The description both Yeats and Grimwade had given of the only visitor unaccounted for did not fit Lovel Grey, but it was so indistinct that it hardly mattered. If Rosamond Grey's child was Joscelin's, and not Lovel's, that could be reason enough for murder; especially if Joscelin himself knew it and perhaps had not been averse to keeping Lovel reminded. It would not be the first time a cruel tongue, the mockery at pain or impotence had ended in an uncontrolled rage.
Evan broke into his thoughts, almost as if he had read them.
"Do you suppose Shelburne killed Joscelin himself?" He was frowning, his face anxious, his wide eyes clouded. He had no need to fear for his own career—the establishment, even the Shelburnes, would not blame him for a scandal. Was he afraid for Monk? It was a warm thought.
Monk looked up at him.
"Perhaps not. But if he paid someone else, they would have been cleaner and more efficient about it, and less violent. Professionals don't beat a man to death; they usually either stab him or garrote him, and not in his own house."
Evan's delicate mouth turned down at the corners. "You mean an attack in the street, follow him to a quiet spot— and all over in a moment?"
"Probably; and leave the body in an alley where it won't be found too soon, preferably out of his own area. That way there would be less to connect them with the victim, and less of a risk of their being recognized."
"Perhaps he was in a hurry?" Evan suggested. "Couldn't wait for the right time and place?" He leaned back a little in his chair and tilted the legs.
"What hurry?" Monk shrugged. "No hurry if it was Shelburne, not if it were over Rosamond anyway. Couldn't matter a few days, or even a few weeks."
"No." Evan looked gloomy. He allowed the front legs of the chair to settle again. "I don't know how we begin to prove anything, or even where to look."
"Find out where Shelburne was at the time Grey was killed," Monk answered. "I should have done that before."
"Oh, I asked the servants, in a roundabout way." Evan's face was surprised, and there was a touch of satisfaction in it he could not conceal.
"And?" Monk asked quickly. He would not spoil Evan's pleasure.
“He was away from Shelburne; they were told he came to town for dinner. I followed it up. He was at the dinner all right, and spent the night at his club, off Tavistock Place. It would have been difficult for him to have been in Mecklenburg Square at the right time, because he might easily have been missed, but not at all impossible. If he'd gone along Compton Street, right down Hunter Street, 'round Brunswick Square and Lansdowne Place, past the Foundling Hospital, up Caroline Place—and he was there. Ten minutes at the outside, probably less. He'd have been gone at least three quarters of an hour, counting the fight with Grey—and returning. But he could have done it on foot—easily."
Monk smiled; Evan deserved praise and he was glad to give it.
"Thank you. I ought to have done that myself. It might even have been less time, if the quarrel was an old one-say ten minutes each way, and five minutes for the fight. That's not long for a man to be out of sight at a club."
Evan looked down, a faint color in his face. He was smiling.
"It doesn't get us any further," he pointed out ruefully. "It could have been Shelburne, or it could have been anyone else. I suppose we shall have to investigate every other family he could have blackmailed? That should make us rather less popular than the ratman. Do you think it was Shelburne, sir, and we'll just never prove it?"
Monk stood up.
"I don't know but I'm damned if it'll be for lack of trying." He was thinking of Joscelin Grey in the Crimea, seeing the horror of slow death by starvation, cold and disease, the blinding incompetence of commanders sending men to be blown to bits by enemy guns, the sheer
stultifying of it all; feeling fear and physical pain, exhaustion, certainly pity, shown by his brief ministrations to the dying in Scutari—all while Lovel stayed at home in his great hall, marrying Rosamond, adding money to money, comfort to comfort.
Monk strode to the door. Injustice ached in him like a gathering boil, angry and festering. He pulled the handle sharply and jerked it open.
"Sir!" Evan half rose to his feet.
Monk turned.
Evan did not know the words, how to phrase the warning urgent inside him. Monk could see it in his face, the wide hazel eyes, the sensitive mouth.
"Don't look so alarmed," he said quietly, pushing the door to again. "I'm going back to Grey's flat. I remember a photograph of his family there. Shelburne was in it, and Menard Grey. I want to see if Grimwade or Yeats recognize either of them. Do you want to come?"
Evan's face ironed out almost comically with relief. He smiled in spite of himself.
