Cain His Brother

Chapter 1

Mr. Monk?” she said, then took a deep breath. “Mr. William Monk?” He turned from the desk where he had been sitting, and rose to his feet. The landlady must have let her through the outer chamber. “Yes ma'am?” he said inquiringly.

She took another step into the room, ignoring her huge crinoline skirts as they touched against the table. Her clothes were well cut and fashionable without ostentation, but she seemed to have donned them in some haste and without attention to detail. The bodice did not quite match the skirt, and the wide bow of her bonnet was knotted rather than tied. Her face with its short strong nose and brave mouth betrayed considerable nervousness. But Monk was used to that. People who sought the services of an agent of inquiry were almost always in some predicament which was too serious, or too embarrassing, to have dealt with through the more ordinary channels.

“My name is Genevieve Stonefield,” she began. Her voice quivered a little. “Mrs. Angus Stonefield,” she amended. “It is about my husband that I must consult you.”

With a woman of her age, which he placed between thirty and thirty-five, it most usually was; or else a minor theft, an unsatisfactory household servant, occasionally a debt. With older women it was an errant child or an unsuitable match in prospect. But Genevieve Stonefield was a most attractive woman, not only in her warm coloring and dignified deportment, but in the frankness and humor suggested in her face. He imagined most men would find her greatly appealing. Indeed, his first instinct was to do so himself. He squashed it, knowing bitterly the cost of past misjudgments.

“Yes, Mrs. Stonefield,” he replied, moving from the desk into the middle of the room, which he had designed to make people feel at ease-or more accurately, Hester Latterly had persuaded him to do so. “Please sit down.”

He indicated one of the large, padded armchairs across the red-and-blue Turkey rug from his own. It was a bitter January, and there was a fire burning briskly in the hearth, not only for warmth but for the sense of comfort it produced. “Tell me what disturbs you, and how you believe I may help.” He sat in the other chair opposite her as soon as courtesy permitted.

She did not bother to rearrange her skirts; they billowed around her in exactly the way they had chanced to fall, hoops awry and showing one slender, high-booted ankle.

Having steeled herself to take the plunge, she had no need of further invitation, but began straightaway, leaning forward a little, staring at him gravely.

“Mr. Monk, in order for you to understand my anxiety, I must tell you something of my husband and his circumstances. I apologize for taking up your time in this manner, but without this knowledge, what I tell you will make little sense.”

Monk made an effort to appear as if he listened. It was tedious, and in all probability quite unnecessary, but he had learned, through error, to allow people to say what they wished before reaching the purpose of their visit.

If nothing else, it permitted them a certain element of self-respect in a circumstance where they found themselves obliged to ask for help in an acutely private matter, and of someone most of them regarded as socially inferior by dint of the very fact that he earned his living. Their reasons were usually painful, and they would have preferred to have kept the secret.

When he had been a policeman such delicacy would have been irrelevant, but now he had no authority, and he would be paid only according to his client's estimate of his success.

Mrs. Stonefield began in a low voice. “My husband and I have been married for fourteen years, Mr. Monk, and I knew him for a year before that. He was always the gentlest and most considerate of men, without giving the im- pression of being easily swayed. No one has ever found him less than honorable in all his dealings, both personal and professional, and he has never sought to take advantage of others or gain by their misfortune.” She stopped, realizing-perhaps from Monk's face-that she was speaking too much. His features had never concealed his feelings, especially those of impatience, anger or scorn. It had served him ill at times.

“Do you suspect him of some breach in his otherwise excellent character, Mrs. Stonefield?” he asked with as much concern as he was able to pretend.

It was beginning to appear that her interesting face covered a most uninteresting mind.

“No, Mr. Monk,” she said a little more sharply, but the fear was dark in her eyes. “I am afraid he has been done to death. I wish you to find out for me.” In spite of her desperate words, she did not look up at him.

“Nothing you can do will help Angus now,” she continued quietly. “But since he has disappeared, and there is no trace of him, he is presumed by the law simply to have deserted us. I have five children, Mr. Monk, and without Angus, his business will very rapidly cease to provide for us.”

Suddenly the matter became real, and genuinely urgent. He no longer saw her as an overwordy woman fussing over some fancied offense, but one with a profound cause for the fear in her eyes.

“Have you reported his absence to the police?” he asked.

Her eyes flickered up to his. “Oh yes. I spoke to a Sergeant Evan. He was most kind, but he could do nothing to help me, because I have no proof that Angus did not go of his own will. It was Sergeant Evan who gave me your name.”

“I see.” John Evan had been Monk's most loyal friend at the time of his own trouble, and would not have dismissed this woman could he have helped her.

“How long since you saw or heard from your husband, Mrs. Stonefield?” he asked gravely.

The shadow of a smile crossed her features and was gone. Perhaps it was a reflection in the change in his own expression.

“Three days, Mr. Monk,” she said quietly. “I know that is not long, and he has been away from home often before, and for longer, sometimes up to a week. But this is different. Always before he has informed me, and left provision for us, and of course he left instructions for Mr. Arbuthnot at his place of business. Never before has he missed an appointment, or failed to leave authority and direction so Mr. Arbuthnot might act in his absence.” She leaned forward, almost unaware of the charming tilting of the hoops of her skirt. “He did not expect to be gone, Mr. Monk, and he has contacted no one!”

He felt a considerable sympathy for her, but the most practical way he could help was to learn as many of the facts as she was able to give him.

