Free The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry

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 wait 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?
    He went back outside into the square and found a seat from which he
could see the entrance of Number 6.
    It was more than an hour before Scarsdale arrived, and already beginning
to get darker and colder, but Monk was compelled by the importance it had for
him to wait.
    He saw him arrive on foot, and followed a few paces after him, inquiring
from Grimwade in the hall if it was indeed Scarsdale.
    "Yes sir," Grimwade said reluctantly, but Monk was not
interested in the porter's misfortunes.
    "D' yer need me ter take yer up?"
    "No thank you; I'll find it." And he took the stairs two at a
time and arrived on the landing just as the door was closing. He strode across
from the stair head and knocked briskly. There was a second's hesitation, then
the door opened. He explained his identity and his errand tersely.
    Scarsdale was not pleased to see him. He was a small, wiry man whose
handsomest feature was his fair mustache, not matched by slightly receding
hair and undistinguished features. He was smartly, rather fussily dressed.
    "I'm sorry, I can't see you this evening," he said brusquely.
"I have to change to go out for dinner. Call again tomorrow, or the next
day."
    Monk was the bigger man, and in no mood to be summarily dismissed.
    "I have other people to call on tomorrow," he said, placing