The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry Page A

his body was tight also, as if waiting for an attack, for something startling
and ugly on the senses.
    The decoration was elegant, and had originally been expensive, but in
the flat light, without gas or fire, it looked bleak and commonplace enough.
The Wedgwood-blue walls seemed at a glance immaculate, the white trims without
scar, but there was a fine rime of dust over the polished wood of the
chiffonier and the desk and a film dulling colors of the carpet. His eyes
traveled automatically to the window first, then around the other furniture—
ornate side table with piecrust edges, a jardiniere with a Japanese bowl on it,
a mahogany bookcase—till he came to the overturned heavy chair, the broken
table, companion to the other, the pale inner wood a sharp scar against its
mellowed satin skin. It looked like an animal with legs in the air.
    Then he saw the bloodstain on the floor. There was not a lot of it, not
widespread at all, but very dark, almost black. Grey must have bled a lot in
that one place. He looked away from it, and noticed then that much of what
seemed pattern on the carpet was probably lighter, spattered blood. On the far
wall there was a picture crooked, and when he walked over to it and looked more
carefully, he saw a bruise in the plaster, and the paint was faintly scarred.
It was a bad watercolor of the Bay of Naples, all harsh blues with a conical
Mount Vesuvius in the background.
    "It must have been a considerable fight," he said quietly.
    "Yes sir," Evan agreed. He was standing in the middle of the
floor, not sure what to do. "There were several bruises on the body, arms
and shoulders, and one knuckle was skinned. I should say he put up a good
fight."
    Monk looked at him, frowning.
    "I don't remember that in the medical report."
    "I think it just said 'evidences of a struggle’, sir. But that's
pretty obvious from the room here, anyway." His eyes glanced around at it
as he spoke. "There's blood on that chair as well." He pointed to the
heavy stuffed one lying on its back. "That's where he was, with his head
on the floor. We're looking for a violent man, sir." He shivered
slightly.
    "Yes." Monk stared around, trying to visualize what must have
happened in this room nearly six weeks ago, the fear and the impact of flesh on
flesh, shadows moving, shadows because he did not know them, furniture crashing
over, glass splintering. Then suddenly it became real, a flash sharper and more
savage than anything his imagination had called up, red moments of rage and
terror, the thrashing stick; then it was gone again, leaving him trembling and
his stomach sick. What in God's name had happened in this room that the echo
of it still hung here, like an agonized ghost, or a beast of prey?
    He turned and walked out, oblivious of Evan behind him, fumbling for the
door. He had to get out of here, into the commonplace and grubby street, the
sound of voices, the demanding present. He was not even sure if Evan followed
him.

 
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    As soon as Monk was out in the street he felt better, but he could not
completely shake the impression that had come to him so violently. For an
instant it had been real enough to bring his body out in hot, drenching sweat,
and then leave him shivering and nauseous at the sheer bestiality of it.
    He put up his hand shakily and felt his wet cheek. There was a hard,
angular rain driving on the wind.
    He turned to see Evan behind him. But if Evan had felt that savage
presence, there was no sign of it in his face. He was puzzled, a little
concerned, but Monk could read no more in him than that.
    "A violent man." Monk repeated Evan's words through stiff
lips.
    "Yes sir," Evan said solemnly, catching up to him. He started
to say something, then changed his mind. "Where are you going to begin,
sir?" he asked instead.
    It was a moment before Monk could collect his thoughts to reply. They
were walking along Doughty Street to Guil-ford Street.
    "Recheck the