“At what time of the day did you last see him?” he asked.

“At breakfast, about eight o'clock in the morning,” she replied. “That was January the eighteenth.”

It was now the twenty-first.

“Did he say where he intended going, Mrs. Stonefield?”

She took a deep breath, and he saw her folded hands in her lap clasp each other more firmly in their neat white gloves. “Yes, Mr. Monk. He went from home to his place of business. From there he told Mr. Arbuthnot that he was going to see his brother.”

“Did he call upon his brother often?” he asked. It seemed an unremarkable occurrence.

“He was in the habit of visiting him at irregular intervals,” she replied.

She looked up, staring at him intently, as if the meaning of this were so vital to her she could not believe it would not have the same impact on him. “As long as I have known him,” she added, her voice dropping and becoming husky. “You see, they are twins.”

“It is not uncommon for brothers to visit each other, Mrs. Stonefield.” He remarked it only because he could see no reason for her white face, or her tense body as she sat uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. “Of course, you have been in touch with the other Mr. Stonefield and asked if your husband arrived safely, at what time, and in what circumstances he left?”

It was barely a question. He had already assumed the answer.

“No…” The word was no more than a whisper.

“What?”

“No,” she repeated with despair, her eyes wide, blue gray and burningly direct. “Angus's brother Caleb is every thing he is not violent, brutal, dangerous, an outcast even among the underworld along the river beyond Limehouse, where he lives.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “I used to beg Angus not to keep seeing him, but in spite of everything Caleb did, he felt that he could not abandon him.” A shadow crossed her face. “There is something very special about being a twin, I suppose. I confess, it is not something I understand.” She shook her head a little, as if denying her own anguish. “Please, Mr. Monk, will you find out what happened to my husband for me? I…” She bit her lip, but her eyes did not waver. “I shall need to know your terms in advance. My resources are limited.”

“I will make inquiries, Mrs. Stonefield.” He spoke before he considered the implications for his own financial status. “Then when I report their results to you, we can make arrangements accordingly. I shall need certain information from you in order to begin.”

“Of course. I understand. I am sorry I do not have a picture of him to show you. He did not care to sit for a portrait.” She smiled with a sudden tenderness that was desperate with pain. “I think he felt it a trifle vain.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “He was tall, at least as tall as you are.” She was concentrating fiercely, as if bitterly aware she might not see him again, and all too soon would she find his appearance fading from its present clarity in her mind. “His hair was dark, indeed his coloring was not unlike yours, except that his eyes were not gray, but a most beautiful shade of green. He had very good features, a strong nose and a generous mouth. He was quite gentle in manner, not at all arrogant, but yet no one ever supposed him to be a person with whom one might take liberties.”

He was aware that already she spoke of him in the past. The room was full of her fear and the sense of grief to come. He considered asking her of Stonefield's business affairs, or the likelihood of his having another woman, but he doubted he would receive an answer from her which would be accurate enough to be of any value. It would only distress her unnecessarily. It would be better to seek some tangible evidence and form his own judgment.

He rose to his feet and she rose also, her face tight with apprehension, her chin high, ready to argue with him, plead if necessary.

“I shall begin inquiries, Mrs. Stonefield,” he promised.

Immediately she relaxed, coming as close to a smile as she was capable in her present mind. “Thank you…”

“If you will give me your address?” he asked.

She fished in her reticule and brought out two cards, offering them to him in her gloved hand. “I'm afraid I did not think of a letter of authority…”

She looked embarrassed. “Have you any paper?”

He went to the desk, opened it and took out a plain white sheet of notepaper, a pen, ink and blotting paper. He pulled out the chair where she might sit. While she was writing he glanced at the cards she had given him and saw that the home was on the borders of Mayfair, a very acceptable area for the gentry. The business was south of the river on the Waterloo Road on the edge of Lambeth.

She finished the letter, signed it, blotted it carefully and handed it to him, looking up at him anxiously while he read it.

“It is excellent, thank you.” He folded it, reached for an envelope and placed it inside, to keep it from becoming soiled, then put it in his pocket.

She rose to her feet again. “When shall you begin?”

“Immediately,” he replied. “There is no time to be lost. Mr. Stonefield may be in some danger or difficulty but still able to be rescued from it.” “Do you think so?” For a moment hope flared in her eyes, then reality returned, and with it renewed pain. She turned away to hide her emotion from him, to save them both embarrassment. “Thank you, Mr. Monk. I know you mean to offer me comfort.” She went to the door, and he only just reached it in time to open it for her. “I shall await news.” She went out and down the step into the street, then walked away, northwards, without looking back.

Monk closed the door and returned to his room. He put more coal on the fire, then sat down in his armchair and began to consider the problem and what he knew of it.

It was common enough for a man to desert his wife and children. The possibilities were endless, without even considering his having come to harm-let alone anything so bizarre and tragic as having been murdered by his own brother. Mrs. Stonefield had clearly wanted to believe that. Monk observed to himself that it was the solution least harmful to her. Without entirely dismissing it out of hand, he was inclined to relegate it to the bottom of the list of possibilities. The most obvious answers were that he had simply found his responsibilities overweighing him and run off, or that he had fallen in love with another woman and decided to live with her. The next most probable was some financial disaster, either already occurred or pending in the near future. He might have gambled and finally lost more than he could meet, or borrowed from a usurer and been unable to repay the interest, which would grow day by day. Monk had seen more than a few victims of such practice and he hated moneylenders with a cold and unremitting passion.

