Free The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry Page A

himself half in Scarsdale's way. "I need certain information from you
now."
    "Well I haven't any—" Scarsdale began, retreating as if to
close the door.
    Monk stepped forward. "For example, the name of the
    young woman who visited you the evening Major Grey was killed, and why
you lied to us about her."
    It had the result Monk had wished. Scarsdale stopped dead. He fumbled
for words, trying to decide whether to bluff it out or attempt a little late
conciliation. Monk watched him with contempt.
    "I—er," Scarsdale began. "I—think you have misunderstood—er
. . ."He still had not made the decision.
    Monk's face tightened. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it
somewhere more discreet than the hallway?" He looked towards the stairs,
and the landing where other doorways led off—including Grey's.
    "Yes—yes I suppose so." Scarsdale was now acutely
uncomfortable, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. "Although I really
cannot tell you anything germane to the issue, you know." He backed into
his own entranceway and Monk followed. "The young lady who visited me has
no connection with poor Grey, and she neither saw nor heard anyone else!"
    Monk closed the main door, then followed him into the sitting room.
    "Then you asked her, sir?" He allowed his face to register
interest.
    "Yes, of course I did!" Scarsdale was beginning to regain his
composure, now that he was among his own possessions. The gas was lit and
turned up; it glowed gently on polished leather, old Turkey carpet and
silver-framed photographs. He was a gentleman, facing a mere member of Peel's
police. "Naturally, if there had been anything that could have assisted
you in your work, I should have told you." He used the word work with
a vague condescension, a mark of the gulf between them. He did not invite Monk
to sit, and remained standing himself, rather awkwardly between the sideboard
and the sofa.
    "And this young lady, of course, is well known to you?" Monk
did not try to keep his own sarcastic contempt out of his voice.
    Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult
    or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing.
He chose the latter.
    "I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly.
    "You can vouch for her truthfulness," Monk elaborated, his
eyes meeting Scarsdale's with a bitter smile. "Apart from her . . . work" —he
deliberately chose the same word—"she is a person of perfect
probity?"
    Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of
cooperation from him.
    "You exceed your authority!" Scarsdale snapped. "And you
are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue,
or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors." He looked at Monk
and decided this was not a good idea. "The woman in question has no reason
to lie," he said stiffly. "She came up alone and left alone, and saw
no one at either time, except Grim-wade, the porter; and you can ascertain that
from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know."
He sniffed very slightly. "This is not a common rooming house!" His
eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.
    "Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer,"
Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale's face.
    Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps
bigoted, but he was not stupid.
    Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.
    "You are a gentleman of similar social standing"—he winced
inwardly at his own hypocrisy—"and an immediate neighbor of Major Grey's;
you must be able to tell me something about him personally. I know
nothing."
    Scarsdale was happy enough to change the subject, and in spite of his
irritation, flattered.
    "Yes, of course," he agreed quickly. "Nothing at
all?"
    "Nothing at all," Monk conceded.
    "He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?"
Scarsdale's eyes widened, and at last he walked
    to the