Cain His Brother

Chapter 3

Monk was confused by the Stonefield case. It was not that he seriously doubted what had happened to Angus Stonefield. He very much feared that Genevieve was correct and he had indeed received some kind of summons from Caleb and had gone immediately to meet him. In all probability that was why he had taken the five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence that Arbuthnot had spoken of, and for which he had left the receipt. Monk's difficulty was now to prove his death so that the authorities would grant Genevieve the legal status of widow and allow her to inherit his estate.

Then she might sell the business before it was ruined by speculation and neglect, and no doubt the advantage his rivals would take of his absence.

It would be good to talk to Callandra. It was part of their bargain that he share with her any case which was difficult or of particular interest. He was not sure if this one would catch her emotions or not, but he knew from experience that even the act of explaining it to her would clarify it in his own mind. It had happened that way more often than not. She asked pertinent questions and allowed him to escape with no generalizations or inexactitudes. Her understanding of people, especially women, was often far more acute than his. She had a perception of relationships which made him realize, with some pain and a new sense of loneliness, how little he knew of the emotions of interdependence and the closeness of daily friendship and family ties. There were so many gaps in his life, and he did not know if those things had never existed for him or if it was simply that his memory of them was gone. And if he had lived such a narrow and solitary life, was that of his own choosing? Or had some circumstance forced it upon him? What had happened to him-and more urgently by far, what had he done-in all those lost years?

Of course, he had learned fragments, flashes of recollection prompted by some present sight or sound, the glimpse of a face. Some things he had deduced. But there were still vast, empty reaches, only a glimmer of light here and there, and he did not always like what it showed. He had been cruel of tongue, harsh of judgment, but clever… always clever. But if he had not truly loved anyone, or been loved, why not? What ghosts walked in that darkness? What injuries might there be, and would he ever know?

Might they return to horrify him with guilt… or offer him a chance to repay? Might he after all discover acts of generosity and warmth, companionship he would want to recall, sweetness that was precious even in hindsight?

But no matter how hard he searched, nothing returned. There was no shred of memory there, not a face, a smell, or sound that was familiar. The only friends he knew were those of the present. The rest was a void.

Perhaps that was why when he reached Callandra's house he was absurdly disappointed to be told by the maid that she was not in.

“When will she return?” he demanded.

“I couldn't say, sir,” the maid replied gravely. “Maybe tonight, but more likely not. Maybe tomorrow, but I couldn't say so for sure.”

“That's ridiculous!” Monk snapped. “You must know! For heaven's sake, be honest with me. I'm not some social climbing lady friend she doesn't want either to see or to offend.”

The maid drew in her breath and let it out in a sigh of politeness. She knew Monk from many previous visits.

“There's an outbreak of the typhoid in Limehouse, sir. She's gone there to help with Dr. Beck, and I expect a good few others. I really couldn't say when she'll be back. No one can.”

Typhoid. Monk had no personal knowledge that he could recall, but he had heard the fear and the pity in other people's voices, and saw both in the maid's face now.

“Limehouse?” It must have been typhoid the cabby had meant, not typhus. He knew where it was, down by the river along the Reach. “Thank you.” He turned to leave. “Oh…”

“Yes sir?”

“Is there anything I could take for her, a change of clothes perhaps?”

“Well… Yes sir, if you're going that way, I'm sure it'd be appreciated. And per'aps for Miss Hester too?”

“Miss Hester?”

“Yes sir. Miss Hester went as well.”

“Of course.” He should have known she would be there. It was an admirable thing to do, and obvious, with her professional training. So why was he angry? And he was! He stood in the porch entrance while the maid went to fetch the articles and put them in a soft-sided bag for him to carry, and his body was stiff and his hands clenched almost to fists. She rushed into things without thought. Her own opinions were all that mattered. She never listened to anyone else or took advice. She was the most willful and arbi- trary person he knew, vacillating where she should be firm, and dogmatic where she should be flexible. He had tried to reason with her, but she only argued. He could not count the quarrels they had had over one issue or another.

The maid returned with the bag and he took it from her smartly with a brief word of thanks. A moment later he was back in the street, striding out towards the square, where he knew there would be a hansom.

In Limehouse it did not take him long to trace the warehouse on Park Street now converted into a fever hospital. He could see the fear of it in people's faces and the drop in the tone of voice as they spoke of it. He spent all the change he had on half a dozen hot meat pies.

He went in the wide door and up the shallow steps with the pies wrapped in newspaper under his arm and the softsided case in the other hand. The smells of human waste, wet wood, coal smoke and vinegar met him before he was into the main room, which must originally have been designed to accommodate bales of wool, cotton, or other similar merchandise. Now it was ill lit with tallow candles and the entire floor was covered with straw, and blankets under which he could make out the forms of at least eighty people lying in various states of exhaustion and distress.