Stonefield might have made some enemy he had good reason to fear, or be the victim of blackmail for an indiscretion or even a crime. He might be fleeing the law for some misappropriation not yet uncovered, or any other offense, an accident or a sudden violence not so far traced to him. He might have suffered an accident and be lying in hospital or in a workhouse somewhere, too ill to have sent his family word.

It was even conceivable that, like Monk himself, he had been struck on the head with a blow which had obliterated his memory. He broke out in a prickle of sweat which a moment after was cold on his skin as he remembered waking up two years before in what he had taken to be a workhouse without the slightest idea who or where he was. His past had been an utter blank to him. Even his face in the glass had been unrecognizable.

Slowly he had pieced together fragments here and there, scenes of his youth, his journey south from Northumberland to London, probably when he was nineteen or twentyroughly about the time of the accession of Queen Victoria, although he could not remember it. The coronation he knew only from pictures and other people's descriptions.

Even this much was deduced, because he supposed himself to be now in his early forties, and it was January 1859.

Of course, it was absurd to suppose Angus Stonefield was in a similar situation. Such things must happen exceedingly rarely. But then murder was fortunately not so common either. It was far more probably some sad but ordinary domestic circumstance or a financial disaster.

He always disliked having to tell a woman such a thing. In this case it would be harder than usual because already he had formed a certain respect for her. There was a femininity to her which was charming, and yet a defiant courage, and in all she had told him, in spite of her grief and thinly concealed desperation, there was no self-pity. She had asked for his professional services, not begged his compassion. If Angus Stonefield had left her for another woman, he was a man whose taste Monk did not under- stand, or share.

Still turning the matter over in his mind, he rose, stoked the fire and set up the guard, then put on his coat and hat and took a hansom cab south from his rooms in Fitzroy Street, down Tottenham Court Road, Chasing Cross Road, then the Strand, right at Wellington Street and across Waterloo Bridge to the business address on the card Mrs. Stonefield had given him. He alighted, paid the driver and dismissed him. He turned to look at the building. The outside appeared prosperous, in a discreet fashion, either from old money so well known it had no need to advertise or money newly earned but with the tact to remain unostentatious.

He pushed the front door, which was open to the public, and was greeted in the room inside by a smart young clerk dressed in stiff wing collar, cutaway jacket and shining boots.

“Yes sir?” he inquired, summing up Monk's sartorial elegance and concluding he was a gentleman. “May I be of service?”

Monk was too proud to introduce himself as an agent of inquiry. It equated him with the policeman he had been until his irreparable quarrel with his superior, only now he had not the authority.

“Good morning,” he replied. “Mrs. Stonefield has requested me to be of what assistance I may in contacting her husband since he left last Tuesday morning.” He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face. “I hope she is mistaken, but she fears some harm may have come to him.” As he spoke he produced the letter of authority.

The clerk accepted it, read it at a glance, and returned it to him. The anxiety which he had been holding in check now flooded his face and he looked at Monk almost pleadingly. “I wish we could help you, sir. Indeed, I wish with all my heart we knew where he was. We require him for the business. His presence is essential.” His voice was rising in earnestness.

“There are decisions to be made for which Mr. Arbuthnot and myself have neither the legal power nor the professional knowledge.” He glanced around to make sure none of the three young ledger clerks were within earshot, and moved a step closer. “We are at our wits' end to know what to do next, or how to put people off any longer without their guessing that something is most seriously amiss. Business is most competitive, sir. Others will seize the chance to profit from our indecision.” His face grew pinker and he bit his lip. “Do you think that he could have been kidnapped, sir?”

It was not among the possibilities that had occurred to Monk.

“It would be a most extreme step,” he replied, watching the young man's face. He saw nothing in it but fear and sympathy. If he knew anything more, he was an actor to rival Henry living and had missed a career on the stage.

“Then he must have been taken ill,” the clerk said with concern. “And is even now lying in some hospital, unable to contact us. He would never wittingly leave us in this way.” He grew even pinker. “Nor his family either, of course! That I need hardly say.” His expression indicated he knew he should have said it to begin with.

“Does he have business rivals who might think to profit if he were out of the way?” Monk asked, casting his eye discreetly around the tidy, well-furnished room with its desks and shelves of books and files of ledgers. The winter sun came in through high, narrow windows. He still thought a domestic answer more likely.

“Oh yes, sir,” the clerk replied with assurance. “Mr. Stonefield is most successful, sir. A rare gift he has for knowing what will sell, and for precisely how much. Made a profit where quite a few others would have burned their fingers… and did!” There was a lift of pride in his voice, then as he looked at Monk, a sudden anxiety. “But always strictly honest!” he added, regarding Monk gravely to make sure he understood that.

“There's never been a whisper against him anywhere! Not in the City, not on the Exchange.”

“The Stock Exchange?” Monk asked.

“Oh no, sir, the Corn Exchange.”

He should have asked before he spoke.

“These rivals of Mr. Stonefield's,” he said quickly, his voice harder.

“Whose business in particular has he taken lately, or whose does he threaten?”

“Well…” The clerk hesitated unhappily.

For a moment there was no sound but the scratching of pens and someone shifting his feet.

“I don't like to speak ill…” the clerk resumed.

