Page 21 of The Face of a Stranger (William Monk 1)

He looked up at the constable.

"Thank you," he said with a smile. "It might well be-right initials. What do you know about it?"

The constable blushed scarlet. "Nufflnk much, Mr. Monk. 'E swears blind as it was one of 'is reg'lars as brought it in. But you can't believe anyfink 'e says 'cause 'e would say that, wouldn't 'e? He don't want ter be mixed up in no murder."

Monk glanced at the paper again. The pawnbroker's name and address were there and he could follow up on it any time he chose.

"No, he'd doubtless lie," he agreed. "But we might learn something all the same, if we can prove this was Grey's watch. Thank you—very observant of you. May I keep it?"

"Yes sir. We don't need it; we 'as lots more agin 'im." Now his furious pink color was obviously pleasure, and considerable surprise. He still stood rooted to the spot.

"Was there anything else?" Monk raised his eyebrows.

"No sir! No there in't. Thank you, sir." And the constable turned on his heel and marched out, tripping on the doorsill as he went and rocketing out into the passage.

Almost immediately the door was opened again by a wiry sergeant with a black mustache.

"You o'right, sir?" he asked, seeing Monk's frown.

"Yes. What's the matter with—er." He waved his hand towards the departing figure of the constable, wishing desperately that he knew the man's name.

" 'Arrison?"

"Yes."

"Nothin'—just afeared of you, that's all. Which in't 'ardly surprisin', seein' as 'ow you tore 'im off such a strip in front o' the 'ole station, w'en that macer slipped through 'is fingers—which weren't 'ardly 'is fault, seein' as the feller were a downright contortionist. 'Arder to 'old then a greased pig, 'e were. An' if we'd broke 'is neck we'd be the ones for the 'igh jump before breakfast!"

Monk was confused. He did not know what to say. Had he been unjust to the man, or was there cause for whatever he had said? On the face of it, it sounded as if he had been gratuitously cruel, but he was hearing only one side of the story—there was no one to defend him, to explain, to give his reasons and say what he knew and perhaps they did not.

And rack and tear as he might, there was nothing in his

mind, not even Harrison's face—let alone some shred about the incident.

He felt a fool sitting staring up at the critical eyes of the sergeant, who plainly disliked him, for what he felt was fair cause.

Monk ached to explain himself! Even more he wanted to know for his own understanding. How many incidents would come up like this, things he had done that seemed ugly from the outside, to someone who did not know his side of the story?

"Mr. Monk, sir?"

Monk recalled his attention quickly. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Thought you might like to know as we got the mags-man wot snuffed ol' Billy Marlowe. They'll swing 'im for sure. Right villain."

"Oh—thank you. Well done." He had no idea what the sergeant was talking about, but obviously he was expected to. "Very well done," he added.

"Thank you, sir." The sergeant straightened up, then turned and left, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.

Monk bent to his work again.

* * * * *

An hour later he left the police station and walked slowly along the dark, wet pavements and found the way back to Grafton Street.

Mrs. Worley's rooms were at least becoming familiar. He knew where to find things, and better than that, they offered privacy: no one would disturb him, intrude on his time to think, to try again to find some thread.

After his meal of mutton

stew and dumplings, which were hot and filling, if a little heavy, he thanked Mrs. Worley when she collected the tray, saw her down the stairs, and then began once more to go through the desk. The bills were of little use; he could hardly go to his tailor and say "What kind of man am I? What do I care about? Do you like, or dislike me, and why?" One small comfort he could draw from his accounts was that he appeared to