edge of the notepaper. It was a luxury he could not afford. "Indeed you don't! So what are you doing, then? Take it to Shelburne Hall-get it identified."
"Harrison's on his way."
"Can't you at least find out how the bloody man got in?"
"I think so," Monk said levelly. "There was a visitor for one of the other residents, a Mr. Yeats. He came in at nine forty-five and left at roughly ten thirty. He was a biggish man, dark, well muffled. He's the only person unaccounted for; the others were women. I don't want to leap to conclusions too soon, but it looks as if he could be the murderer. Otherwise I don't know any way a stranger could have got in. Grimwade locks up at midnight, or earlier if all the residents are in, and after that even they have to ring the bell and get him up."
Runcorn put the letter carefully on Monk's desk.
"And what time did he lock up that night?" he asked.
"Eleven," Monk replied. "No one was out."
"What did Lamb say about this man who visited Yeats?" Runcorn screwed up his face.
"Not much. Apparently he only spoke to Yeats once, and then he spent most of the time trying to find out something about Grey. Maybe he didn't realize the importance of the visitor at that time. Grimwade said he took him up to Yeats's door and Yeats met him. Lamb was still looking for a thief off the street then-"
"Then!" Runcorn leapt on the word, sharp, eager. "So what are you looking for now?"
Monk realized what he had said, and that he meant it. He frowned, and answered as carefully as he could.
"I think I'm looking for someone who knew him, and hated him; someone who intended to kill him."
"Well for God's sake don't say so to the Dowager Lady Shelburne!" Runcorn said dangerously.
"I'm hardly likely to be speaking to her," Monk answered with more than a trace of sarcasm.
"Oh yes you are!" There was a ring of triumph in Run-corn's voice and his big race was glowing with color. "You are going down to Shelburne today to assure Her Ladyship that we are doing everything humanly possible to apprehend the murderer, and that after intensive effort and brilliant work, we at last have a lead to discovering this monster." His lip curled very faintly. "You're generally so blunt, damn near rude, in spite of your fancy airs, she won't take you for a liar." Suddenly his tone altered again and became soft. "Anyway, why do you think it was someone who knew him? Maniacs can kill with a hell of a mess; madmen strike over and over again, hate for no reason."
"Possibly." Monk stared back at him, matching dislike for dislike. "But they don't scout out the names of other residents, call upon them, and then go and kill someone else. If he was merely a homicidal lunatic, why didn't he kill Yeats? Why go and look for Grey?"
Runcorn's eyes were wide; he resented it, but he took the point.
"Find out everything you can about this Yeats," he ordered. "Discreetly, mind! I don't want him scared away!"
"What about Lady Shelburne?" Monk affected innocence.
"Go and see her. Try to be civil, Monk-make an effort! Evan can chase after Yeats, and tell you whatever he finds when you get back. Take the train. You'll be in Shelburne a day or two. Her Ladyship won't be surprised to see you, after the rumpus she's raised. She demanded a report on progress, in person. You can put up at the inn. Well, off you go then. Don't stand there like an ornament, man!"
***
Monk took the train on the Great Northern line from the King's Cross Station. He ran across the platform and jumped in, slamming the carriage door just as the engine belched forth a cloud of steam, gave a piercing shriek and jolted forward. It was an exciting sensation, a surge of power, immense, controlled noise, and then gathering speed as they emerged from the cavern of the station buildings out into the sharp late-afternoon sunlight.
Monk settled himself into a vacant seat opposite a large woman in black bombazine with a fur tippet around her neck (in spite of the season) and a black hat on at a fierce angle. She had a packet of sandwiches, which she opened immediately and began to eat. A little man with large spectacles eyed them hopefully, but said nothing. Another man in striped trousers studiously read his Times.