“If there is a possibility Mr. Stonefield has been kidnapped, then you will do him little service if you remain silent!” Monk snapped.

The clerk colored. “Yes. I understand. I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Marchmont, of Marchmont and Squires, lost out to him rather badly last month, but they are large enough they will ride that out.” He thought hard. “Mr. Peabody, of Goodenough and Jones, took it very badly when we beat them to a very good price about six weeks ago. But the only person I know who really suffered was poor Mr. Niven. He is no longer in business, I am sorry to say. Took it like a gentleman, but very hard for him, it was, especially with him and Mr. Stonefield being acquaintances socially. Very sad.” He shook his head very slightly. “But having said that, sir, I cannot imagine Mr. Niven wishing Mr. Stonefield any harm. He's not like that at all. Very decent sort of gentleman, just not as clever as Mr. Stonefield. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. It's… it's really very hard to know what to do for the best.” He looked at Monk miserably, seeking some kind of indication. “You have done quite the right thing,” Monk assured him. “Without information we cannot even make a judgment, let alone pursue the best course.” As he was speaking he was looking beyond the young man and around the offices. The place had every appearance of prosperity. Several clerks were busy with ledgers, accounts, business letters to other houses, possibly overseas as well. They were all smartly dressed with stiff white collars and tidy hair, and they looked diligent, and content enough in their work. Nothing was shabby or obviously mended. There was no air of discouragement: only anxiety, a discreet glance one to another.

He returned his attention to the immediate.

“When was the last occasion on which Mr. Stonefield came into the office?”

“Three days ago, sir. The morning of the last day in which”-he bit his lip-”on which he was seen.” He eased his neck in his rather tight collar.

“But you will have to ask Mr. Arbuthnot what transpired, and he is not here at present. I really do not feel able to tell you anything further. It is… well, company business, sir.” He was apologetic and obviously uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Monk doubted it would have any relevance anyway, and was quite content to leave it for the time being. But before he took his leave, he obtained the address of Mr. Titus Niven, now no longer in business because of the skill of Angus Stonefield.

Monk left the offices and walked briskly back along the Waterloo Road in the sharp wind.

It still remained the strongest possibility that the answer to Angus Stonefield's disappearance lay in his personal life, therefore it was necessary for Monk to learn as much about it as he was able. However, he had no possible grounds to call upon neighbors, still less to question them as to Stonefield's habits or his comings and goings. It would hardly be in the best interest of his client. Having her neighbors gossiping about the fact that her husband was missing, and she had called in a person to try to find him, was the very last thing she would wish. But the fact that there was no crime-in fact, no acknowledged problem at all- was extremely restricting. The only course open to him in that direction would be to pursue servants' chatter from nearby houses. Servants frequently knew a great deal more than their masters or mistresses supposed. They were most often regarded in much the same light as a favorite piece of furniture, without which one would be lost but in front of which discretion was not a consideration.

He was approaching the river. It shone pale under the winter sky, the mist rising in wreaths, softening the dark shingles' edges and carrying the raw smell of sewage on the outgoing tide. Dark barges and ferries moved up and down. It was not the season for pleasure boats.

He wished he had John Evan with him, as he had had when he first returned to the police force after his accident, and before he had quarreled finally and irreparably with Runcorn, storming out the instant before Runcorn dismissed him. Evan, with his charm and gentleness of manner, was so much better at eliciting confidences from people. They forgot their natural reticence and shared their thoughts.

But Evan was still with the police, so Monk could not call upon him for help except when there was an investigation in which he too was involved and was prepared to disclose his information, at great risk to himself.

Runcorn would never forgive such an act. He would see it as a personal and professional betrayal.

It had often crossed Monk's mind that he would like to offer Evan a position as his assistant in some future day when he earned sufficient to support a second person. But that was only a dream, and perhaps a foolish one. At present he did not always make enough even for himself. There were weeks when he was profoundly grateful for his patroness, Lady Callandra Daviot, who made up the difference in his income.

All she asked in return was that he share with her all those cases which had elements of interest for her… and they were considerable. She was a woman of high intelligence and curiosity, decisive opinions, and a consuming and generally tolerant interest in human nature in all its manifestations.

In the past, Monk had inquired into matters solely at her behest, when she felt that an injustice was threatened or had been done.

To begin with, he caught a cab to see Mrs. Stonefield in her own home, as he had said he would. It would give him a clearer impression of her, of the family's well-being, both financial and social, and-if he were perceptive enoughalso of the relationships beneath the surface of what she had told him.

The house was on Upper George Street, on the corner of Seymour Place just east of the Edgware Road. It took him more than an hour in heavy traffic and a hard, soaking rain, from the far side of the river to arrive at the other side of Mayfair, alight, and pay the driver. It was nearly four o'clock, and the lamplighters were already out in the thickening dusk. He turned his coat collar up and crossed the footpath to knock on the front door. At this hour any formal callers would have been and gone, if indeed she were receiving callers.

He shivered and turned to look back at the street. It was quiet and eminently respectable. Rows of similar windows looked out onto neat front gardens. Areaways were swept clean. Behind closed back gates would be cellar chutes for coal, dustbins, scrubbed scullery steps and back door en- trances for tradesmen and deliveries.

