The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry

early Georgian mansion
three stories high, with a handsome frontage, now covered in places by vines
and creepers, and approached by a sweeping carriageway under beech trees and
cedars that dotted a parkland which seemed to stretch towards distant fields,
and presumably the home farm.
    Monk stood in the gateway and looked for several minutes. The grace of
proportion, the way it ornamented rather
    than intruded upon the landscape, were all not only extremely pleasing
but also perhaps indicative of something in the nature of the people who had
been born here and grown up in such a place.
    Finally he began walking up the considerable distance to the
house itself, a further third of a mile, and went around past the outhouses and
stables to the servants' entrance. He was received by a rather impatient
footman.
    "We don't buy at the door," he said coldly, looking at Monk's
case.
    "I don't sell," Monk replied with more tartness than he had
intended. "I am from the Metropolitan Police. Lady Shelburne wished a
report on the progress we have made in investigating the death of Major Grey. I
have come to give that report."
    The footman's eyebrows went up.
    "Indeed? That would be the Dowager Lady Shelburne. Is she expecting
you?"
    "Not that I know of. Perhaps you would tell her I am here."
    "I suppose you'd better come in." He opened the door somewhat
reluctantly. Monk stepped in, then without further explanation the man
disappeared, leaving Monk in the back hallway. It was a smaller, barer and more
utilitarian version of the front hall, only without pictures, having only the
functional furniture necessary for servants' use. Presumably he had gone to
consult some higher authority, perhaps even that autocrat of below-stairs—and
sometimes above—the butler. It was several minutes before he returned, and
motioned Monk to go with him.
    "Lady Shelburne will see you in half an hour." He left Monk in
a small parlor adjacent to the housekeeper's room, a suitable place for such
persons as policemen; not precisely servants or tradesmen, and most certainly
not to be considered as of quality.
    Monk walked slowly around the room after the footman had gone, looking
at the worn furniture, brown upholstered chairs with bow legs and an oak
sideboard
    and table. The walls were papered and fading, the pictures anonymous
and rather puritan reminders of rank and the virtues of duty. He preferred the
wet grass and heavy trees sloping down to ornamental water beyond the window.
    He wondered what manner of woman she was who could control her curiosity
for thirty long minutes rather than let her dignity falter in front of a social
inferior. Lamb had said nothing about her. Was it likely he had not even seen
her? The more he considered it, the more certain he became. Lady Shelburne
would not direct her inquiries through a mere employee, and there had been no
cause to question her in anything.
    But Monk wanted to question her; if Grey had been killed by a man who
hated him, not a maniac in the sense of someone without reason, only insofar as
he had allowed a passion to outgrow control until it had finally exploded in
murder, then it was imperative Monk learn to know Grey better. Intentionally or
not, Grey's mother would surely betray something of him, some honesty through
the memories and the grief, that would give color to the outline.
    He had had time to think a lot about Grey and formulate questions in his
mind by the time the footman returned and conducted him through the green baize
door and across the corridor to Lady Fabia's sitting room. It was decorated
discreetly with deep pink velvet and rosewood furniture. Lady Fabia herself was
seated on a Louis Quinze sofa and when Monk saw her all his preconceptions fled
his tongue. She was not very big, but as hard and fragile as porcelain, her
coloring perfect, not a blemish on her skin, not a soft, fair hair out of
place. Her features were regular, her blue eyes wide,