“Yer got them buckets?”

“What?” He turned around sharply to see a woman with a tired, smut-dirtied face staring at him. She could have been any age from eighteen to forty.

Her fair hair was greasy and screwed into a knot somewhere at the back of her head. Her figure was broad-chested and broad-hipped but her shoulders sagged. It was impossible to tell whether it was from habit or weariness.

Her expression was almost blank. She had seen too much to invest emotion in anything but hope, or grief. A stranger who might or might not have buckets was not worth the effort. Disappointments were expected.

“' Ave yer got the buckets?” she repeated, her voice dropping as she knew already that the answer was negative.

“No. I came to see Lady Callandra Daviot. I'm sorry.” He let the case drop to the floor. “Do you want a hot pie?”

Her eyes widened a little.

He unrolled the newspaper and handed her one. It was still warm and the pastry was crisp. A tiny piece flaked off and fell to the floor.

She hesitated only a moment, her nostrils widening as she caught the aroma.

“Yeah. I do.” She took it and bit into it quickly before he could change his mind. She could not remember the last time she had had such a delicacy, let alone a whole one to herself.

“Is Lady Callandra here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said with her mouth full. “I'll get 'er for yer.” She did not ask his name. Anyone who brought meat pies needed no further credentials.

He smiled in spite of himself.

A moment later Callandra came down the length of the room, also tired and dirty, but a lift in her step and a quickening in her face.

“William?” she said softly when she reached him. “What is it? Why have you come here?”

“Hot pie?” he offered.

She took it with thanks, wiping her hands briefly on her apron. Her eyes searched his, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I have a difficult case,” he answered. “Have you time to listen? It won't take more than ten or fifteen minutes. You have to rest sometime. Come and sit down while you eat the pie.”

“Have you one for Kristian?” she asked, still having taken only a bite from the one he had given her. “And Hester? And Enid? And Mary, of course?” “I don't know Enid or Mary,” he answered. “But I gave one to a young woman with straight hair who expected me to have buckets.”

“Mary. Good. The poor soul has worked herself to dropping. Have you any more? If not, I'll share this one.”

“Yes, I have.” He proffered the rolled-up newspaper. “There are another four in there.”

Callandra took them with a quick smile and carried them back up the dim room to pass them to figures Monk could recognize only with difficulty. The thin, very upright one with the square shoulders and uplifted chin was Hester. He would have known her outline anywhere. No one else held her head at quite that angle. The masculine one had to be Kristian Beck, barely average height, slim-shouldered and strong. The third looked reminiscent of someone he had seen only lately, but in the poor light and the smoke from the stoves and the smell stinging his eyes, he did not know whom.

Callandra returned, eating her own pie before it got cold. She led him into a small room to the side which presumably had once been an office when the building was used for its original purpose. Now it boasted a table piled with blankets, four bottles of gin, three unopened and one half empty, several casks of vinegar, a flagon of Hungarian wine and a candle. Two very rickety chairs were also piled with blankets. Callandra cleared them off and offered him a seat.

“What's the gin for?” he asked. “Desperation?”

“It wouldn't be sitting there unopened if it were,” she replied grimly.

“Tell me about your case.”

He hesitated, uncertain how much to say about Genevieve. Perhaps he should give Callandra only facts and omit his own impressions.

“To clean things with,” she answered his question. “Alcohol is better than water, especially from the wells around here. Not the floors, of course.

The vinegar's for that. I mean plates and spoons.”

He acknowledged the explanation.

“The case…” she prompted, sitting heavily on one of the chairs, which rocked, tilted and righted itself at an angle.

He sat on the other gingerly, but it supported his weight, albeit with an alarming creak.

“A man has disappeared, a businessman, comfortably off and eminently respectable,” he began. “He seems happily married, with five children. It was his wife who came to me.”

Callandra was watching him, so far without interest.

“His wife says he has a twin brother,” Monk continued with a ghost of a smile, “who is in every way opposite. He is violent, ruthless, and lives alone, somewhere in this area.”

“Limehouse?” Callandra said in surprise. “Why here?”

“Apparently choice. He lives by his wits, and occasional gifts from Angus, the missing brother. In spite of their differences, Angus insisted on keeping in touch, although his wife says he was afraid of Caleb.”

“And it is Angus who has disappeared?”

The candle on the table flickered for a moment. It was stuck in the top of an empty bottle and the tallow ran down the side.

“Yes. His wife is deeply afraid that Caleb has murdered him. In fact, I think she is convinced of it.”

She frowned. “Did you say Caleb?” She reached out absently and righted the candle.

“Yes. Why?” he asked.