Was this what Angus Stonefield wanted? Or had he become suffocated by its predictability and discretion? Had his soul yearned for something wilder, more exhilarating, something that challenged the mind and disturbed the heart? And had he been prepared to sacrifice safety, the warmth of family, as its price? Had he grown to loathe being known by his neighbors, relied upon by his dependents; every day, every year mapped out before him to a decent and uneventful old age?

Monk felt a sharp sadness that it was such a vivid possibility. Stonefield would not be the first man to have run away from the reality of love and its responsibilities, to grasp instead the illusion and excitement of lust and what might seem like freedom, only later to realize it was loneliness.

Another gust of rain soaked him just as he turned back to the door and it opened. The fair-haired parlormaid looked at him inquiringly.

“William Monk, to call upon Mrs. Stonefield,” he announced, dropping his card on the tray she held. “I believe she is expecting me.”

“Yes sir. If you care to wait in the morning room, I shall see if Mrs.

Stonefield is at home,” she replied, stepping back for him to enter. Monk walked through the pleasant hall behind her to wait in the room which he was shown. It gave him an opportunity to glance around and make some estimate of Stonefield's character and circumstances-although if he were in difficulties, the front rooms where guests were received would be the last to show it. Monk had known families to live without heat, and eat little more than bread and gruel, and yet keep up the facade of prosperity the moment visitors called. Generosity, even extravagance, was displayed to foster the pretense. Sometimes it aroused his contempt for the ridiculousness of it. At others he was moved to a strange, hurting pity that they found it necessary, that they believed their worth to their friends lay in such things.

He stood in the small, tidy room in which the maid had left him, and looked around it. To the outward eye it presented every sign of comfort and good taste. It was a little overcrowded, but that was the fashion, and there was no fire lit, in spite of the weather.

The furniture was solid and the upholstery of good quality and, as far as he could see, not overly worn. He looked more closely at the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but they were clean and unfaded or rubbed. The gas mantles on the walls were immaculate, the curtains unfaded in the folds. The red-and-cream Turkey carpet was only slightly worn in a passage from doorway to hearth. There were no darker patches on the wallpaper to indicate a picture missing. The fine china and glass ornaments were unchipped. He could see no hairline cracks carefully glued together.

Everything was of good quality and individual taste. It reaffirmed the impression of Genevieve Stonefield he had already formed.

He was about to begin reading the titles of the books in the oak case when he was interrupted by the return of the maid to conduct him to the withdrawing room.

He had intended to make a discreet assessment of that room also, but as soon as he was through the doorway his entire attention was taken by Genevieve Stonefield herself. She was dressed in a smoky blue gown with darker stripes of velvet around the skirt. Perhaps it was an obvious choice for a woman of her warm skin and rich hair, but nonetheless, it was extraordinarily flattering. She was not lovely in the classical mold, and certainly she had not the pallor and childlike daintiness which was currently admired. There was an earthy, more immediate quality to her, as if in other circumstances she would have been full of laughter, imagi- nation, even hunger. Her features were those of a woman who threw herself wholeheartedly into whatever she espoused. Monk could not imagine what sort of a man Angus Stonefield could be to have won her love in the first place and then to have left her willingly. It precluded his being any kind of coward, or a retreater from life.

The room and its furnishings dissolved into irrelevance. “Mr. Monk,” she said eagerly. “Please do sit down. Thank you, Janet.” She lifted one hand in dismissal of the maid. “If anyone else should call, I am not at home.” “Yes ma'am.” Janet went out obediently, closing the door behind her. As soon as they were alone, Genevieve turned to Monk, then realized it was far too soon for him to have learned anything. She attempted to disguise her disappointment and her foolishness for having allowed hope in the first place.

He wanted to tell her that his initial suspicions seemed less and less likely, but to do so he would have to tell her what they were, and he was not prepared to do that.

“I have been to Mr. Stonefield's place of business,” he began. “Only briefly, as yet, but I can see nothing out of order. I shall return when Mr. Arbuthnot is present and see what more he can tell me.”

“I doubt there will be anything,” she said sadly. “Poor Mr. Arbuthnot is as confused as I. Of course, he does not know what I do of Caleb.” Her mouth tightened, and she turned half away towards the very small fire glimmering in the hearth. “It is something I prefer not to make public, unless I am left no alternative whatever. One does not like to air one's family tragedies for all to know. Poor Angus tried to keep it as discreet as he could, and I don't believe his friends or colleagues were aware.” She lifted one shoulder very slightly in a gesture of despair. “It is most embarrassing that one's relatives are… criminal.” She looked back at him as if it had been a kind of relief to her to speak the truth aloud.

Perhaps she saw a shred of incredulity in his eyes.

“I do not blame you for finding it hard to believe, Mr. Monk, that two brothers could be so different. I found it hard myself. I used to fear Angus had conceived some jealousy or fancy which made him see his brother in such a light. But a little investigation will show you that far from painting Caleb black, Angus was, if anything, too kind in his judgment.”

He did not doubt her sincerity, but he still held his reservations as to what Caleb Stonefield might really be like.. probably no more than a rake or a gambler, someone Angus did not wish to bring to his charming and comfortable home, perhaps least of all leave in the company of his wife. If Caleb were a womanizer, he could never resist trying to awaken in this woman the fires which might so easily lie nascent beneath her proper exterior. Monk himself could feel the temptation. There was a richness in her mouth, a daring in her eyes, and strength in the angle at which she carried her head.

