Evan looked down, a faint color in his face. He was smiling.
"It doesn't get us any further," he pointed out ruefully. "It could have been Shelburne, or it could have been anyone else. I suppose we shall have to investigate every other family he could have blackmailed? That should make us rather less popular than the ratman. Do you think it was Shelburne, sir, and we'll just never prove it?"
Monk stood up.
"I don't know but I'm damned if it'll be for lack of trying." He was thinking of Joscelin Grey in the Crimea, seeing the horror of slow death by starvation, cold and disease, the blinding incompetence of commanders sending men to be blown to bits by enemy guns, the sheer stultifying of it all; feeling fear and physical pain, exhaustion, certainly pity, shown by his brief ministrations to the dying in Scutari-all while Lovel stayed at home in his great hall, marrying Rosamond, adding money to money, comfort to comfort.
Monk strode to the door. Injustice ached in him like a gathering boil, angry and festering. He pulled the handle sharply and jerked it open.
"Sir!" Evan half rose to his feet.
Monk turned.
Evan did not know the words, how to phrase the warning urgent inside him. Monk could see it in his face, the wide hazel eyes, the sensitive mouth.
"Don't look so alarmed," he said quietly, pushing the door to again. "I'm going back to Grey's flat. I remember a photograph of his family there. Shelburne was in it, and Menard Grey. I want to see if Grimwade or Yeats recognize either of them. Do you want to come?"
Evan's face ironed out almost comically with relief. He smiled in spite of himself.
"Yes sir. Yes I would." He reached for his coat and scarf. "Can you do that without letting them know who they are? If they know they were his brothers-I mean-Lord Shelburne-"
Monk looked at him sideways and Evan pulled a small face of apology.
"Yes of course," he muttered, following Monk outside. "Although the Shelburnes will deny it, of course, and they'll still ride us to hell and back if we press a charge!"
Monk knew that, and he had no plan even if anyone in the photograph were recognized, but it was a step forward, and he had to take it.
Grimwade was in his cubbyhole as usual and he greeted them cheerfully.
"Lovely mild day, sir." He squinted towards the street. "Looks as if it could clear up."
"Yes," Monk agreed without thinking. "Very pleasant." He was unaware of being wet. "We're going up to
Mr. Grey's rooms again, want to pick up one or two things."
"Well with all of you on the case, I 'spec' you'll get somewhere one of these days." Grimwade nodded, a faint trace of sarcasm in his rather lugubrious face. "You certainly are a busy lot, I'll give yer that."
Monk was halfway up the stairs with the key before the significance of Grimwade's remark came to him. He stopped sharply and Evan trod on his heel.
"Sorry," Evan apologized.
"What did he mean?" Monk turned, frowning. "All of us? There's only you and me-isn't there?"
Evan's eyes shadowed. "So far as I know! Do you think Runcorn has been here?"
Monk stood stiffly to the spot. "Why should he? He doesn't want to be the one to solve this, especially if it is Shelburne. He doesn't want to have anything to do with it."
"Curiosity?" There were other thoughts mirrored in Evan's face, but he did not speak them.
Monk thought the same thing-perhaps Runcorn wanted some proof it was Shelburne, then he would force Monk to find it, and then to make the charge. For a moment they stared at each other, the knowledge silent and complete between them.
"I'll go and find out." Evan turned around and went slowly down again.
It was several minutes before he came back, and Monk stood on the stair waiting, his mind at first searching for a way out, a way to avoid accusing Shelburne himself. Then he was drawn to wonder more about Runcorn. How old was the enmity between them? Was it simply an older man fearing a rival on the ladder of success, a younger, cleverer rival?
Only younger and cleverer? Or also harder, more ruthless in his ambitions, one who took credit for other people's work, who cared more for acclaim than for justice, who sought the public, colorful cases, the ones well reported; even a man who managed to shelve his failures onto other people, a thief of other men's work?