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the porter, sir. Their accounts agree, except
that the porter says a bit more, because naturally we asked him about the
evening as well."
    Monk was temporarily lost. "As well?"
    Evan flushed faintly with irritation at his own lack of clarity.
    "He wasn't found until the following morning, when the woman who
cleans and cooks for him arrived and couldn't get in. He wouldn't give her a
key, apparently didn't trust her; he let her in himself, and if he wasn't there
then she just went away and came another time. Usually he leaves some message
with the porter."
    "I see. Did he go away often? I assume we know where to?"
There was an instinctive edge of authority to his voice now, and impatience.
    "Occasional weekend, so for as the porter knows; sometimes longer,
a week or two at a country house, in the season," Evan answered.
    "So what happened when Mrs.—what's her name?— arrived?"
    Evan stood almost to attention. "Huggins. She knocked as usual, and
when she got no answer after the third attempt, she went down to see the
porter, Grimwade, to find out if there was a message. Grimwade told her he'd
seen Grey arrive home the evening before, and he hadn't gone out yet, and to go
back and try again. Perhaps Grey had been in the bathroom, or unusually soundly
asleep, and no doubt he'd be standing at the top of the stairs by now, wanting
his breakfast."
    "But of course he wasn't," Monk said unnecessarily.
    "No. Mrs. Huggins came back a few minutes later all fussed and
excited—these women love a little drama—and demanded that Grimwade do something
about it. To her endless satisfaction"—Evan smiled bleakly—"she said
that he'd be lying there murdered in his own blood, and they should do
something immediately, and call the police. She
    must have told me that a dozen times." He pulled a small face.
"She's now convinced she has the second sight, and I spent a quarter of an
hour persuading her that she should stick to cleaning and not give it up in
favor of fortune-telling—although she's already a heroine, of sorts, in the
local newspaper—and no doubt the local pub!"
    Monk found himself smiling too.
    "One more saved from a career in the fairground stalls— and still
in the service of the gentry," he said. "Heroine for a day—and free
gin every time she retells it for the next six months. Did Grimwade go back
with her?"
    "Yes, with a master key, of course."
    "And what did they find, exactly?" This was perhaps the most
important single thing: the precise facts of the discovery of the body.
    Evan concentrated till Monk was not sure if he was remembering the
witness's words or his own sight of the rooms.
    "The small outer hall was perfectly orderly," Evan began.
"Usual things you might expect to see, stand for coats and things, and
hats, rather a nice stand for sticks, umbrellas and so forth, box for boots, a
small table for calling cards, nothing else. Everything was neat and tidy. The
door from that led directly into the sitting room; and the bedroom and
utilities were off that." A shadow passed over his extraordinary face. He
relaxed a little and half unconsciously leaned against the window frame.
    "That next room was a different matter altogether. The curtains
were drawn and the gas was still burning, even though it was daylight outside.
Grey himself was lying half on the floor and half on the big chair, head
downward. There was a lot of blood, and he was in a pretty dreadful
state." His eyes did not waver, but it was with an effort, and Monk could
see it. "I must admit," he continued, "I've seen a few deaths,
but this was the most brutal, by a long way. The man had been beaten to death
with something quite thin—I mean not a bludgeon—hit a great many times. There
had pretty obviously been a fight. A small
    table had been knocked over and one leg broken off, several ornaments
were on the floor and one of the heavy stuffed chairs was on its back, the one
he was half on." Evan was