“Why do you believe your brother-in-law might have harmed your husband, Mrs. Stonefield?” he said aloud. “After all the long years of relationship between them, and your husband's loyalty, why should he now hate so deeply as to commit violence against him? What has changed?”

“Nothing that I know,” she said unhappily, staring now at the fire. There was no doubt in her voice, no lessening of the emotion.

“Did your husband threaten him in any way, financially or professionally?”

Monk went on. “Is it likely that he became aware of some misdemeanor, or even crime, that Caleb may have been involved with? And if he did, would he have reported it?”

Her eyes flickered up quickly, meeting his with sudden light. “I don't know, Mr. Monk. You must think me very vague, and most uncharitable to a man I don't even know. Of course what you suggest is possible. Caleb lives in a way which would make it likely he is involved in many crimes. But it is not that which causes my fear.”

Had she said anything else he would have known she lied. He had seen the spark of realization in her eyes, and the doubt.

“What is it?” he said with a gentleness unusual to him.

“I wish I could tell you more precisely,” she answered with a tiny, self-deprecating smile. Then she looked up at him and her expression was startlingly intense. “My husband was not a cowardly man, Mr.

Monk, neither morally nor physically, but he lived in dread of his brother.

For all that he pitied him, and tried all the years I have known him to bridge the gulf between them, he was deeply afraid.”

Monk waited for her to continue.

She looked into the distances within her own mind. “I have seen the change come over his face when he spoke of Caleb, how his eyes darkened and his mouth showed lines of pain.” She took a deep breath and he could see that she was shaking very slightly, as if mastering a deep shock within herself.

“I am not exaggerating, Mr. Monk. Please believe me, Caleb is both evil and dangerous. My worst fear is that his hatred has finally driven him mad and he has killed Angus. Of course, I hope he is alive… and yet I am terrified it is already too late. My heart tells me one thing, and my mind another.” At last she looked at him, her eyes wide and direct. “I need to know. Please leave no effort untried for as long as I have any means with which to recompense you. For my children's sake, as well as my own, I have to know what has happened to Angus.” She stopped. She would not repeat herself or beg for pity beyond his labor that she could hire. She stood very straight in the room he still merely observed only as a kind of elegance behind her. He was unaware even of the ash settling in the fire.

Not only for her, but for the man whose wife and home this was, he had no hesitation in accepting the task wholeheartedly.

“I will do everything in my power, Mrs. Stonefield, I promise you,” he answered. “May I continue by speaking to some of your servants who may have noticed letters or callers?”

She looked puzzled, and a flicker of disillusion shadowed her eyes. “How will that help?”

“It may not,” he conceded. “But without some kind of indication that some of the more obvious answers are untrue, I cannot request the help I shall need from the River Police to conduct a search of the docks or of the quarter where you say Caleb lives. If he has indeed killed his brother, it will not be easy to prove.”

“Oh…” She let out her breath in a jerky little sigh. “Of course.” She was very pale. “I had not thought of that. I'm sorry, Mr. Monk. I shall not interfere again. Whom would you like to see first?”

He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening questioning the staff from the butler and the cook through to the between-maid and the bootboy, and learned nothing to contradict his first impression that Angus Stonefield was a diligent and prosperous man of excellent taste and very ordinary habits, with a wife to whom he was devoted, and five children ranging in age from three to thirteen years.

The butler had heard of the brother, Caleb, but had never seen him. He knew only that Mr. Stonefield would go quite regularly to the East End to meet with him, that he seemed nervous and unhappy prior to going and sad on his return. On almost every occasion he had sustained both personal injury and severe damage to his clothes, sometimes beyond repair. Mr. Stonefield had refused to call a doctor, insisting that the matter not be reported, and Mrs. Stonefield had cared for him herself. None of it helped to explain where Angus Stonefield was now or what had happened to him. Even his effects, and the few letters in the top drawer of his tallboy, were precise, each in its place, and exactly what Monk would have expected. “Did you learn anything?” Genevieve asked when he returned to the withdrawing room to take his leave.

He would have disliked disappointing her, but there was no hope in her face.

“No,” he confessed. “It was simply an avenue I dared not leave unexplored.”

She looked down at her hands, twisting together in front of her dress, the only betrayal of the emotion within her.

“I received a letter today from Angus's guardian, Lord Ravensbrook, offering to assist us until we can… until… You might care to see if he can… help… with information, I mean.” She looked up at him.

“I have written his address for you. I am sure he will receive you whenever you care to call.”

“You are going to accept his offer?” he said urgently.

The moment he asked he saw her face shadow, and knew he had been intrusive.

It was not his concern. She had promised to pay him, and he wondered now if she assumed that concern for money was the reason he had asked.

“No,” She said, before he could apologize and find some excuse to moderate his discourtesy. “I would very much prefer not to be”-she hesitated-”indebted to him, if it can be avoided. He is a good man, of course!” She went on quickly. “He raised Angus and Caleb when their own parents died. They are only distant relatives. He had no real obligation, but he gave them every opportunity, as if they were his own. His first wife died very young. He has married again now. I am sure he would give you any assistance he can.”

“Thank you,” he accepted, grateful that she had apparently taken no more offense at his clumsiness. “As soon as I learn anything, I promise I will let you know.”

“I am most obliged,” she said quietly. She seemed about to add something, then changed her mind. He wondered if it had been about the depth of her fears for her husband, or the urgency with which she needed an answer.

“Good evening, Mr. Monk.”

