Cain His Brother (20 page)

“Is it him ye're after, or summat else?” Archie asked from just ahead of him in the gloom.

“Him. t don't care what else is going on,” Monk replied.

“Then be quiet, an' follow me!”

For what seemed like a quarter of an hour, Monk trudged through the darkness, first from marshland to the road, then along harder surface towards the lights of small cottages huddled on the black landscape, marked out only by the dim eye of oil lamps in windows.

Archie knocked at one door, and when it was opened, spoke for a few moments, but so quietly Monk heard no words. He withdrew and the door closed, leaving them in the bitter night. Archie waited a few minutes until his eyes grew accustomed again, then led the way towards the other side of the neck of land and the far curve of the river.

Monk opened his mouth to ask where they were going, then changed his mind.

It was pointless. He pulled his collar even closer, jammed his hat down again and thrust his hands into his coat pockets and trudged on. The raw fog tasted of salt, sewage and the sour water that lies stagnant in fens and pools beyond the tide's reach. The cold seemed to penetrate the bone.

At last they came to the dry dock at the farthest end and Archie put out his hand in warning.

Monk caught the smell of wood smoke.

Ahead of them was a lean-to made of planking and patched with canvas.

Archie pointed to it, and then stepped aside, making for the far end, disappearing into the darkness, almost instantly swallowed up.

Monk took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had no weapon. Then he flung open the wood-and-canvas flap.

Inside was about a dozen square yards of space, bare but for wooden boxes piled against all of the walls except the farther one, where there was another doorway. It was impossible to tell what the boxes contained. There was a pile of rope forming a rough seat and more unraveled hemp for a bed. In the center a fire was burning briskly, sending smoke and flames up a roughly made chimney. It was blessedly warm after the raw night outside, and Monk was aware of it on the front of his body even as he looked at the one man who squatted beside the fire, a coal in his black-gloved hand, clutched like a weapon. He was tall, loosely built, agile, but it was his face that commanded the attention. It was Enid Ravensbrook's drawing come to life, and yet it was not. The bones were the same, the wide jaw and pointed chin, the strong nose, the high cheekbones, even the green eyes. But the flesh of the face was different, the mouth, the lines from nose to corner of lips. The ex- pression was one of anger and mockery, and at this instant, poised on the edge of violence.

It was unnecessary to ask if he were Caleb Stone.

“Genevieve sent me looking for Angus,” Monk said simply, standing square in the entrance, blocking it.

Caleb rose very slowly to his feet.

“Looking for Angus, are you?” He said the words as if they were curious and amusing, but he was balanced to move suddenly.

Monk watched him, aware of his weight, the coal in his hand.

“He hasn't returned home…”

Caleb laughed jerkily. “Oh, hasn't he, then! And does Genevieve think I don't know that?”

“She thinks you know it very well,” Monk said levelly. “She thinks you are responsible for it.”

“Kept him here, have I?” Caleb's smile was derisive, full of rage.

“Thieving and brawling along the river! Is that what she thinks?” He almost spat the words. It was odd to see him, dressed in clothes so old and soiled they had lost all color and most of their shape, and yet he wore leather gloves. His hair was curly and overlong, matted with dirt, a stubble on his chin. And yet for all his hatred, his words were pronounced with the clarity and diction of his youth and the education Milo Ravensbrook had given him. Monk was aware, even through the contempt he felt for him, of the dual nature of the man, and how the promise of his youth had ended in such utter ruin. Had he not destroyed Angus, Monk could have pitied him, even seen some dim, different reflection of himself. He understood both the rage and the helplessness.

“Have you?” Monk asked. “I hadn't thought so. I rather thought you'd killed him.”

“Killed him.” Caleb smiled, this time showing fine teeth. He weighed the coal in his hand without taking his eyes off Monk. “Killed Angus?” He laughed again, a hard, almost choking, sound. “Yes-I suppose she's right.

I killed Angus!” He started to laugh harder, throwing back his head and letting the noise tear out of him, rising almost hysterically, as if letting go of it hurt.

Monk took a step forward.

Caleb stopped laughing instantly, cut off as if someone had put a hand over his face. He glanced at Monk, his hand raised a little higher.