“It's an unusual name,” she replied. “Not unknown, but not common. I heard only a few hours ago of a brutal man in this area named Caleb Stone. He injured a youth and slashed the face of a woman.”

“The same man!” he said quickly, leaning forward a little. “The brother is Angus Stonefield, but Caleb may well have dropped the second half of his name. It fits with what Genevieve said of him.” He realized as he spoke how he had been hoping inside himself that it was not true, that perhaps her view of Caleb was exaggerated. Now in a sentence that was ended.

Callandra shook her head. “I am afraid if that is so, then you have not only a greater task ahead of you but perhaps an exceedingly difficult one.

Caleb Stone may be guilty, but it will be very hard to prove. There is little love lost for him around here, but fear may hold people silent. I assume you have already inquired into the more usual explanations for the brother's absence?”

“How delicately put,” he said with a sharp edge to his voice. He was not angry with her, only with the circumstances and his own helplessness. “You mean debt, theft or another woman?”

“Something like that…”

“i haven't proved them impossible, simply unlikely. I traced him the last day he was seen. He came as far as Union Road, about a mile from here.”

Before he could add anything further he caught a movement out of the comer of his eye, and turned to see Hester standing in the doorway. Even though he had already seen her dimly in the main room, it had not prepared him for meeting her face-to-face. He had thought a dozen times exactly what he was going to say, how casual he was going to be, as if nothing had changed between them since the conclusion of the trial in Edinburgh. On reflection, that was about the best time to go back to. They could hardly pretend that had not occurred. If she referred to the Farralines, that was acceptable, although the subject might be sensitive to her, and he would respect that.

She would not mention the small room in which they had been trapped, or anything that had happened between them there. That would be so indelicate as to be inexcusable. She knew it had been occasioned by what had seemed the knowledge of certain death, and not an emotion which could be carried into their succeeding lives. To refer to it would be both clumsy and painful.

But women were peculiar where emotions were concerned, especially emotions that had anything to do with love. They were unpredictable and illogical.

How did he know that? Was that some submerged memory, or simply assumption?

Not that Hester was very feminine. He would find her more appealing if she were. She had no art to charm, or the kind of subtle flattery that is only a selection and amplification of the truth. She was much too direct…

almost to the point of challenge. She had no idea when to keep her own counsel and defer to others. Intellectual women were remarkably unattractive. It was not a pleasing quality to be right all the time, most particularly in matters of logic, judgment and military history. She was at once very clever and remarkably stupid.

“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.

“I daresay you are aware,” he began, “or have deduced, that Angus Stonefield is missing. No one knows why. It is now of some urgency, for his family's sake, that he is found. Quite naturally, Mrs. Stonefield is alarmed that he may have been taken ill, attacked, or in some other way met with harm.”

Niven looked genuinely concerned. If it was spurious, he was a master actor. But that was possible. Monk had seen such before.

“I'm sorry,” Niven said quietly. “Poor Mrs. Stonefield. I wish I were in a position to offer her help.” He shrugged and smiled. “But as you can see, I can scarcely help myself. I have not seen Angus since-oh-the eighteenth.

I went to his place of business. But I daresay you know that…' “Yes. Mr. Arbuthnot told me. How did Mr. Stonefield seem to you then? What was his manner?”

Niven waved towards the sofa, and himself sat in one of the two remaining large chairs. “Just as usual,” he answered as soon as Monk was seated.

“Quite composed, courteous, very much in command of himself and of his af- fairs.” He frowned and regarded Monk anxiously. “You understand, I do not mean that in any critical sense. I do not intend to imply he was arbitrary.

Far from it. He was always most courteous. And his staff will have told you, he was a generous master and neither an unreasonable man nor given to rudeness.”

“What did you mean, Mr. Niven?”

Monk watched him closely, but he saw no embarrassment, no hint of deviousness, only a searching for words, and the same glint of humor and self-mockery.

“I meant, I suppose, that Angus ordered his life very well. He hardly ever made mistakes nor lost his ability to govern himself and much of what happened around him. He never seemed out of his depth.”

“Did you know his brother?” Monk was suddenly very curious.

“His brother?” Niven was surprised. “I didn't know he had a brother. In the same line of business? Surely not. I would have known. Genevieve… Mrs.

Stonefield…” He colored slightly and was instantly aware that he had given himself away. “Mrs. Stonefield never mentioned any relative other than his childhood guardian, Lord Ravensbrook,” he went on. “And as tar as I can recollect, she spoke of him only once or twice. They seemed a family very sufficient unto themselves.” There was the faintest shadow of pain in his face, or was it envy? Monk was reminded again, sharply, how very attractive Genevieve was, how alive. She did not talk a great deal, or move vivaciously, yet there was a quality of emotion in her which made other women seem dull in comparison.

