Cain His Brother (26 page)

What Angus lacked in physical exercise and the practice of fighting, perhaps he would at least partially compensate for with better nourishment and health.

Monk ate supper in a different tavern and set out into the dark. The rain had stopped and it was even colder. A mist was rising off the river, hanging in thin wreaths across the streets and dimming the few lights. The foghorns of barges drifted across the water, disembodied and mournful. On the corner of Robinhood Lane and the East India Dock Road two men were warming themselves by a brazier of roasting chestnuts.

Monk was drawn towards it because it was a refuge from the biting cold. It was human company and a light in the enveloping darkness, the endless sound of the creeping tide and the fine beads of moisture that gathered on everything and fell with myriad tiny sounds as if the night were alive. As he drew closer he saw that one of the men was wearing an old seaman's jacket, too narrow across the shoulders for him, but at least waterproof. The other had on what at a glance he would have taken to be a tailored wool coat, had such a thing not been absurd in this place. And as his eyes followed the line of it down the man's body, he saw that it hung loosely, even shapelessly. When he moved his arm to poke the brazier, it was obvious the coat was so badly torn it was open at the sides, and there was a patch beneath one shoulder much darker. It was probably wet. Poor devil. Monk was cold enough in his fine broadcloth overcoat.

“Twopence for some chestnuts,” he offered bluntly. He did not want to stand out as too obviously a stranger.

The man in the coat held out his hand wordlessly.

Monk put twopence in it.

The man picked out a dozen chestnuts expertly and left them in the ashes at the side to cool. His coat was of beautiful cut. The lapels set perfectly, the rim of the collar had been stitched by a tailor who knew his job. And Monk was a connoisseur of such things. The coat had been made for a man of Monk's height and breadth of shoulder.

Angus Stonefield?

He looked down at the man's trousers. In the light of the brazier's glow it was hard to see, but he judged they matched.

A wild idea came into his mind. It was a desperate throw. “I'll swap clothes with you for a guinea!”

“What?” The man stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard.

On the face of it, it was ridiculous. Monk had not changed since he left Ravensbrook House. His coat had cost him several pounds. He could not afford to replace it. But then if Drusilla went ahead with her intentions, he could end up no better off than this wretched man anyway. At least he would have the satisfaction of having caught Caleb Stone first. That would be one case of justice served!

“My coat for your jacket and trousers,” he repeated.

The man weighed up his chances. “An' yer 'at,” he bargained.

“The coat or nothing!” Monk snapped.

“What'll I do wi' no trouser?” the man demanded. “In't decent!”

“My jacket and trousers for yours, and I'll keep the coat,” Monk offered.

“And the hat.” It was a better deal anyway. He had other suits.

“Le's see.” The man was not going to take goods blindly.

Monk opened his coat so the man could judge his suit.

“Done!” he said instantly. “Yer daft, yer are, but a deal's a deal.”

Solemnly, in the fog-shrouded darkness beside the brazier, they exchanged clothes, Monk holding very firmly to his coat, just in case the man had any ideas of theft.

“Daft,” the man repeated again as he pulled Monk's warm jacket around him.

It was too big, but it was a great deal better than the ripped one he had parted with.

Monk replaced his coat, nodded to the other man, who had watched the whole procedure with incredulity as if it had been some kind of drunken illusion, then he turned and walked away back along the East India Dock Road, to somewhere where he could find a hansom and go home.

Monk woke the following morning with his head reeling and his body feeling stiff and chilled, but also with a sense of anticipation, as if some long- sought success had finally been achieved. Then as he got out of bed and sneezed, he remembered Drusilla, and the joy drained out of him as if he had slit a vein.

He washed, shaved and dressed before bothering to look at the clothes he had acquired the previous night. His landlady brought breakfast and he ate it without tasting it. Five minutes afterwards he could not even remember what it had been.