Monk froze. Caleb had already murdered his brother. If he were to kill Monk here in these desolate marshes, his body might not be found till it was rotted and unrecognizable, if ever. He would fight hard, but Caleb was strong and used to violence, perhaps even to killing, and he had nothing to lose.

Without the slightest warning, Caleb spun around on his heel and lunged for the farther end of the hut, crashing through the makeshift door and sending Archie sprawling in the mud.

By the time Monk had pushed his way through, Archie was scrambling to his feet again, and Caleb had disappeared into the rain and the darkness. They could hear the squelching sound of his feet, and another burst of laughter, then nothing at all.

Oliver Rathbone was one of the most outstanding barristers of the decade.

He had eloquence, discernment and an excellent sense of timing. And better than that, he had the kind of courage which enabled him to take up controversial and desperate cases.

He was at his office in Vere Street, off Lincoln's Inn Fields, when his clerk announced, with a dubious expression, that Mr. Monk was here to see him on a matter of some urgency.

“Of course,” Rathbone said with only the faintest of smiles on his lips.

“Nothing ordinary would bring Monk here. You had better show him in.”

“Yes, Mr. Rathbone.” The clerk retreated and closed the door behind him.

Rathbone folded away the papers he had been reading and tied the file they had come from. He had mixed feelings himself. He had always admired Monk's professional abilities-they were beyond question-and also his courage in dealing with his loss of memory and the identity that went with it. But he also found his manner difficult -abrasive, to say the least. And there was the matter of Hester Latterly. Her fondness for Monk irritated Rathbone, although he was loath to admit it. Monk did not treat her with anything like the respect or regard she warranted. Monk brought out the worst in Rathbone, the greatest intolerance, shortest temper and most ill-considered judgment.

The door opened and Monk came in. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, but he looked tired and harassed. The skin under his eyes was shadowed and his muscles tense.

“Good morning, Monk.” Rathbone rose as an automatic gesture of courtesy.

“What may I do for you?”

Monk closed the door behind himself, not bothering with the trivialities.

He began to speak as he moved to sit down in the chair opposite the desk, crossing his legs.

“I have a case upon which I need your advice.” He did not hesitate for Rathbone to make any comment, but continued straight on, taking for granted that he would accept. “A woman consulted me concerning her husband, who is missing. I have traced him as far as Blackwall, on the Isle of Dogs, where he was last seen, in the company of his twin brother, who lives there, more or less…”

“Just a moment.” Rathbone held up his hand. “I do not deal in cases of desertion or divorce…”

“Neither do I!” Monk said tersely, although Rathbone knew that if that were true at all, it was only so of the last few months. “If you permit me to finish,” Monk continued, “I will reach the point a great deal sooner.”

Rathbone sighed and let his hand fall. From the expression on Monk's face, he was going to continue anyway. It crossed Rathbone's mind to remark that if Monk were taking clients from the Isle of Dogs, he had no occasion to be supercilious, but it would serve no purpose. Conceivably, the case could still be of interest.

“The brothers have long hated each other,” Monk said, staring at Rathbone.

“Caleb, the one who lives in the Blackwall area, survives by theft, intimidation and violence. Angus, my client's husband, lives on the edge of Mayfair, and is a pillar of respectability and orderly family life. He kept in touch with his brother out of loyalty, a feeling which was not returned.

Caleb was furiously jealous.”

Deliberately Rathbone said nothing.

Monk had hesitated only a second. After the silence he swept on. “The wife is convinced Caleb has murdered Angus. He has often attacked him before. I tracked Caleb to the Greenwich marshes, and he admitted having killed An- gus, but I can find no corpse.” His face was hard and tight with anger.

“There are a dozen ways it could have been disposed of: down the river is one of the most obvious, buried and left to rot in the marshes, stuffed in the hold of some outgoing ship, or even taken to sea by Caleb himself as far as the estuary and put overboard. Or he could be buried in a common grave with the typhoid victims in Limehouse. Nobody's going to dig them up for a count and identification!”

Rathbone sat back in his large comfortable chair and made a steeple out of his fingers.

“I assume no one else heard this confession of Caleb's?”

“Of course not.”