“Yes,” Monk replied, watching him closely. “He had a twin brother, Caleb, who is violent and disreputable, a waster bordering on the criminal, if not actually so.” That was something of an understatement, but he wanted to see what Niven made of it.

“I think you are mistaken, sir,” Niven said softly. “If there were such a man, the City would know of it. Angus's reputation would be compromised by the existence of another with his name, and whose character was so unfortu- nate. I have been in the City for fifteen years. Word would have spread.

Whoever told you this is misleading you, or you have misunderstood. And why do you say `had'? Is this brother supposed to be dead? In which case, why raise the fellow's name when it can only hurt Angus?” His body tensed where he sat in the large chair beside the cold hearth. “Or do you also fear Angus may have met with some profound harm?”

“It was a slip of the tongue,” Monk confessed. “I allowed Mrs. Stonefield's anxieties to influence me. I am afraid she is concerned that he is no longer alive, or he would have returned home, or at the very least sent some message to her of his whereabouts.”

Niven remained silent for several moments, deep in thought.

Monk waited.

“Why did you mention this brother, Mr. Monk?” Niven asked at length. “Is he a fabrication, or do you believe him to be real?”

“Oh, he is real,” Monk affirmed. “There is no doubt of that. You have not encountered him because he neither works in the City nor lives in the suburbs. He occupies himself entirely in the East End and calls himself Stone, rather than Stonefield. But Angus kept in touch with him. It seems the old loyalties died hard.”

Niven smiled. “That sounds like Angus. He could not abandon a friend, much less a brother. I assume you have been in touch with this man, and he can tell you nothing?”

“I have not found him yet,” Monk replied. “He is elusive, and I fear he may be at the heart of the problem, even perhaps responsible for it. I am investigating all other possibilities as well. Regrettable as it is, others do come to mind.”

“One is frequently surprised by people,” Niven agreed. “Nevertheless, I think you will not find that Angus had financial problems, nor will you discover that he has a mistress, or a bigamous wife somewhere else. If you had known him as I did, none of these thoughts would come to your mind.”

Niven's face was earnest in concentration. “Angus was the most honest of men, not only in deed but even in thought. I have learned much from him, Mr. Monk. His integrity was something I admired intensely, and I wished to pattern myself upon it. He was truly a man to whom true goodness was the highest aim, above wealth or status or the pleasures of his success.” He leaned towards Monk. “And he understood goodness! He did not mistake it for some new absence of outward vice. He knew it for honor, generosity, loyalty, tolerance of others and the gift of gratitude without a shred of arrogance.”

Monk was surprised, not only by what he said but by the depth of his emotion.

“You speak very well of him, Mr. Niven, considering that he is largely responsible for your present misfortune,” he said, rising to his feet.

Niven stood also, his face flushed pink.

“I have lost my wealth and my position, sir, but not my honor. What I say is no less than I have observed.”

“That is apparent,” Monk acknowledged with an inclination of his head.

“Thank you for your time.”

“I fear I have been of little service.” Niven moved towards the door.

Monk did not explain that he had not expected to learn anything of Angus from him, but only to make some estimate as to the likelihood of Niven's having harmed Angus himself. Niven was a man of quick intelligence, but also a certain naivete. It would be an unnecessary cruelty to suggest that now.

Monk expended some further effort trying to learn more of Angus from various social and professional acquaintances, but nothing varied from the picture already painted. The Stonefields had enjoyed several pleasant friendships but entertained little. Enjoyment seemed to be within the family, with the exception of the occasional evenings at concerts or the theater. Certainly their manner of living was very well within their means, although those means must now be growing considerably thinner as she was unable to draw from the business. And since he was nominally still in charge, Genevieve was unable to exercise any jurisdiction herself, or to claim any inheritance.

“What am I to do?” she said desperately when Monk called on her at the end of along and fruitless day, now nine days since Angus's disappearance.

“What if you never find… Angus's body?” There was a crack in her voice and she was keeping her composure only with a visible effort.

Monk longed to comfort her, and yet he could not lie. He toyed with it. He turned over in his mind all the possibilities, seriously considering each.

And yet he could not force the words out.

“There are other ways of satisfying the authorities of death, Mrs.

Stonefield,” he answered her. “Especially where a tidal river like the Thames is concerned. But they will require that all other avenues are explored as well.”

“You will not find anything, Mr. Monk,” she said flatly. They were standing in the withdrawing room. It was cold. The fire was not lit, nor were the lamps. “I understand why you must do it, but it is a waste of your time, and mine,” she continued. “And I have less and less left as each day goes by.” She turned away. “I dare not spend money on anything but necessities, food and coal. I do not know how long that will last. I cannot think of things like boots, and James is growing out of his. Already his toes press against the leather. I was about to purchase them…” She did not add the rest; it was obvious, and she did not wish to say it again.

