The Face of a Stranger

'Why sir, I discovered who he was.'

'What?' Monk did not dare to believe. The room was singing around him, bubbling with excitement. In an instant this funny little man was going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible, dazzling.

'I discovered who he was,' Yeats repeated. 'I knew I should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought-'

The moment of paralysis was broken.

'Who?' Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. 'Who was it?'

Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.

“Who was it?'' Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his own voice was rising to a shout.

'Why-why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it-is it important, Mr. Monk?'

Monk was stunned.

'Bartholomew Stubbs?' he repeated foolishly.

'Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I thought I would ask him.' His hands fluttered. 'I was quite shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that because my friend was there also.' He moved from one foot to the other in his agitation. 'He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs's arrival, because the first speaker had just commenced his address.'

Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen leaving later?

“Did-did he remain at the temperance meeting all evening?' he asked desperately.

'No sir.' Yeats shook his head. 'He only went there to meet my friend, who is also a collector, a very learned one-'

'He left!' Monk seized on it.

'Yes sir.' Yeats danced around in his anxiety, his hands jerking to and fro. 'I am trying to tell you! They left together and went to get some supper-'

'Together?'

'Yes sir. I am afraid, Mr. Monk, Mr. Stubbs could not have been the one to have so dreadfully attacked poor Major Grey.'

'No.' Monk was too shaken, too overwhelmingly disappointed to move. He did not know where to start again.

'Are you quite well, Mr. Monk?' Yeats asked tentatively. 'I am so sorry. Perhaps I really should have told you earlier, but I did not think it would be important, since he was not guilty.'

'No-no, never mind,' Monk said almost under his breath. 'I understand.'

'Oh, I'm so glad. I thought perhaps I was in error.'

Monk muttered something polite, probably meaningless-he did not want to be unkind to the little man-and made his way out onto the landing again. He was hardly aware of going down the stairs, nor did he register the drenching weight of the rain when he passed Grimwade and went outside into the street with its gaslight and swirling gutters.

He began to walk, blindly, and it was not until he was spattered with mud and a cab wheel missed him by less than a foot that he realized he was on Doughty Street.

' 'Ere!' the cabby shouted at him. 'Watch w'ere yer going', guv! Yer want ter get yerself killed?'

Monk stopped, staring up at him. 'You occupied?'

'No guv. Yer want ter go somewhere? Mebbe yer'd better, afore yer get someb'dy into a haccident.'

'Yes,' Monk accepted, still without moving.

'Well come on then,' the cabby said sharply, leaning forward to peer at him. 'Not a night fer man ner beast ter be out in, it ain't. Mate o' mine were killed on a night like this, poor sod. 'Orse bolted and 'is cab turned over. Killed, 'e were. 'It 'is 'ead on the curb an' 'e died, jes' like that. And 'is fare were all smashed abaht too, but they say as 'e were o'right, in the end. Took 'im orf ter 'orspital, o' course. 'Ere, are yer goin' ter stand there all night, guv? Come on now, either get in, or don't; but make up yer mind!'

'This friend of yours.' Monk's voice was distorted, as if from far away. 'When was he killed, when was this accident, exactly?'

'July it were, terrible weather fer July. Wicked night.

'Ailstorm wot lay like snow. Swear ter Gawd-I don't know wot the wevver's comin' ter.'

'What date in July?' Monk's whole body was cold, and idiotically calm.

'Come on now, sir?' the cabby wheedled, as one does a drunk or a recalcitrant animal. 'Get in aht o' the rain. It's shockin' wet aht there. Yer'll catch yer death.'

'What date?'

'I fink as it were the fourf. Why? We ain't goin' ter 'ave no haccident ternight, I promises yer. I'll be as careful as if you was me muwer. Jus' make up yer mind, sir!'

'Did you know him well?'

'Yes sir, 'e were a good mate o' mine. Did yer know 'im too, sir? Yer live 'rahnd 'ere, do yer? 'E used ter work this patch all ve time. Picked up 'is last fare 'ere, right in vis street, accordin' ter 'is paper. Saw 'im vat very night meself, I did. Nah is yer comin', sir, or ain't yer? 'Cos I 'aven't got all night. I reckon w'en yer goes a henjoyin' yerself, yer oughter take someone wiv yer. Yer in't safe.'

On this street. The cabby had picked him, Monk, up on this street, less than a hundred yards from Mecklenburg Square, on the night Joscelin Grey was murdered. What had he been doing here? Why?

'Yer sick, sir?' The cabby's voice changed; he was suddenly concerned. ' 'Ere, yer ain't 'ad one too many?' He climbed down off his box and opened the cab door.

'No, no I'm quite well.' Monk stepped up and inside obediently and the cabby muttered something to himself about gentlemen whose families should take better care of them, stepped back up onto the box and slapped the reins over his horse's back.

As soon as they arrived at Grafton Street Monk paid the cabby and hurried inside.

'Mrs. Worley!'

Silence.

'Mrs. Worley!' His voice was hard, hoarse.

She came out, rubbing her hands dry on her apron.

'Oh my heavens, you are wet. You'd like an 'ot drink.

You'll 'ave to change them clothes; you've let yourself get soaked through! What 'ave you bin thinking of?'

'Mrs. Worley.'

The tone of his voice stopped her.

'Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Monk? You look proper poorly.'

'I-' The words were slow, distant. 'I can't find a stick in my room, Mrs. Worley. Have you seen it?'

'No, Mr. Monk, I 'aven't, although what you're thinking about sticks for on a night like this, I'm sure I don't know. What you need is an umbrella.'

'Have you seen it?'

She stood there in front of him, square and motherly. 'Not since you 'ad yer haccident, I 'aven't. You mean that dark reddish brown one with the gold chain like 'round the top as yer bought the day afore? Proper 'andsome it were, although wot yer want one like that fer, I'll never know. I do 'ope as you 'aven't gorn and lorst it. If yer did, it must 'a' bin in yer haccident. You 'ad it with yer, 'cos I remember plain as day. Proud of it. Proper dandy, yer was.'

There was a roaring in Monk's ears, shapeless and immense. Through the darkness one thought was like a brilliant stab of light, searingly painful. He had been in Grey's flat the night he was killed; he had left his own stick there in the hall stand. He himself was the man with the gray eyes whom Grimwade had seen leaving at half past ten. He must have gone in when Grimwade was showing Bartholomew Stubbs up to Yeats's door.

There was only one conclusion-hideous and senseless-but the only one left. God knew why, but he himself had killed Joscelin Grey.