Cain His Brother (8 page)

“Is something wrong?” Her voice interrupted his thoughts. She looked from Callandra to Monk and back again.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to come here?” he said defensively, rising to his feet.

“Here?” Her eyebrows rose. “Yes.”

“Then you've answered your own question, haven't you,” he said tardy. She was quite right. No one would come to a pesthouse in the East End without a desperate reason. Apart from the physical unpleasantness of the smell, the cold, the drab, damp surroundings and the sounds of pain, it was the best way in the world to contract the disease yourself. He looked at her face. She must be exhausted. She was so pale her skin was almost gray, her hair was filthy and her clothes too thin for the barely heated room. She would not have the strength to resist illness.

She bit her lip in irritation. It always annoyed her to be verbally outmaneuvered.

“You've come for Callandra's help.” Her tone was waspish. “Or mine?” He knew that was meant sarcastically. He was also aware how often she had helped him; sometimes, as in the first occasion they had met, when he was truly desperate and his life hung in the balance. He had never been able to forget how it was her courage and her belief in him which had given him the strength to fight.

Several answers flashed through his head, most of them offensive. In the end, largely for Callandra's sake, he settled for the truth, or close to it.

“I have a case which seems to fade out two streets away,” he said, looking at her coldly. “But since the man I am trying to trace was the brother of a well-known local character, and presumably on his way to see him, I thought you might be of assistance.”

Whatever other thoughts were in her mind-and she looked both irritable and unhappy beneath the wearinessshe chose to acknowledge the interest. “Who is the local character? We haven't had much time for conversation, but we could ask.” She sat down on the chair he had vacated, not bothering to rearrange her skirts.

“Caleb Stone, or Stonefield. I don't suppose-” He stopped. He had been about to say that she would know nothing of him, but the changed expression in her face made it perfectly obvious that she did know, and that it was ill. “What?” he demanded.

“Only that he is violent,” she replied. “Callandra will already have told you that. We were discussing it last night. Who are you looking for?”

“Angus Stonefield, who is his brother.”

“Why?¯ “Because he's disappeared,” he said tartly. It was absurd to allow her to make him feel so uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if he were denying part of himself. And it was not so. He liked and admired many of her qualities, but there were others which he deplored and which were a constant source of annoyance to him. And he had always been perfectly frank about it, as indeed so had she. There were certain debts of honor between them, on both sides, but that was all. And for heaven's sake, that was all she wished also. But perhaps part of that obligation was to tell her of the dangers she faced spending her time in a pesthouse like this.

“Is he wanted for something?” she said, interrupting his thoughts. His temper broke. “Of course he's wanted,” he said. “His wife wants him, his children, his employees want him. That's an idiotic question!” The color washed up her pale cheeks as she sat hunched a little with cold, her shoulders rigid.

“I had meant was he required by the law,” she said icily. “I had temporarily forgotten that you also chase after errant husbands for their wives' sakes.”

“He is not errant,” he responded with equal venom. “The poor devil is almost certainly dead. And I would do that for anybody… his wife is out of her mind with grief and worry. She has every bit as much right to be pitied as any of your unfortunates here.” He jabbed angrily with his finger towards the great hall filled with its straw and blankets, although even as he said it, pity of afar harsher sort twisted inside him for its occupants.

Not many of them would live through it, and he knew that. He was angry with Hester, not with them.

“If her husband is dead, William, there is nothing you can do to help her except find proof of it,” Callandra interposed calmly. “Even if Caleb killed him, you may never find evidence of that. What will the police require to accept death? Do they have to see a corpse?”

“Not if we can find witnesses adequate to assume death,” he replied. “They know perfectly well that the tide may carry bodies out and they are never seen again.” He faced Callandra, ignoring Hester. The dim lights, the smells of tallow, gin, vinegar and damp stone permeating through everything, were sickening. And through it all the consciousness of illness was making him even more tense. He was not afraid in his brain. He would despise that in himself. Callandra and Hester were here day and night. But his body knew it, and all his instinct told him to go, quickly, before it could reach out and touch him. Hester's courage awoke emotions in him he did not want. They were painful, contradictory and frightening. And he loathed her for making him vulnerable.