It was not a courteous time to call upon Lord and Lady Ravensbrook, but Genevieve's plight struck deep into him, and he was perfectly prepared to disturb them at dinner, or draw them away from guests if need be, and offer the truth as explanation.

As it was, when the hansom dropped him at Ravensbrook House in the rain and he splashed across the footpath through the are of the streetlight and up the marble steps, he was prepared for whatever battle faced him. But his forethought proved unnecessary. The door was opened by a footman in livery who accepted his card and the letter Genevieve had given him, leaving him in the hall while he went to present them to his master.

Ravensbrook House was magnificent. Monk judged it to date back to Queen Anne, a far more elegant period of architecture than that of the present queen. Here nothing was overcrowded. Ornamentation was simple, giving an air of space and perfect proportion. There were rather good portraits, presumably of the past Ravensbrooks, on three of the four walls. They all either had been of handsome appearance or had been highly flattered by the various artists.

The staircase was gray marble, like the front steps, and swept in a curve up the right-hand wall to a landing balustraded in the same stone. A chandelier of at least eighty candles illuminated the whole, and hothouse hyacinths flowered in a blue delft bowl, scenting the air.

It occurred to Monk that perhaps Angus Stonefield had been given an excellent start in his business, both financially and socially. It was a peculiar and rather harsh pride of Genevieve's that would not allow her to accept help now, at least for her children's sake, if not her own. Or did she really believe, in spite of what she said, that Angus would somehow return?

The footman came back, showing only the mildest surprise by the lifting of an eyebrow, and conducted Monk to the library. Lord Ravensbrook awaited him, apparently having left his dinner to receive this unexpected guest.

The door closed behind the retreating footman.

“I apologize, my lord, for the unseemliness of the hour,” Monk said immediately.

Ravensbrook dismissed it with a wave of his hand. He was a tall man, perhaps an inch or two taller than Monk, and extremely handsome. His face was lean and narrow, but with fine, dark eyes, a long nose and a chiseled mouth. Apart from his features, there was a quickness of intelligence in him, lines of wit and laughter around his mouth and a hint of temper between his brows. It was the face of a proud man of unusual charm and, Monk guessed, a considerable ability to command others.

However, on this occasion he made no attempt to impress.

“I gather from Mrs. Stonefield's letter that she has sought your help to discover what has happened.” He made it a statement, not a question. “I admit, I am close to my wits' end to think what can have befallen him, and would be glad of any assistance you can give.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Monk acknowledged. “I have been to his offices and they appear to know nothing, although I have not yet been able to question Mr. Arbuthnot, whom I am told is in charge and would have the authority to speak more frankly to me. However, if there is any financial hardship, it is certainly not evident-“

Ravensbrook's black eyebrows rose fractionally. “Financial hardship? Yes-I suppose you have to consider that. To one who does not know Angus, it would seem a possibility. However…” He walked over to the mantelshelf, where two exquisite Georgian silver candlesticks sat on either end and an Irish crystal vase a little to the left of center held a spray of golden winter jasmine. “As Mrs. Stonefield will have told you,” he continued, “I have known Angus since he was a child. He was five when his parents died. He has always been ambitious, and prudent, and he had the skill to bring dreams into reality. He has never been one to seek shortcuts to success, or easy paths. He would not have gambled.”

He turned to face Monk, his eyes very dark, absolutely level. “He was of a nature which hated risks, and was totally honest down to the slightest detail. I happen to know that his business is flourishing. Of course, if you wish to satisfy yourself in the matter, it will be perfectly possible for you to examine the accounts, but it will be a waste of time, as far as finding him is concerned.”

His voice was tight with emotion, but his expression was unreadable. “Mr.

Monk, it is of the utmost urgency that you learn the truth, whatever it may be. The business requires his presence, his judgments.” He took a deep breath. Behind him the fire roared up the chimney. “When it becomes known that he is missing, not merely on some journey, then confidence will crumble. For his family's sake, if something… appalling has happened to him, the business must be sold or a new manager appointed before it is known, and prestige and the value of his reputation are squandered. I have already offered Genevieve and her children my protection, here in my home, as I did Angus before them, but so far she has declined. But the time will come, and quite shortly, when she can no longer manage.”

Monk made a rapid decision as to whether he should be candid. He regarded Ravensbrook's lean, intelligent face, the sophisticated taste in the room, the slight drawl in his voice, the steadiness of his gaze.

“After financial difficulty, the other most obvious possibility is another woman,” he said aloud.

“Of course,” Ravensbrook agreed with a slight downturning of his lips and the barest flicker of distaste. “You have to consider it, but you have met Mrs. Stonefield. She is not a woman a man would leave out of boredom. I rather wish I could believe it was something… forgive me”-a muscle twitched in his jaw-”so pedestrian. Then you could find him, bring him to his senses, and return him home. It would be most unpleasant, but in the end it would make no permanent difference, except perhaps to his wife's regard for him. But she is a sensible woman. She would get over it. And of course she would be discreet. No one else need know.”

“But you think it unlikely, sir?” Monk was not surprised. He found it less easy to believe than he would were it any other woman than Genevieve Stonefield. But then he did not know her. The warmth and the imagination which seemed to lie behind her eyes might be an illusion. And perhaps Angus had gone seeking the reality.