“Will you not consider accepting Lord Ravensbrook's offer, at least temporarily?” Monk asked. He could understand her reluctance to be dependent upon someone else's kindness, but this was not a time to allow pride to dictate.

She took a deep breath. The muscles tightened in her neck and shoulders, pulling the fabric of her blue, checked dress till he could see the line of stitches at the seam.

“I don't believe it is what Angus would have wished,” she said so quietly he barely heard her. She seemed to be speaking as much to herself as to him. “On the other hand,” she went on, scowling in concentration, “he would not wish us to be in want.” She shivered as if the thought made her cold, and not the room.

“It is only just over a week, Mrs. Stonefield,” he pointed out as gently as he could. “I am sure Lord Ravensbrook would advance you sufficient funds for immediate necessities, against the estate, if you do not wish to accept a gift. There cannot be much else that will not wait. If the boots have served until now-”

She swung around to him, her eyes frightened, her hands clenched. “You don't understand!” Her voice rose with a high pitch of fear in it. She was accusing, angry with him. “Angus isn't going to come back! Caleb has finally mur- dered him, and we shall be left on our own with nothing! Today it is just a matter of being a little careful with food. No meat except on Sundays, a little herring or bloater, onions, oatmeal, sometimes cheese. Apples if we are lucky.” She glanced at the fire, then back at him. “Be careful with the coal. Sit in the kitchen where the stove is, instead of lighting the parlor fire. Use tallow candles instead of wax. Don't burn the lights until you absolutely cannot see. Patch your clothes. Pass from the elder children to the younger. Never buy new.” Her voice was growing harsher as panic rose inside her. “But it will get a lot worse. I have no family to help me. It will come to selling the house while I can still afford to bargain and get a fair price. Move to lodgings, two rooms if we are fortunate. Live on bread and tea, and maybe a pig's head or a sheep's head once a month if we are lucky, or a little tripe or offal. The children won't have school anymore-they'll have to work at whatever they can, as will I.” She swallowed convulsively. “I cannot even reasonably hope they will all live to grow up.

In poverty one doesn't. One or two may, and that will be a blessing, at least for me to have them with me. Only God knows what awaits them!” He looked at her in amazement. Her imagination had carried her close to hysteria. He could see it in her eyes and in her body. Part of him was moved by pity for her. Her grief was real and she had cause for anxiety, but the wildness in her was out of character, and he was surprised how it repelled him.

“You are leaping too far ahead, Mrs. Stonefield,” he said without the gentleness he had intended. “You-”

“I won't let it happen!” she interrupted him furiously. “I won't!” He saw the tears in her eyes, and glimpsed how fragile she was under the mask of courage. He had never had to be responsible for other people, for children who trusted and were so vulnerable. At least as far as he knew he had not.

Even the idea of it had no familiarity to him. He realized it only partially, as a stranger might catch sight through a window.

“The situation need never arise,” he said softly, taking a step closer to her. “I shall do everything I can to find out what happened to your husband and to prove it to the authorities' satisfaction. Then either your husband will be returned to you or you will inherit the business, which is doing well. In that case you may appoint someone to manage it for you, and at least your financial welfare will be taken care of.” That was an overstatement, but he made it without compunction. “Until then, Lord Ravensbrook will care for you as he did for Angus and Caleb when they were left to misfortune. After all, you are, by his own choice, family. Your children are his only grandchildren. It is natural he should wish to provide for them.”

She made a visible effort to control herself, straightening her back and lifting her chin. She took a deep breath and swallowed.

“Of course,” she said more steadily. “I am sure you will do all you can, Mr. Monk, and I pray God it will be sufficient. Although you do not know Caleb's cunning or his cruelty, or you would not be so confident. As for Lord Ravensbrook, I expect I must steel myself to accept his charity.” She tried to smile and failed. “You must think me very ungrateful, but I do not care for his ways a great deal, and I am not prepared lightly to give the upbringing of my children into his hands.” She looked at him very steadily.

“When one lives in someone else's house, Mr. Monk, one loses a great deal of the rights of decision one is used to. It is a hundred small things, each of which are trivial in themselves, but together they amount to a loss of freedom which is very hard.”

He tried to imagine it, and could not. He had never lived with anyone else except in childhood, at least as far as he knew. To him home was a solitary place, a retreat, but also an isolation. Its freedom had never occurred to him.

She gave a little shrug. “You think it is foolish of me. I can see it in your face. Perhaps it is. But I dislike not being able to decide whether to have the window open or closed, what time to rise or retire, at what hour I shall eat. And that is absurd, when the alternative may be not to eat at all, I know that. But the things that matter are how I shall discipline my children, what they shall be permitted to do and what not, whether my girls may learn what they wish, or if it must be music and painting and how to sew. And above all, I care to choose for myself what I shall read. I care very much. This house is mine! Here I am my own mis- tress.”

