Read Online The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

right."
    "How about earlier?"
    "Only wot goes inter Number Six, like?"
    "Yes."
    He shut his eyes in deep concentration, trying to be obliging; there
might be another twopence. "One of ve gennelmen wot lives hi Number Six
came 'ome wiv another gent, little feller wiv one o' vem collars wot looks
like fur, but all curly."
    "Astrakhan?" Monk offered.
    "I dunno wot yer calls it. Anyway, 'e went in abaht six, an' I
never sawed 'im come aht. Vat any 'elp to yer, guv?"
    "It might be. Thank you very much." Monk spoke to him with all
seriousness, gave him another penny, to Evan's surprise, and watched him step
blithely off into the thoroughfare, dodging in between traffic, and take up his
duties again.
    Evan's face was brooding, thoughtful, but whether on the boy's answers
or his means of livelihood, Monk did not ask.
    "The ribbon seller's not here today." Evan looked up and down
the Guilford Street footpath. "Who do you want to try next?"
    Monk thought for a moment. "How do we find the cabby? I presume we
have an address for him?"
    "Yes sir, but I doubt he'd be there now."
    Monk turned to face the drizzling east wind. "Not unless he's
ill," he agreed. "Good evening for trade. No one will walk in this
weather if they can ride." He was pleased with that—it sounded
intelligent, and it was the
    merest common sense. "We'll send a message and have him call at the
police station. I don't suppose he can add anything to what he's already said
anyway." He smiled sarcastically. "Unless, of course, he killed Grey
himself!"
    Evan stared at him, his eyes wide, unsure for an instant whether he was
joking or not. Then Monk suddenly found he was not sure himself. There was no
reason to believe the cabby. Perhaps there had been heated words between them,
some stupid quarrel, possibly over nothing more important than the fere. Maybe
the man had followed Grey upstairs, carrying a case or a parcel for him, seen
the flat, the warmth, the space, the ornaments, and in a fit of envy become
abusive. He may even have been drunk; he would not be the first cabby to
bolster himself against cold, rain and long hours a little too generously. God
help them, enough of them died of bronchitis or consumption anyway.
    Evan was still looking at him, not entirely sure.
    Monk spoke his last thoughts aloud.
    "We must check with the porter that Grey actually entered alone.
He might easily have overlooked a cabby carrying baggage, invisible, like a
postman; we become so used to them, the eye sees but the mind doesn't register."
    "It's possible." Belief was strengthening in Evan's voice.
"He could have set up the mark for someone else, noted addresses or
wealthy fares, likely-looking victims for someone. Could be a well-paying
sideline?"
    "Could indeed." Monk was getting chilled standing on the curb.
"Not as good as a sweep's boy for scouting the inside of a house, but
better for knowing when the victim is out. If that was his idea, he certainly
mistook Grey." He shivered. "Perhaps we'd better call on him rather than
send a message; it might make him nervous. It's late; we'll have a bit of lunch
at the local public house, and see what the gossip is. Then you can go back to
the station this afternoon and find out if anything is known about this cabby,
what sort of reputation he has—if we know him, for example, and who his
associates are. I'll try the porter again, and if possible some of the
neighbors."
    The local tavern turned out to be a pleasant, noisy place which served
them ale and a sandwich with civility, but something of a wary eye, knowing
them to be strangers and perhaps guessing from their clothes that they were
police. One or two ribald comments were offered, but apparently Grey had not
patronized the place and there was no particular sympathy for him, only the
communal interest in the macabre that murder always wakens.
    Afterwards Evan went back to the police station, and Monk
returned to Mecklenburg Square r and