Yeats was watching him like a rabbit seeing a stoat, and too horrified to move.
"You yourself had a visitor that night," Monk told him quite gently. "Who was he?"
"I don't know!" Yeats's voice was high, almost a squeak. "I don't know who he was! I told Mr. Lamb that! He came here by mistake; he didn't even really want me!"
Monk found himself holding up his hand, trying to calm him as one would with an overexcited child, or an animal.
"But you saw him, Mr. Yeats." He kept his voice low. "No doubt you have some memory of his appearance, perhaps his voice? He must have spoken to you?" Whether Yeats was lying or not, he would achieve nothing by attacking his statement now; Yeats would only entrench himself more and more deeply into his ignorance.
Yeats blinked.
"I-I really can hardly say, Mr.-Mr.-"
"Monk-I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or small?"
"Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad night-wet-terribly."
"Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?" Monk stood up helpfully.
Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same, as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head unhappily.
Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.
"He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested, still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death." He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks, does it not?"
Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.
"You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.
"Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any thought of social arrogance-or involvement. “Only to pass the time of day, you understand? But he was very civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."
"And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you said."
"Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."
"And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"
Yeats looked surprised.
"He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business, you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or another."
"He was English then?"
“I beg your pardon?''
"He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known, even had he been in the business?"
"Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was English."
"And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"
"I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air. "He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''
"I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."
"Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled inside him and he slid backwards and down into his chair. Behind Monk, Evan moved as if to help, then changed his mind and sat down again.
"That surprises you?" Monk inquired.
Yeats was gasping, beyond speech.
"Are you sure this man was not known to you?" Monk persisted, giving him no time to regather his thoughts. This was the time to press.
"Yes, yes I am. Quite unknown." He covered his face with his hands. "Oh my dear heaven!"
Monk stared at Yeats. The man was useless now, either reduced to abject horror, or else very skillfully affecting to be. He turned and looked at Evan. Evan's face was stiff with embarrassment, possibly for their presence and their part in the man's wretchedness, possibly merely at being witness to it.
Monk stood up and heard his own voice far away. He knew he was risking a mistake, and that he was doing it because of Evan.
"Thank you, Mr. Yeats. I'm sorry for distressing you. Just one more thing: was this man carrying a stick?"
Yeats looked up, his face sickly pale; his voice was no more than a whisper.
"Yes, quite a handsome one; I noticed it."
"Heavy or light?"
"Oh heavy, quite heavy. Oh no!" He shut his eyes, screwing them up to hide even his imagination.
"There is no need for you to be frightened, Mr. Yeats," Evan said from behind. "We believe he was someone who knew Major Grey personally, not a chance lunatic. There is no reason to suppose he would have harmed you. I daresay he was looking for Major Grey in the first place and found the wrong door."
It was not until they were outside that Monk realized Evan must have said it purely to comfort the little man. It could not have been true. The visitor had asked for Yeats by name. He looked sideways at Evan, now walking silently beside him in the drizzling rain. He made no remark on it.
Grimwade had proved no further help. He had not seen the man come down after leaving Yeats's door, nor seen him go to Joscelin Grey's. He had taken the opportunity to attend the call of nature, and then had seen the man leave at a quarter past ten, three quarters of an hour later.
"There's only one conclusion," Evan said unhappily, striding along with his head down. "He must have left
Yeats's door and gone straight along the hallway to Grey, spent half an hour or so with him, then killed him, and left when Grimwade saw him go."
"Which doesn't tell us who he was," Monk said, stepping across a puddle and passing a cripple selling bootlaces. A rag and bone cart trundled by, its driver calling out almost unintelligibly in a singsong voice. "I keep coming back to the one thing," Monk resumed. "Why did anyone hate Joscelin Grey so much? There was a passion of hate in that room. Someone hated him so uncontrollably he couldn't stop beating him even after he was dead."
Evan shivered and the rain ran off his nose and chin. He pulled his collar up closer around his ears and his face was pale.
"Mr. Runcorn was right," he said miserably. "It's going to be extremely nasty. You have to know someone very well to hate them as much as that."
"Or have been mortally wronged," Monk added. "But you're probably right; it'll be in the family, these things usually are. Either that, or a lover somewhere."
Evan looked shocked. "You mean Grey was-?"
"No." Monk smiled with a sharp downward twist. "That wasn't what I meant, although I suppose it's possible; in fact it's distinctly possible. But I was thinking of a woman, with a husband perhaps."
Evan's faced relaxed a fraction.
"I suppose it's too violent for a simple debt, gambling or something?" he said without much hope.
Monk thought for a moment.
"Could be blackmail," he suggested with genuine belief. The idea had only just occurred to him seriously, but he liked it.
Evan frowned. They were walking south along Grey's Inn Road.
"Do you think so?" He looked sideways at Monk. "Doesn't ring right to me. And we haven't found any unaccounted income yet. Of course, we haven't really looked. And blackmail victims can be driven to a very deep hatred indeed, for which I cannot entirely blame them. When a man has been tormented, stripped of all he has, and then is still threatened with ruin, mere comes a point when reason breaks."
"We'll have to check on the social company he kept," Monk replied. "Who might have made mistakes damaging enough to be blackmailed over, to the degree that ended in murder."