The anger was back in her face, and the spirit he had seen the first day he met her.

He smiled. “That is not absurd, Mrs. Stonefield. We should be poor creatures if we did not care about such things. Perhaps Lord Ravensbrook may be prevailed upon to make you an allowance. You could remain here, albeit in straitened circumstances, but with autonomy.”

She smiled patiently and made no reply, but her silence and the tension in her face were eloquent enough.

Monk continued to eliminate the possibilities other than violence at the hands of Caleb. He began to trace Angus's actions over the weeks immediately previous to his disappearance. Arbuthnot had a business diary and allowed Monk free access to it, and assisted him with all his own recollections. From Genevieve, Monk learned of Angus's comings and goings from the home.

They had dined once with friends, and been to the theater twice. There were also events to which Angus had gone alone, mostly as a matter of improving his professional alliances.

Monk pieced all his information together carefully, and found one or two periods of time still unaccounted for. Had he indeed gone to see Caleb, as Genevieve believed? Or had he led some alternate existence of which she knew nothing, a vice of which he was so ashamed he kept it an utterly separate life?

The most obvious thought was another woman, although even the most scrupulous examination of the accounts revealed not a farthing's discrepancy. Whatever it was, it apparently cost him nothing in terms of money.

Monk grew more and more puzzled, and unhappier.

It was while pursuing Angus Stonefield's path over the previous month that he went to the Geographic Society in Sackville Street. Angus had said he attended, but there was no record of him there. Monk was leaving, somewhat preoccupied with his thoughts, when he bumped into a young woman who was just mounting the steps. Her companions had gone on ahead of her and were already inside.

He looked up absentmindedly to apologize, then found his attention grasped most firmly. She was quite small and delicately shaped, but there was a fire and charm in her face unlike any other, and she was staring at him intently, searching his features.

“I'm sorry,” he said with a sincerity which surprised him. “I was not looking where I was going. I beg your pardon, ma'am.”

She smiled with what seemed genuine amusement.

“You were a little preoccupied with your thoughts, sir. I hope they were not as gloomy as they seemed.” Her voice was rich and a little husky. “I'm afraid they were.” Why on earth had he said that? He should have been cautious instead of so frank. Was it too late to retreat? “I was on an unpleasant errand,” he added, by way of explanation.

“I'm sorry.” Her face filled with concern. “I hope at least you can now say it is concluded.”

It was mid-afternoon. He could not abandon the chase for the day, although he was enjoying it less and less. There were certainly gaps in Angus Stonefield's life, whether he was as blameless as his wife believed or not.

Some of them might have been accounted for by visits to Caleb, but were they all? “Not concluded,” he replied unhappily. “Simply come to another blind alley.”

She did not move. She made a delightful picture standing on the steps in the winter sun. Her hair was the color of warm honey, and thickly coiled.

It looked as if it would be soft to the touch and he imagined it would smell sweet, perhaps faintly of flowers, or musk. Her eyes were wide and hazel-brown, her nose straight and strong enough to speak of character, her mouth full-lipped.

A stout gentleman with a rubicund face came down the steps and tipped his hat to her. She smiled back, then turned to Monk again.

“You are seeking something?” she asked with quick perception.

He might as well tell her the truth.

“Did you ever meet a man named Angus Stonefield?”

Her winged eyebrows rose. “Here? Is he a member?”

He changed his mind rapidly. “I believe so.”

“What was he like?” she countered.

“About my height, dark hair, green eyes.” He was about to add that he was probably well dressed and sober of temperament, then he realized that possibly he was denying himself an entire avenue of exploration. Instead he fished in his pocket and brought out Enid Ravensbrook's drawing and passed it to her.

She accepted it with a slender hand, delicately gloved, and inspected it with considerable thought.

“What an interesting face,” she said at last, looking up at Monk. “Why do you want to know? Or is that a tactless question?”

“He has been absent from his home, and his family are concerned,” he said noncommittally. “Have you seen him?” He found himself hoping that she had, not only for his investigation but because it would allow him further time in her company.

“I am not sure,” she said slowly. “There is something familiar about him, but I cannot think from where. Isn't it odd how one can think one knows a face but cannot tell from where? Do you have that happen to you? I am sorry to be so vague. I promise I will search my memory, Mr…

“Monk,” he said quickly. “William Monk.” He inclined his head in something resembling a bow.