“And what evidence have you that it may be true, apart from the wife's conviction?” Rathbone asked him. “She is not an impartial witness. By the way, how was he placed financially? And what other… interests…

might his wife have?”

A look of contempt crossed Monk's face. “He is doing nicely, as long as he is present in his business. It depends upon his personal judgment. It will fall into decline very rapidly if he remains absent, and the estate cannot be resolved. And as for the other question, as far as I can determine, she seems a most virtuous woman, and handsome, but now very anxious for the welfare of her children.”

The irritation in Monk's voice might mean that he resented having his judgment questioned. On the other hand, Rathbone thought, from the level of intensity in Monk's eyes, that he felt some pity for the woman and believed her plight. But then he was uncertain that Monk, who was an excellent judge of men, was equally as good a judge of women.

“Witness to quarrels?” he asked, returning to the immediate issue. “Some specific contention between the two brothers over possessions, a woman, an inheritance, an old injury?”

“A witness who saw them together on the day Angus disappeared,” Monk replied. “They were quarreling then.”

“Hardly damning,” Rathbone said dryly.

“What do I have to have, legally?” Monk's face was like ice. Something of the weariness and frustration showed in it, and Rathbone guessed he had been pursuing the case profitlessly for many days and knew his chances were slight, if any.

“Not necessarily a corpse.” Rathbone leaned forward a little, granting Monk the seriousness he wished. “If you can prove Angus went to the Isle of Dogs, that there was ill feeling between the two, that they were in the habit of quarreling or fighting, that they were seen together that day, and no one at all has seen Angus since then, it may be sufficient to cause the police to institute a search. It will be highly unlikely to convict anyone of murder. It is conceivable Angus may have had an accident and fallen in the river, and the body been carried out to sea. He may even deliberately have lost himself, taken a boat elsewhere. I assume you have checked all his private and business finances?”

“Of course! There is nothing whatever amiss.”

“Then you had better see if you can find some evidence of a quarrel, and much tighter witnesses as to Angus not leaving the scene of their last meeting. So far you have insufficient to warrant the police investigating.

I'm sorry.”

Monk swore, and rose to his feet, his face set in anger and misery.

“Thank you,” he said grimly, and went to the door, leaving without turning around or looking at Rathbone again.

Rathbone sat motionless for nearly a quarter of an hour before reopening the tied file. It was a delicate problem, and in spite of himself, Monk's dilemma intrigued him. Monk seemed morally certain that murder had been committed. He knew who was killed, by whom, where and why, and yet he could prove nothing. It was legally correct-and ethically monstrous. Rathbone racked his brain how he might help.

He lay awake that night, and still nothing came to his mind.

Monk was furious. He had never felt more desperately frustrated. He knew Caleb had murdered Angus-he had admitted as much-and yet he was powerless to do anything about it. He could not even prove death to help Genevieve. It was a most appalling injustice, and it burned like acid inside him.

But he must report to Genevieve. She deserved to know at least as much as he did.

She was not at Ravensbrook House. A prim maid in a crisp apron and cap informed him Mrs. Stonefield had returned home, and now came only during the day.

“Then Lady Ravensbrook is better?” Monk said quickly, and with a pleasure that surprised him.

“Yes sir, she is past the worst, thank the Lord. Miss Latterly is still here. Would you care to speak to her?”

He hesitated only a moment, Hester's face coming to his mind with such clarity it startled him.

“No-thank you. My business is with Mrs. Stonefield. I shall try her home.

Good day.”

Genevieve's door was opened by a between-maid who looked about fifteen years old, round-faced and harassed. Monk gave his name and asked for Genevieve. He was shown into the front parlor and requested to wait. A moment later the maid returned and he was taken to the small, neat withdrawing room with its portrait of the Queen, a pianoforte, legs decently skirted, some embroidered samplers and a few watercolors of the Bay of Naples.

What took him aback completely was Titus Niven standing in front of it, his coat as elegantly cut as before, and as threadbare, his boots polished and paper thin, his face still with the same expression of wry, self-deprecating humor. Genevieve was close beside him, as if they had been in conversation until the moment the door had opened. Monk had the powerful feeling that he had intruded.