“If we learn anything, we shall let you know,” Callandra promised, rising to her feet with something of an effort. “I am afraid Caleb Stone's reputation makes your theories more than possible. I'm sorry.”

Monk had not said all he intended. He would like to have spent longer in her company, but this was not the time. He thanked her a little stiffly, nodded to Hester but could think of nothing he wanted to say. He took his leave, feeling as if he had left something undone that would matter to him later. He had found none of the easing of his mind that he had hoped.

On leaving the warehouse, Monk steeled himself to go to the River Police at the Thames Police Station by Wapping Stairs, and ask if they had recovered any bodies in the last five days which might answer the description of Angus Stonefield.

The sergeant looked at him patiently. As always, Monk did not recognize him but had no knowledge of whether the man knew him or not. More than once he had realized he was familiar, and disliked. At first he had been at a loss as to why. Gradually he had learned his own quick brain and hard tongue had earned the fear of men less gifted, less able to defend themselves or retaliate with words. It had not been pleasant.

Now he regarded the sergeant steadily, hiding his own misgivings behind a steady, unblinking gaze.

“Description?” the sergeant said with a sigh. If he had ever seen Monk before he did not seem to remember it. Of course, Monk would have been in uniform then. That might make all the difference. Monk would not remind him.

“About my height,” he replied quietly. “Dark hair, strong features, green eyes. His clothes would be good quality, well cut, expensive cloth.” The sergeant blinked. “Relative, sir?” A quiet flicker of sympathy crossed his blunt face, and Monk realized with a start how close the description was to his own, except for the color of the eyes. And yet he did not look like the picture Enid Ravensbrook had drawn. There was a rakishness in that face which set it at odds with what both Genevieve and Arbuthnot had said of Angus Stonefield, but not of his brother Caleb. Had Enid unintentionally caught more of the spirit of Caleb? Or was Angus not the sedate man his family and employees supposed? Had he a secret other life?

The sergeant was waiting.

“No,” Monk answered. “I am inquiring on behalf of his wife. This is not something a woman should have to do.”

The sergeant winced. He had seen too many pale-faced, frightened women doing exactly that; wives, mothers, even daughters, standing as Monk was now, afraid, and yet half hoping the long agony of uncertainty was over.

“ 'Ow old?” the sergeant asked.

“Forty-one.”

The sergeant shook his head. “No sir. No one answering to that. Got two men, one not more'n twenty, the other fat wi' ginger 'air. Though 'ed be late thirties or thereabouts, poor devil.”

“Thank you.” Monk was suddenly relieved, which was absurd. He was no further forward. If Angus Stonefield was dead, he needed to find proof of it for Genevieve. If he had simply absconded, that would be a worse blow for her, leaving her both destitute and robbed even of the comfort of the past. “Thank you,” he repeated, his voice grimmer.

The sergeant frowned, at a loss to understand.

Monk did not owe him an explanation. On the other hand, he might very well need him again. A friend was more valuable than an enemy. He winced at his own stupidity in the past.

Arrogance was self-defeating. He bit his lip and smiled dourly at the sergeant. “I think the poor man is dead. To have found his body would be a relief… in a way. Of course, I would like to hope he is alive, but it is not realistic.”

“I see.” The sergeant sniffed. Monk had no doubt from the expression in his mild eyes that he did indeed understand. He had probably met many similar cases before.

“I'll come back,” Monk said briefly. “He may yet turn up.' “If yer like,” the sergeant agreed.

Monk left the East End and traveled west again to resume investigation into other possibilities. The more he thought of the face Enid Ravensbrook had drawn, the more he thought he would be remiss simply to accept Genevieve's word for Angus's probity and almost boringly respectable life. The sergeant of the River Police had thought him, for a moment, to be a relative of Monk's because of the similarity of description. What words would Monk have used of his own face? How did you convey anything of the essence of a man?