“Drusilla Wyndham,” she replied with a smile which touched not only her lips but her eyes. She was beautiful, and she could not be unaware of it, but neither did it make her arrogant or cold. Indeed, there was a warmth in her and an ability to laugh which he found not only attractive but eminently comfortable. She was sure of herself, she would not need constant flattery and small attentions, nor would she be simplemindedly focused upon marriage. With her beauty, she could afford to pick and choose and await her fancy.

“How do you do, Miss Wyndham,” he replied.

A gentleman wearing a dark suit and carrying a newspaper brushed past them, his mustache bristling. Without knowing why, Monk glanced at Drusilla Wyndham and saw amusement flash in her eyes, and they both smiled as if un- derstanding some secret joke.

“Are you about to keep some appointment inside?” he asked, hoping fervently that she was not. Already his mind turned over plans to meet her again in less hasty circumstances.

“Yes, but it is not of the slightest importance,” she replied airily, then dropped her lashes quite deliberately, laughing at both herself and him.

“Then would it be acceptable for me to invite you to accompany me for a cup of coffee or hot chocolate?” he said impulsively. “It is damnably cold out here, and there is a most respectable coffeehouse about a hundred yards along the street. And we might sit near the window, so as to be well observed.” Her gaiety and charm were so infectious they reached out to him like the aroma of food to a hungry man. He was ineffably weary of the smell and sound of distress, of knowing everything he pursued would end in someone's misery. Whatever he found out about Angus Stonefield, it was going to be wretched for Genevieve and her children.

There was no happy ending.

And the last thing he wanted to think of was Hester, laboring in the makeshift fever hospital, trying to relieve some tiny measure of the sea of agony around her. They would not alter the dirt or the despair of people.

If typhoid did not kill them, poverty, hunger or some other disease would.

Even turning it over in his mind made him angry and vulnerable. He did not even like Hester. She was certainly little enough pleasure to be with.

Every encounter ended in a quarrel. Except, of course, the last one in Edinburgh. But that was only brought about by impending disaster. It held no truth in it.

“Should I not be taking you out of your way, Mr. Monk?” Drusilla said cheerfully.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And I should be delighted to be out of it. It is a most unhappy and unrewarding way at the moment.”

“Then let us go out of it.” She swung around, her huge, smartly checked crinoline skirts brushing the steps.

He offered his arm, and she took it.

They walked together along the footpath in the brisk wind, he on the outside, sheltering her from the splashes of the passing carriages. He walked slowly, to keep pace with her easily.

“I wish I could remember where I have seen that man,” she said with a little shake of her head. “Do you know him well, Mr. Monk?”

Several answers flashed through his mind that would impress her, cut before her the figure he would wish. But lies would catch up with him, and he wanted to know her for more than a few hours. Anything but the truth would jeopardize the future.

“Not at all,” he replied. “His wife asked me to help her. I used to be with the police.”

“You left?” she asked with extraordinary interest. “Why was that? What do you do now?”

A hansom bowled past them, the draught of its passage sending his coattails flying and making her bend her head and turn a little aside.

“A disagreement of principle,” he said briefly.

She looked at him with fascination, her face reflecting amusement and disbelief.

“Please don't tantalize me so. Over what?” she begged.

“Prosecuting an innocent man,” he answered.

“Well, I never,” she said quietly, her face reflecting a dozen different and conflicting emotions. “That concerned you! And did your resignation save him?”

“No.”

She walked in silence for about twenty yards. She seemed to be thinking deeply. Then suddenly she turned to face him, and her eyes were bright, her expression relaxed.

“And what is it you do now, Mr. Monk? You didn't tell me. You help ladies in distress because their husbands are missing?” She had a most attractive and individual voice.

“Among other things.” He stopped and indicated the coffeehouse, stepping ahead and opening the door for her. Inside was warm and noisy, and smelled of the delicious aroma of coffee beans grinding, the sweetness of chocolate, and the close, clinging odor of damp coats, wool and fur and wet leather boots.

They were shown straightaway to a table. He asked her what she wished, and on her reply ordered them both hot coffee. When it came the conversation was resumed, although in truth she was such a pleasure to look at he would not have minded silence. He was also aware of the slight hush around them, and the admiring glances of many of the other guests. If Drusilla noticed, she was so accustomed to it, it had no effect upon her.

“It must be a most interesting occupation you have,” she said, sipping at her coffee. “I suppose you meet all sorts of people? Of course you do. It is a foolish question.” She sipped again. “I don't suppose you even remember them all when a case is over. It must be like a magic lantern slide of life, all passions and mysteries. And then it is solved, and you leave it and begin the next.”

“I am not sure that I would have phrased it like that,” he replied, smiling at her over the rim of his own cup.

“Of course you would. It is fascinating, and so unlike my life, where I know the same tedious people year after year. Now please tell me more of this man who is missing. What manner of person is he?”

