Then it was gone. He fought to add to it, focus it more sharply and see the details again, but nothing else came.
He was an adult back in Shelburne, with the murder of Joscelin Grey.
He waited for another quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Lord Shelburne came in. He was about thirty-eight or forty, heavier of build than Joscelin Grey, to judge by the description and the clothes; but Monk wondered if Joscelin had also had that air of confidence and slight, even unintentional superiority. He was darker than his mother and the balance of his face was different, sensible, without a jot of humor in the mouth.
Monk rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy-and hated himself for doing it.
"You're the police fellow?" Shelburne said with a slight frown. He remained standing, so Monk was obliged to also. "Well, what is it you want? I really can't imagine how anything I can tell you about my brother could help you find the lunatic who broke in and killed him, poor devil."
"No one broke in, sir," Monk corrected him. "Whoever it was, Major Grey gave entrance to him himself."
"Really?" The level brows rose a fraction. "I find that very unlikely."
"Then you are not acquainted with the facts, sir.'' Monk was irked by the condescension and the arrogance of a man who presumed to know Monk's job better than he did, simply because he was a gentleman. Had he always found it so hard to bear? Had he been quick-tempered? Runcorn had said something about lack of diplomacy, but he could not remember what it was now. His mind flew back to the church the day before, to the woman who had hesitated as she passed him down the aisle. He could see her face as sharply here at Shelburne as he had then; the rustle of taffeta, the faint, almost imaginary perfume, the widening of her eyes. It was a memory that made his heart beat faster and excitement catch in his throat.
"I know my brother was beaten to death by a lunatic." Shelburne's voice cut across him, scattering his thoughts. "And you haven't caught him yet. Those are facts!"
Monk forced his attention to the present.
"With respect, sir." He tried to choose his words with tact. "We know that he was beaten to death. We do not know by whom, or why; but there were no marks of forced entry, and the only person unaccounted for who could possibly have entered the building appears to have visited someone else. Whoever attacked Major Grey took great care about the way he did it, and so far as we know, did not steal anything."
"And you deduce from that that it was someone he knew?" Shelburne was skeptical.
"That, and the violence of the crime," Monk agreed, standing across the room from him so he could see Shel-burne's face in the light. "A simple burglar does not go on hitting his victim long after he is quite obviously dead."
Shelburne winced. "Unless he is a madman! Which was rather my point. You are dealing with a madman, Mr.- er." He could not recall Monk's name and did not wait for it to be offered. It was unimportant. "I think there's scant chance of your catching him now. You would probably be better employed stopping muggings, or pickpockets, or whatever it is you usually do."
Monk swallowed his temper with difficulty, "Lady Shelburne seems to disagree with you."
Lovel Grey was unaware of having been rude; one could not be rude to a policeman.
"Mama?" His face flickered for an instant with unaccustomed emotion, which quickly vanished and left his features smooth again. "Oh, well; women feel these things. I am afraid she has taken Joscelin's death very hard, worse than if he'd been killed in the Crimea." It appeared to surprise him slightly.
"It's natural," Monk persisted, trying a different approach. "I believe he was a very charming person-and well liked?"
Shelburne was leaning against the mantelpiece and his boots shone in the sun falling wide through the French window. Irritably he kicked them against the brass fender.
"Joscelin? Yes, I suppose he was. Cheerful sort of fellow, always smiling. Gifted with music, and telling stories, that kind of thing. I know my wife was very fond of him. Great pity, and so pointless, just some bloody madman." He shook his head. "Hard on Mother."
"Did he come down here often?" Monk sensed a vein more promising.
"Oh, every couple of months or so. Why?" He looked up. "Surely you don't think someone followed him from here?"
"Every possibility is worth looking into, sir." Monk leaned his weight a little against the sideboard. "Was he here shortly before he was killed?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact he was; couple of weeks, or less. But I think you are mistaken. Everyone here had known him for years, and they all liked him." A shadow crossed his face. "Matter of fact, I think he was pretty well the servants' favorite. Always had a pleasant word, you know; remembered people's names, even though he hadn't lived here for years."
Monk imagined it: the solid, plodding older brother, worthy but boring; the middle brother still an outline only; and the youngest, trying hard and finding that charm could bring him what birth did not, making people laugh, unbending the formality, affecting an interest in the servants' lives and families, winning small treats for himself that his brothers did not-and his mother's love.
"People can hide hatred, sir," Monk said aloud. "And they usually do, if they have murder in mind."
"I suppose they must," Lovel conceded, straightening up and standing with his back to the empty fireplace. "Still, I think you're on the wrong path. Look for some lunatic in London, some violent burglar; there must be loads of them. Don't you have contacts, people who inform to the police? Why don't you try them?"
"We have, sir-exhaustively. Mr. Lamb, my predecessor, spent weeks combing every possibility in that direction. It was the first place to look." He changed the subject suddenly, hoping to catch him less guarded. "How did Major Grey finance himself, sir? We haven't uncovered any business interest yet.''
"What on earth do you want to know that for?" Lovel was startled. "You cannot imagine he had the sort of business rivals who would beat him to death with a stick! That's ludicrous!"
"Someone did."
He wrinkled his face with distaste. "I had not forgotten that! I really don't know what his business interests were. He had a small allowance from the estate, naturally."
"How much, sir?"
"I hardly think that needs to concern you." Now the irritation was back; his aifairs had been trespassed upon by a policeman. Again his boot kicked absently at the fender behind him.
"Of course it concerns me, sir." Monk had command of his temper now. He was in control of the conversation, and he had a direction to pursue. "Your brother was murdered, probably by someone who knew him. Money may well come into it; it is one of the commonest motives for murder."
Lovel looked at him without replying.
Monk waited.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Lovel said at last. "Four hundred pounds a year-and of course there was his army pension."
To Monk it sounded a generous amount; one could run a very good establishment and keep a wife and family, with two maids, for less than a thousand pounds. But possibly Joscelin Grey's tastes had been a good deal more extravagant: clothes, clubs, horses, gambling, perhaps women, or at least presents for women. They had not so far explored his social circle, still believing it to have been an intruder from the streets, and Grey a victim of ill fortune rather than someone of his own acquaintance.
"Thank you," he replied to Lord Shelburne. "You know of no other?"
"My brother did not discuss his financial affairs with me."
“You say your wife was fond of him? Would it be possible for me to speak to Lady Shelburne, please? He may have said something to her the last time he was here that could help us."