Not by the color of his eyes or hair, his age, his height or weight. There was something reckless in his own face. He remembered the shock with which he had first seen it in the glass after his return from hospital. Then it had been the face of a stranger, a man about whom he knew nothing. But the strength had been there in the nose, the smooth cheeks, the thin mouth, the steadiness of the eyes.

In what way was Angus Stonefield different, that they could not be brothers? It was there, but he could not place it, it was something elusive, something he thought was vulnerable.

Was it in the man? Or only in Enid Ravensbrook's sketch?

He spent a further day and a half trying to establish a clearer picture of Angus. What emerged was an eminently decent man, not only respected by all who knew him but also quite genuinely liked. If he had offended anyone, Monk could not find him. He was a regular attender at church. His employees thought him generous, his business rivals considered him fair in every respect. Even those whom he had beaten to a good deal could find no serious fault with him. If anyone had a criticism, it lay in the fact that his sense of humor was a little slow and he was overformal with women, which probably sprang from shyness. On occasion he spoiled his children and lacked the type of discipline considered proper. All the faults of a careful and gentle man.

Monk went to see Titus Niven. He didn't know what he expected to learn, but it was an avenue which should not be overlooked. Possibly Niven might have some insight into Angus Stonefield that no one else had felt comfortable to speak.

Genevieve had supplied him with Niven's address, about a mile away, off the Marylebone Road. She had looked somewhat anxious, but she refrained from asking him if he expected to learn anything.

The first time Monk called there was no one at home except one small maid-of-all-work who said Mr. Niven was out, but she had no idea where or at what time he might he back.

Monk could see the strain of poverty staring at him from every surface, the girl's face, the hemp mat on the floor, the unheated air smelling of damp and soot. It was not a poor neighborhood; it was a very comfortable one in which this individual house had fallen upon greatly reduced circumstances.

It stirred memories in him, but they were indistinct, emotions of anger and pity rather than fear.

When he called in the evening, Titus Niven himself opened the door. He was a tall man, slender, with a longnosed, sensitive face full of humor and, at the moment, a mixture of self-deprecation and hope struggling against de- spair. Monk's instinct was to like the man, but his intelligence told him to be suspicious. He was the one person known to have a grudge against Angus Stonefield, perhaps a legitimate one, certainly one that was very real. How successful he had been previously Monk could not estimate until he was inside the house, but he certainly was in dire straits now. “Good evening, sir?” Niven said tentatively, his eyes on Monk's face. “Mr. Titus Niven?” Monk inquired, although he was in no doubt.

“Yes sir?”

“My name is Monk. I have been retained by Mrs. Stonefield to inquire into Mr. Stonefield's present whereabouts.” There was no point in evasion any longer. To ask only such questions as would leave it concealed would be a waste of time, which was short enough, and he had ac- complished nothing so far. It was already seven days since Angus had last been seen.

“Come in, sir.” Niven opened the door wide and stood back to allow Monk to pass. “It is a cruel night to stand on the step.”

“Thank you.” Monk went into the house, and almost immediately was aware just how far Titus Niven had fallen. The architecture was gracious and designed for better times. It had been decorated within the last year or two and was in excellent condition. The curtains were splendid, and pre- sumably would be the last things to be sacrificed to necessity, for the privacy they offered when drawn but even more for their warmth across the cold, rain-streaked glass. But there were no pictures on the walls, although he could see with a practiced eye where the picture hooks had been. There were no ornaments except a simple, cheap clock-to judge from the curtains, not Niven's taste at all. The furniture was of good quality, but there was far too little of it. There were bare spaces which leaped to the eye, and the fire in the large hearth was a mere smoldering of a couple of pieces of coal, a gesture rather than a warmth.

Monk looked at Niven and saw from his face that words were unnecessary.

Niven had seen that he understood. Neither comment nor excuse would serve purpose, only add weight to the pain that was real enough.

Monk stood in the center of the room. It would somehow be a presumption to sit down before he was invited, as if the man's poverty reduced his status as host.