Ravensbrook shifted his weight. The heart of the fire fell in with a shower of sparks and the heat from it grew more intense. “I do. Let me be frank, Mr. Monk. This is not a time for euphemisms. I fear some serious harm has come to him. He has long been in the habit of going to the most in- salubrious parts of the East End of the city, down by the docks… Ide, Limehouse and Blackwall regions. If he has been attacked and robbed he may be lying injured, insensible or worse.” His voice dropped. “It will take all your skill to find him.” He moved a step away from the fire, but still did not invite Monk to sit, nor did he sit himself.

“Mrs. Stonefield says that he goes to visit his twin brother, Caleb,” Monk continued, “who she says is of a totally different nature, and both hates him and is uncontrollably jealous. She believes that he may have murdered her husband.” He watched Ravensbrook's face intensely. He saw a fear cross it, and deep distress. He could not believe it was feigned.

“I deeply regret having to admit, Mr. Monk, that that is so. I have no reason to believe there is any other cause which takes Angus to the slums of the dockside. I have long begged him to desist, and leave Caleb to his own devices. It is quite futile to hope to change him. He hates Angus for his success, but he has no wish to be like him, only to have the profits of his labor. Angus's affection and loyalty towards him is in no way returned.” He drew in his breath and let it out in a slow sigh. “But there is something in Angus which will not let go.”

It was a painful subject. It must be especially bitter for a man who had watched the two brothers since childhood, but he did not equivocate or make excuses, and Monk admired him for that. It must have taken an iron self- discipline not to indulge in anger or a sense of injustice now.

“Do you believe Mrs. Stonefield is right, and Caleb could have killed Angus, either intentionally or by accident in a struggle?”

Ravensbrook met his eyes with a long, level stare.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am afraid I believe it is possible.” His lips tightened. “Of course, I should prefer to think it is an accident, but murder is also believable. I am sorry, Mr. Monk. It is a bitter case we have given you, and one which may take you into some personal danger. You will not catch Caleb easily.” There was a harsh twist of his mouth, less than a smile. “Nor will you easily prove what has happened. Whatever help I can be, you have but to call upon me.”

Monk was about to thank him when there was a light rap on the door.

“Come!” Ravensbrook said with surprise.

The door opened and a woman of extraordinary presence entered. She was of little more than average height, though her bearing made her seem taller.

But it was her face which commanded Monk's attention. She had high, wide cheekbones, a short, jutting aquiline nose and a wide, beautifully shaped mouth. She was not traditionally lovely, yet the longer he looked at her, the more she pleased him, because of the balance and honesty in her. She was every bit as candid as Genevieve, and more commanding. It was the face of a woman born to power.

Ravensbrook lifted his hand very slightly.

“My dear, this is Mr. Monk, whom Genevieve has engaged to help us find out-what has happened to poor Angus.” From the way he touched her and his expression as he regarded her, it was unnecessary to announce her identity.

“How do you do, Lady Ravensbrook.” Monk bowed very slightly. It was not something he normally did, but it came to him without thought when he spoke to her.

“I am very glad.” She regarded Monk with interest. “It is time something was done. I should like to think otherwise, but I know Caleb may be at the root of it. I am sorry, Mr. Monk, we have asked of you a most unpleasant task. Caleb is a violent man, and will not welcome any attention from the police, or any other authority. And as you may already be aware, there is also a serious outbreak of typhoid fever in the south area of Limehouse at the moment. We are most grateful that you should have accepted the case.”

She turned to her husband. “Milo, I think we should offer to meet Mr.

Monk's expenses, rather than allow Genevieve to do it. She is hardly in a position… The estate will be frozen, she will have only whatever funds=' “Of course.” He stopped her with a gesture. To speak of such things was indelicate in front of a hired person. He returned his attention to Monk.

“Naturally we shall do so. If you submit whatever accounts you give, we shall see that they are met. Is there anything else we can do?”

“Do you have a likeness of Mr. Stonefield?”

Lady Ravensbrook frowned, thinking on the subject.

“No,” Ravensbrook replied immediately. “Unfortunately not. Childhood likenesses would be of little use, and we have not seen Caleb in fifteen years or more. Angus did not care to have pictures made of him. He considered it vain, and always preferred to have such portraits as there were made of Genevieve or the children. He meant to have one done one day, but now it seems he may have left it too late. I'm Sorry.”

“I can make a sketch for you,” Lady Ravensbrook offered quickly, then the color flushed up her cheeks. “It would not be of any artistic merit, but it would give you some notion of his appearance.”

“Thank you,” Monk accepted before Ravensbrook could interpose any objection. “That would be extremely helpful. If I am to trace his movements, it would make it inuneasurably easier.”

She went to the bureau over at the far side of the room, opened it and took out a pencil and a sheet of notepaper, then sat down to draw. After about five minutes, during which time both Monk and Ravensbrook remained in silence, she returned and proffered it to Monk.

He took it and looked at it, then stared more closely with surprise and considerable interest. It was not the rough, tentative impression he had expected, but a face which leaped out at him, executed in bold lines. The nose was long and straight, the brows winged, the eyes narrow but bright with intelligence. The jaw was broad under the ears, but going to a pointed chin, the mouth wide, poised between humor and gravity. Suddenly Angus Stonefield was real, a man of flesh and blood, of dreams and passions, someone he would grieve to find destroyed in a wanton act of violence and thrown into some dockyard sewer or passageway to the river.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I shall begin again at first light, tomorrow.

Good night my lady, my lord.”