Finally he picked up the clothes, jacket first, and examined it in the cold daylight near the window. It was made of a fine woolen cloth with a distinctive weave, beautifully cut in a conservative manner, with no concessions to fashion, simply quality. The tailor's name was stitched in the seam. More importantly as evidence, the sides were ripped as if someone had slashed it with a knife. There was a bloodstain about four inches across and some ten inches down on the left shoulder, roughly over where a man's heart would be, except it was at the back. There was also a small tear in the right elbow, no more than an inch long, and a scraping on the right forearm where several threads had been caught and pulled. Whoever had been wearing it had been involved in a serious fight, possibly even a fatal one.

And as he had observed the night before, the trousers matched the jacket.

One knee was torn out, threads were pulled on both legs and there were stains of mud. The waist at the back was heavily soaked in blood.

He had only one choice. He must show them to Genevieve Stonefield. Without her identification of them, they were useless as evidence. The thought of subjecting her to such an ordeal was repellant, but there was no alter- native. He could not protect her from it. And if anyone found the body, he would not be able to protect her from that either.

No one should face such an ordeal alone. There should be someone to offer her support, at least to care for her physically. There could be no comfort that would temper the cruelty of the truth.

But who`? Hester was too busy with the typhoid outbreak, similarly Callandra. Enid Ravensbrook was still far too ill. Lord Ravensbrook she did not care for, or perhaps she was simply afraid of him. Arbuthnot was an employee, and one whom she would in due course have to instruct in what remained of the business.

There was only Titus Niven. Monk had suspected ill of him at one time, but he knew nothing to his discredit. The man was gentle, discreet, and too familiar with pain himself to treat it unkindly. Titus Niven it must be. And if he were party to Angus's death, then the fine irony of this was only one more element to compound the tragedy.

Monk wrapped the clothes in a bundle, put them in a soft-sided traveling bag and set out.

Niven was at home and received him with courtesy, but did not conceal his surprise. He was dressed in the same elegantly cut but slightly shabby clothes, and there was no fire in the grate. The room was bitterly cold. He looked embarrassed, but did not apologize for the temperature. He offered hot coffee, which Monk knew he could ill afford-either the coffee itself or the gas to heat it.

“Thank you, but I have only lately finished breakfast,” Monk declined.

“Besides, I have come on some business which would rob the pleasure of any refreshment at all. I would be most obliged if you could help me to break it to Mrs. Stonefield with as much gentleness as possible, and to be with her to offer any comfort you may.”

Niven's face paled. “You have found Angus's body?”

“No, but I have found what I think may well be his clothes. I need her to identify them.”

“Is that necessary?” Niven's voice was choked in his throat and his eyes pleaded with Monk.

“I wouldn't ask it if it were not,” Monk said gently. “I think they are his, but I cannot pursue the matter with the police until I am certain beyond doubt. She is the only one whose word they would accept.”

“The valet?” Niven asked thinly, then bit his lip. Perhaps he already knew Genevieve had dismissed all the servants but the children's nurse and the housemaid, so sure was she in her heart that Angus would never return. “Yes… yes, I suppose you are right,” he agreed. “Do you wish me to come with you now?”

“If you please. She should not be told when she is alone.”

“May I see them? I knew Angus well. Unless they are very new, I may be familiar with them. I do at least know his taste and style.”

“And the name of his tailor?” Monk asked.

“Yes. Mr. Wicklow, of Wicklow and Harper.”

It was the name in the suit Monk had worn back from the East India Dock Road. A dead man's clothes. He nodded, tightening his lips, and unrolled the package out of his bag.

Niven's face was ashen. He saw the blood, the stains of mud and water and the torn and slashed fabric. He swallowed with a convulsive movement of his throat, and nodded his head. He looked up at Monk, his blue eyes steady and filled with horror.

“I'll get my coat.” And he turned away. Monk noticed that his hands were shaking very slightly and his shoulders were rigidly straight, as if he were making a deliberate effort to control himself and stand almost at attention.

They took a hansom and rode in silence. There was nothing to say, and neither of them made the pretense of conversation. Monk found himself hoping, so profoundly that it was almost a prayer, that Niven had had no part in Angus's death. The more he saw of the man, the more he both liked and admired him.

They alighted at Genevieve's home, but told the cab to wait. She might be at Ravensbrook House, and they might need to follow her there and very possibly bring her home immediately.

