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 Squarer and Grimwade. He began at the beginning.
"Yes sir," Grimwade said patiently. "Major Grey came in about quarter after six, or a bit before, and 'e looked 'is usual self to me."
"He came by cab?" Monk wanted to be sure he had not led the man, suggested the answer he wanted.
"Yes sir."
"How do you know? Did you see the cab?"
"Yes sir, I did." Grimwade wavered between nervousness and affront. "Stopped right by the door 'ere; not a night to walk a step as you didn't 'ave to."
"Did you see the cabby?"
" 'Ere, I don't understand what you're getting after." Now the affront was definitely warning.
"Did you see him?" Monk repeated.
Grimwade screwed up his face. "Don't recall as I did," he conceded.
"Did he get down off the box, help Major Grey with a parcel, or a case or anything?"
"Not as I remember; no, 'e didn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes I am sure. 'E never got through that door."
That theory at least was gone. He should have been too old at this to be disappointed, but he had no experience to call on. It seemed to come to him easily enough, but possibly most of it was common sense.
"He went upstairs alone?" He tried a last time, to remove every vestige of doubt.
"Yes sir, 'e did."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Nothing special, as I can think of. I don't remember nothin', so I reckon it can't 'ave bin. 'E never said nothin' about bein' afraid, or as 'e was expecting anyone."
"But there were visitors to the buildings that afternoon and evening?"
"Nobody as would be a-murderin' anyone."
"Indeed?" Monk raised his eyebrows. "You're not suggesting Major Grey did that to himself in some kind of bizarre accident, are you? Or of course there is the other alternative-that the murderer was someone already here?"
Grimwade's face changed rapidly from resignation through extreme offense to blank horror. He stared at Monk, but no words came to his brain.
"You have another idea? I thought not-neither have I." Monk sighed. "So let us think again. You said there were two visitors after Major Grey came in: one woman at about seven o'clock, and a man later on at about quarter to ten. Now, who did the woman come to see, Mr. Grim-wade, and what did she look like? And please, no cosmetic alterations for the sake of discretion!"
"No wot?"
"Tell me the truth, man!" Monk snapped. "It could become very embarrassing for your tenants if we have to investigate it for ourselves."
Grimwade glared at him, but he took the point perfectly.
"A local lady of pleasure, sir; called Mollie Ruggles," he said between his teeth. " 'Andsome piece, with red 'air. I know where she lives, but I expec' you understand it would come real gratify in' if you could see your way clear to bein' discreet about 'oo told yef she was 'ere?" His expression was comical in its effort to expunge his dislike and look appealing.
Monk hid a sour amusement-it would only alienate the man.
"I will," he agreed. It would be in his own interest also. Prostitutes could be useful informants, if well treated. "Who did she come to see?"
"Mr. Taylor, sir; 'e lives in flat number five. She comes to see 'im quite reg'lar."
"And it was definitely her?"
"Yes sir."
"Did you take her to Mr. Taylor's door?"
"Oh no, sir. Reckon as she knows 'er way by now. And Mr. Taylor-well…" He hunched his shoulders. "It wouldn't be tactful, now would it, sir? Not as I suppose you 'as ter be tactful, in your callin'!" he added meaningfully.
"No." Monk smiled slightly. "So you didn't leave your position when she came?"
"No sir."
"Any other women come, Mr. Grimwade?" He looked at him very directly.
Grimwade avoided his eyes.
"Do I have to make my own inquiries?" Monk threatened. "And leave detectives here to follow people?"
Grimwade was shocked. His head came up sharply.
"You wouldn't do that, sir! They're gentlemen as lives 'ere! They'd leave. They won't put up with that kind o' thing!"
"Then don't make it necessary."
"You're an 'ard man, Mr. Monk." But there was a grudging respect behind the grievance in his voice. That was small victory in itself.
"I want to find the man who killed Major Grey," Monk answered him. "Someone came into these buildings, found his way upstairs into that flat and beat Major Grey with a stick, over and over until he was dead, and then went on beating him afterwards." He saw Grimwade wincing, and felt the revulsion himself. He remembered the horror he had felt when actually standing in the room. Did walls retain memory? Could violence or hatred remain in the air after a deed was finished, and touch the sensitive, the imaginative with a shadow of the horror?
No, that was ridiculous. It was not the imaginative, but the nightmare-ridden who felt such things. He was letting his own fear, the horror of his still occasionally recurring dreams and the hollowness of his past extend into the present and warp his judgment. Let a little more time pass, a little more identity build, learn to know himself, and he would grow firmer memories in reality. His sanity would come back; he would have a past to root himself in, other emotions, and people.
Or could it be-could it possibly be that it was some sort of mixed, dreamlike, distorted recollection coming back to him? Could he be recalling snatches of the pain and fear he must have felt when the coach turned over on him, throwing him down, imprisoning him, the scream of terror as the horse fell, the cab driver flung headlong, crushed to death on the stones of the street? He must have known violent fear, and in the instant before unconsciousness, have felt sharp, even blinding pain as his bones broke. Was that what he had sensed? Had it been nothing to do with Grey at all, but his own memory returning, just a flash, a sensation, the fierceness of the feeling long before the clarity of actual perception came back?
He must learn more of himself, what he had been doing that night, where he was going, or had come from. What manner of man had he been, whom had he cared for, whom wronged, or whom owed? What had mattered to him? Every man had relationships, every man had feelings, even hungers; every man who was alive at all stirred some sort of passions in others. There must be people somewhere who had feelings about him-more than professional rivalry and resentment-surely? He could not have been so negative, of so little purpose that his whole life had left no mark on another soul.