Quite unwillingly he told her all he knew that was not in confidence, and watched with pleasure both her intelligence and the smooth, unharassed expression of her face, as if her mind were engaged but she was not going to permit another woman's tragedy to spoil the pleasure or ease of their encounter.

“It seems to me,” she said thoughtfully, drinking the last of her coffee, “that the first thing you need to determine is whether he has a secret habit of some sort, be it another woman or some vice or other; or if he did as his wife feared, and went to visit his brother in the East End, and met with violence.”

“Quite,” he agreed. “That is why I am pursuing all I can in an effort to trace him during the last two or three weeks before his disappearance.”

“Hence the Geographical Society.” She nodded. “Where else might you try?

Perhaps I may be of some assistance?” She bit her lip. “This is, if I am not being too presumptuous?” She looked at him candidly with her wide, hazel eyes, but there was amusement and confidence in them. He knew that if he had refused her she would not have been hurt or offended, simply philosophical, and turned her attention to something else.

Not for a moment did he hesitate.

“Thank you. The matter is urgent, for Mrs. Stonefield's sake, so I should be grateful for any help at all. As you say, the first thing is to eliminate the most obvious alternative. His business affairs seem to be in excellent order, and his personal finances, so I cannot believe he gambled or indulged in any other vice which cost him money. Would you care for more coffee?”

“Thank you. I should like it very much,” she accepted.

It took him a moment to attract the waiter's attention, then when the man weaved his way through the tables to them, he ordered and paid. When the coffee came it was as steaming and fragrant as the first.

“Perhaps he was a successful gambler?” Drusilla raised her eyebrows.

“Then why disappear?” he countered.

“Oh, yes, I see.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Well.. naughty theater? Peep shows? Some forbidden religion? Seances or black magic?”

He started to laugh. It was wonderful to be able to wander into the realms of the absurd and forget poverty, disease and all the wretchedness he had seen.

“I can't see the man I've discovered so far indulging in anything so frivolous,” he said candidly.

She was laughing too. “Is black magic frivolous?”

“I don't honestly know,” he confessed. “It sounds pretty irrelevant to reality to me, a sort of escape from responsibility and the daily round of duties, particularly for a man who spends his working hours considering the price of corn and other commodities.”

“And leads family prayers,” she added, “for a good wife and five children, and however many servants they have, not to mention goes to church every Sunday and observes the Sabbath with all diligence.”

There was a burst of laughter from the next table, and they both ignored it.

“Did you find out if they eat cold meals only, don't permit singing, whistling, games of any nature, and reading of fiction, taking of sugar in his tea or the eating of sweets or chocolates, in case it causes inappropriate love of luxury? And of course no laughing.”

He groaned. It was not the picture he had formed of Genevieve, but he had not asked. Perhaps Angus was as sober and worthy as that. She had certainly spoken of him in glowing, but rather formal and reverent, words.

“Poor devil,” he said aloud. “If he lived like that, there would be little wonder if he took leave of reality on occasion and did something totally bizarre. It might save his sanity.”

She finished her coffee the second time and sat back.

“Then permit me to discover what I can of such societies, and if anyone I know has met this Angus Stonefield.” Her eyes flickered down and then up again. “And of course there is the other possibility, which seems indelicate to mention, but we are speaking to each other without pretense-I do get so tired of pretense all the time, don't you? He may have met another woman, one who offers him laughter and affection without demanding anything from him at all, except the same in return. He may long for the freedom from the responsibility of children and the sobriety and decorum of family life. Many men find a liberty to express themselves to another woman in a way they cannot to their wives, if nothing else, simply because they do not have to face her every day across the breakfast table. If they make a fool of themselves, they may walk away and never meet again.”

He looked at her where she sat smiling at him, her slender shoulders so feminine and delicate, her thick shining hair, her lively face with its wide eyes, and always the air of composed amusement about her, as if she knew some secret happiness. He could well understand if Angus Stonefield, or any other man, found such a woman irresistible, a blazing, delicious freedom from the restrictions of the domestic round, the wife who was harassed by the duties of household and children, who did not feel it proper to laugh too easily or too loudly, who was conscious of her duty to him, and her dependence, and very probably who also knew him too well, and had expectations of what he should be, and how it was proper for him to behave.

Yes, perhaps Angus Stonefield had done precisely that. And if he had, Monk, for one, would not entirely blame him. On the other hand, he also felt a very sharp spur of envy which took him completely by surprise. Was Drusilla speaking from supposition? Or had she been that exquisite, delightful “other woman” for Stonefield, or for someone else? He would resent it profoundly if she had-which was both painful and absurd, but if he were as honest with himself as he was with others, still real.

“Of course,” he said at last, finishing his coffee also. “ I shall look into that as well.”