The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry Page A

only a slightly jutting
chin spoiled the delicacy of her face. And she was perhaps too thin;
slen-derness had given way to angularity. She was dressed in violet and black,
as became someone in mourning, although on her it looked more like something
to be observed for one's own dignity than any sign of distress. There was
nothing frail in her manner.
    "Good morning," she said briskly, dismissing the footman with
a wave of her hand. She did not regard Monk with any particular interest and
her eyes barely glanced at his face. "You may sit if you wish. I am told
you have come to report to me the progress you have made in discovering and
apprehending the murderer of my son. Pray proceed."
    Opposite him Lady Fabia sat, her back ramrod-straight from years of
obedience to governesses, walking as a child with a book on her head for
deportment, and riding upright in a sidesaddle in the park or to hounds. There
was little Monk could do but obey, sitting reluctantly on one of the ornate
chairs and feeling self-conscious.
    "Well?" she demanded when he remained silent. "The watch
your constable brought was not my son's."
    Monk was stung by her tone, by her almost unthinking assumption of
superiority. In the past he must have been used to this, but he could not
remember; and now it stung with the shallow sharpness of gravel rash, not a
wound but a blistering abrasion. A memory of Beth's gentleness came to his
mind. She would not have resented this. What was the difference between them?
Why did he not have her soft Northumbrian accent? Had he eradicated it intentionally,
washing out his origins in an attempt to appear some kind of gentleman? The
thought made him blush for its stupidity.
    Lady Shelburne was staring at him.
    "We have established the only time a man could have gained entry to
the buildings,'' he replied, still stiff with his own sense of pride. "And
we have a description of the only man who did so." He looked straight into
her chilly and rather surprised blue eyes. "He was roughly six feet tall,
of solid build, as far as can be judged under a greatcoat. He was
dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. He went ostensibly to visit a Mr. Yeats,
who also lives in the building. We have not yet spoken to Mr. Yeats—"
    "Why not?"
    "Because you required that I come and report our progress to you,
ma'am."
    Her eyebrows rose in incredulity, touched with contempt. The sarcasm
passed her by entirely.
    "Surely you cannot be the only man directed to conduct such an
important case? My son was a brave and distinguished soldier who risked his
life for his country. Is this the best with which you can repay him?"
    "London is full of crimes, ma'am; and every man or woman murdered
is a loss to someone."
    "You can hardly equate the death of a marquis's son with that of
some thief or indigent in the street!" she snapped back.
    "Nobody has more than one life to lose, ma'am; and all are equal
before the law, or they should be."
    "Nonsense! Some men are leaders, and contribute to society; most do
not. My son was one of those who did."
    "Some have nothing to—" he began.
    "Then that is their own fault!" she interrupted. "But I
do not wish to hear your philosophies. I am sorry for those in the gutter, for
whatever reason, but they really do not interest me. What are you doing about
apprehending this madman who killed my son? Who is he?"
    "We don't know—"
    "Then what are you doing to find out?" If she had any feelings
under her exquisite exterior, like generations of her kind she had been bred to
conceal them, never to indulge herself in weakness or vulgarity. Courage and
good taste were her household gods and no sacrifice to them was questioned, nor
too great, made daily and without fuss.
    Monk ignored Runcorn's admonition, and wondered in passing how often he
had done so in the past. There had been a certain asperity in Runcorn's tone
this morning which surpassed simply frustration with the case, or Lady