The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry

money is twelve pounds seven shillings and sixpence
altogether. If he were a thief, it's odd he didn't take that."
    "Perhaps he was frightened—he may have been hurt himself." It
was the only thing he could think of. He motioned Evan to put the box away.
"I suppose we'd better go and have a look at Mecklenburg Square."
    "Yes sir." Evan straightened up to obey. "It's about half
an hour's walk. Are you well enough for it yet?"
    "A couple of miles? For heaven's sake, man, it was my arm I broke,
not both my legs!" He reached sharply for his jacket and hat.
    Evan had been a little optimistic. Against the wind and stepping
carefully to avoid peddlers and groups of fellow travelers on the footpath, and
traffic and horse dung in the streets, it was a good forty minutes before they
reached Mecklenburg Square, walked around the gardens and stopped outside Number
6. The boy sweeping the crossing was busy on the corner of Doughty Street, and
Monk wondered if it was the same one who had been there on that evening in
July. He felt a rush of pity for the child, out in all weather, often with
sleet or snow driving down the funnel of the high buildings, dodging in among
the carriages and drays, shoveling droppings. What an abysmal way to earn your
keep.. Then he was angry with himself— that was stupid and sentimental
nonsense. He must deal with reality. He squared his chest and marched into the
foyer. The porter was standing by a small office doorway, no more than a
cubbyhole.
    "Yes sir?" He moved forward courteously, but at the same time
blocking their further progress.
    "Grimwade?" Monk asked him.
    "Yes sir?" The man was obviously surprised and embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't say as I remember you. I'm not usually bad about
faces—" He let it hang, hoping Monk would help him. He glanced across at
Evan, and a flicker of memory lit in his face.
    "Police," Monk said simply. "We'd like to take another
look at Major Grey's flat. You have the key?"
    The man's relief was very mixed.
    "Oh yes, sir, and we ain't let nobody in. Lock's still as Mr. Lamb
left it."
    "Good, thank you." Monk had been preparing to show some proof of
his identity, but the porter was apparently quite satisfied with his
recognition of Evan, and turned back to his cubbyhole to fetch the key.
    He came with it a moment later and led them upstairs with the solemnity
due the presence of the dead, especially those who had died violently. Monk had
the momentarily unpleasant impression that they would find Joscelin Grey's
corpse still lying there, untouched and waiting for them.
    It was ridiculous, and he shook it off fiercely. It was beginning to
assume the repetitive quality of a nightmare, as if events could happen more
than once.
    "Here we are, sir." Evan was standing at the door, the
porter's key in his hand. "There's a back door as well, of course, from
the kitchen, but it opens onto the same landing, about twelve yards along, for
services, errands, and the like."
    Monk recalled his attention.
    "But one would still have to pass the porter at the gate?"
    "Oh yes, sir. I suppose there's not much point in having a porter
if there's a way in without passing him. Then any beggar or peddler could
bother you." He pulled an extraordinary face as he pondered the habits of
his betters. "Or creditors!" he added lugubriously.
    "Quite." Monk was sardonic.
    Evan turned and put the key in the lock. He seemed reluctant, as if a memory
of the violence he had seen there still clung to the place, repelling him. Or
was Monk projecting his own fancies onto someone else?
    The hallway inside was exactly as Evan had described it: neat, blue
Georgian with white paint and trims, very clean and elegant. He saw the hat
stand with its place for sticks and umbrellas, the table for calling cards and
so forth. Evan was ahead of him, his back stiff, opening the door to the main
room.
    Monk walked in behind him. He was not sure what he was expecting to see;