However, that proved not to be necessary. The housemaid who answered the door informed them that Mrs. Stonefield was at home, and when she recognized Niven, she had no hesitation in letting them in.

Monk paid the cab and dismissed it, following Niven within moments. “What is it, Mr. Monk?” Genevieve asked immediately, dismissing the nursemaid and sending the two children with her. One look at Niven's face had told her the news was extremely serious. “You've found Angus…

“No.” He would tell her as quickly as possible. Drawing it out only added another dimension to the suffering. “I have found some clothes which I believe may be his. If they are, and you have no doubt, it may be sufficient to cause the police to act.”

“I See.” imvcuraly-hiSt.ner_ þ _A_ll_nw me to – Her voice waS a.y u. see them.”

Niven moved closer to her. Even at this anguished time, Monk noticed that he was not embarrassed. He had no selfconsciousness. Perhaps it was because his thoughts were entirely upon her that he spared no part of his mind for himself. It was curiously comforting, a moment's warmth in the icy cold.

Monk opened his bag and took out the jacket. There was no need for her to see the trousers as well, and the blood soaking them. He unrolled it and held it up. He kept the shoulder towards himself, away from her, showing her only the inside and the tailor's mark.

She drew in her breath sharply and her hands flew to her mouth.

“Is it his?” Monk asked, although he knew the answer.

She was incapable of speech, but she nodded her head, her eyes filled with tears. She struggled against them, and failed.

Without a word, Niven put his arms around her, and she turned and buried her head in his shoulder.

There was nothing for Monk to say or do. He repacked the jacket, closed the bag and left without saying anything further, not troubling the maid to open or close the door for him.

This time the police did not argue. The sergeant regarded the jacket and trousers with a kind of vicious satisfaction, a slow smile spreading across his thin features.

“Got ' im,” he said quietly. He regarded the bloodstain on the jacket with a shake of his head. “Poor sod!” He pushed them to one side of the desk and turned his head. “Robinson!” he shouted. “Robinson! Come 'ere! We're goin' to get a party together an' go after Caleb Stone. I want 'alf a dozen men wot knows the river, quick on their feet an' ready for a fight. Got that?”

From somewhere out of sight there was an answer in the affirmative. The sergeant looked back at Monk.

“I'm obliged,” he said with a nod. “We'll get 'im this time. Can't say as we'll make it stick, but we'll scare the 'ell out of 'im.”

“I'm coming with you,” Monk stated.

The sergeant sucked in his breath, then changed his mind. Perhaps an extra man would be useful, especially one with such a marked interest in success.

And also, perhaps Monk deserved it.

“Right y'are then,” he agreed. “We'll be off in”-he consulted his pocket watch, a handsome silver piece of considerable size-”fifteen minutes.”

Half an hour later Monk was walking down Wharf Road beside a Constable Benyon, a lean young man with an eager face and a long, straight nose. The wind, smelling of smoke, damp and sewage, blew in their faces. They had be- gun on the east side of the Isle of Dogs, where the Greenwich Reach moves towards the Blackwall Reach, with instructions to follow the river downstream on the north shore. Two others were taking Limehouse, two more Greenwich and the south shore. The sergeant himself was coordinating their efforts from a hansom, moving from east to west. A further constable was detailed to cross the river and meet the team from Greenwich at the Crown and Sceptre Tavern at two o'clock, unless they were hot on the trail, in which case a message would be left.

“Reckon 'e'll be downriver, meself,” Benyon said thoughtfully. “More like Blackwall, or the East India Docks. Else 'e'll be on t'other side. I'd a' taken ter the marshes, if I'd a bin 'im.”

“He doesn't think we can touch him,” Monk replied, hunching his shoulders against the chill coming up off the water. “Told me himself we'd never find the body.”

“Mebbe we won't need one,” Benyon said, willing himself to believe it.

They turned off Barque Street onto Manchester Road, passing a group of dockers going down towards the ferry. On the corner a one-legged sailor was selling matches. A running patterer jogged towards Ship Street corner, turned and disappeared.

“Wastin' our time 'ere.” Benyon pulled a face. “I'll ask at the Cubitt Town pier. That's about the best place ter start.”