Cain His Brother (28 page)

“Monk!”

Where was the voice coming from?

“Monk! Jump, man!”

Then he saw the second rowing boat with the sergeant and another constable in it. Without a second's hesitation he jumped, landing in it and sending it rocking so violently it all but overturned. The constable at the oars let out an oath. The sergeant grabbed him roughly and forced him down on the duckboards at the bottom, and the boat righted itself and plowed forward again.

“After 'im!” the sergeant shouted unnecessarily.

They sat in silence, Monk still half crouched. The constable at the oars dug them into the water with all the strength he possessed, hurling his weight against them so violently that for several strokes the boat veered and bounced, then he settled down to an even pace and picked up speed.

There was hardly any light now. The late afternoon had drawn in and the overcast sky had robbed what little there was and the rising river mist distorted shapes. Foghorns sounded eerily. The lights of a clipper appeared, shadowed spars towering above them, drifting like giant trees in the sky. They rocked roughly in its wake.

“Where is the bastard?” the sergeant said between his teeth, peering forward through the gloom. “I'll get that swine if it's the last thing I do!”

“Bugsby's marshes,” Monk answered, straightening his legs to sit up properly. “I'll wager he's going downriver again.”

“Why?”

“He'll know we have men in Greenwich, and people who would say where he went. But he knows the marshes and we don't. We'll never get him once he's ashore there in the dark.”

The sergeant swore.

The constable pulled harder on the oars, his back straining, hands rubbed to blisters. The boat sped over the misty, dark-running tide.

The shore loomed up before they were prepared. There were no lights, only the mud banks catching the last of the daylight in thin, shining strips, and the soft, seeping sound of the rising water in the marsh reeds.

Monk scrambled forward and jumped out into mud up to his calves. It took a surprising effort to pull himself loose from its ice-cold, sucking grip.

But twenty yards downstream he could see another figure on a firmer stretch, and the black shape of a boat pulling away, as if it had landed the devil himself and would flee for salvation.

The constable was out behind him, cursing at the mud. Together they squelched and struggled over the slime onto firmer shore, floundering towards Caleb, who was already trying to run.

No one shouted again. They all three plunged wildly through the deepening mist as the rising wind blew wraiths of it around them, then away again.

The sergeant brought up the rear, dogged and determined, swinging inland a little, driving Caleb towards the point, cutting off his retreat back towards Greenwich.

It was another fifteen minutes of exhausting, heartpounding, leg-aching pursuit before at last they cornered Caleb with his back to the river and nowhere else to turn.

He held his gloved hands up, open wide. They could no longer see his face, but Monk could imagine his expression from his voice in the darkness. “All right! Take me!” he yelled. “Take me to your petty little courtroom, and your charade of a trial! What will you convict me of? There's no corpse!

No corpse!” And he threw his head back and roared with laughter. The sound of it echoed across the dark water and was swallowed in the mist. “You'll never find a corpse-you fools!”

The sergeant never for a moment hesitated about charging Caleb with the murder of Angus Stonefield. However, when the Crown Prosecutor came to consider the case, it was a different matter. He debated the evidence be- fore him, and in the middle of the day sent for Oliver Rathbone. “Well?” he demanded, when Rathbone had reviewed what they knew and heard the tale of Caleb's arrest. “Is there any point in bringing him to trial? In fact have we sufficient evidence even to proceed with a charge?” Rathbone thought about it for some time before replying. It was a rare bright winter day and the sun shone in through the long windows.

“I have some knowledge of the case,” he said thoughtfully, sitting with his elegant legs crossed, his fingertips placed together. “Monk consulted me some time ago about the evidence necessary to presume death. He was acting for Mrs. Stonefield.”

The prosecutor's eyebrows rose. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“Not really,” Rathbone answered. “Poor woman was convinced in her own mind of what had happened, and understandably wished to be in a position to appoint someone to continue the business, before it was too severely dam- aged by Stonefield's absence.”

“So what do you know that might assist this case?” The prosecutor leaned back in his chair and regarded Rathbone steadily. “I'm inclined to believe Stone did kill his brother. I should very much like to see him answer for it, but I'm damned if I'll send to trial a case we cannot win, and which will leave the wretched man vindicated, as well as making us a laughingstock.”

“Oh, indeed,” Rathbone agreed heartily. “It would be sickening to have him acquitted for lack of evidence, and the moment after have the corpse turn up, with proof of his guilt, and not be able to do a damned thing about it.

That's the trouble, we have only the one shot. It must hit the mark, there is no second chance.”

“Considering that as children both men were wards of Lord Ravensbrook, it may well be a case which attracts some attention,” the prosecutor went on, “in spite of Stone's present highly disreputable way of life. It will be interesting to see who defends him.” He sighed. “If there is a need for defense.”

“The wretched man has admitted killing his brother,” Rathbone said grimly.

“Boasted of it, in fact.”

“It will still be very tight. We have no corpse, no absolute evidence of death…”

“But a great deal of circumstantial evidence,” Rathbone argued, leaning forward. “They were seen together the day Stonefield disappeared, even seen quarreling. Stonefield's torn and bloodstained clothing has been found, and no one has seen him since.”

The prosecutor shook his head. “Still possible he's alive somewhere.”

“Where?” Rathbone demanded. “Jumped a ship and sailed to China or the Indies?”

“Or America?”

“But from a Pool of London quay, downriver, at what time?” Rathbone argued. “For America it would more likely be Liverpool or Southampton. Come to that, what time was it he was last seen? Was the tide going out or coming in? Couldn't jump a ship on the incoming tide, unless he ended up in London again. And why would he do that? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” He sat back in his chair again. “No. You'd never persuade a jury he simply took flight. From what? He had no debts, no enemies, no incipient scandal. No, he's dead, poor devil. Probably buried in one of the common graves of the Limehouse typhoid victims.”

“Then prove it,” the prosecutor said grimly. “If his lawyer is worth his pay, you'll have a very hard job, Rathbone, a very hard job indeed. But I wish you luck.”

When Rathbone returned to Vere Street he found Monk waiting for him. Monk looked appalling. His clothes were as immaculate as always and he was freshly shaved, but his face was haggard, as if he were ill and had not slept. When he stood up to follow Rathbone into his office, without per- mission, he moved as though his entire body ached. From his appearance he might have been in the later stages of rheumatism. Rathbone had very ambivalent feelings about him, but he would never have wished him ill..

. a slight reduction in arrogance and self-confidence, perhaps, but not this. It disturbed him more than he was prepared for.

“Close the door,” he ordered unnecessarily. Monk was in the act of doing so, and stood against it for a moment, staring at Rathbone as he went around the desk and sat behind it. “You got Caleb Stone, I know. I've just come from the Crown Prosecutor's office. It would help a great deal to have more evidence.”

“I know that!” Monk said savagely, moving away from the door and sitting painfully in the chair opposite the desk. “Maybe the police will set up a proper search and find the body. I imagine they'll go on dragging the river. Something I was hardly equipped to do. Although this much later, they'd have to be lucky to find it. They could always search the Greenwich and Bugsby marshes. For someone of Angus Stonefield's standing they'd think it worth it”

“They might also think it worth it to get a conviction, now that they have made an arrest,” Rathbone said with a slight smile. “They have rather committed themselves. They won't want to be obliged to let Caleb Stone free. He'd be insufferable. He'd be a hero to every villain from Wapping to Woolwich. But you know that better than L”

“What does he think?”

“The prosecutor?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “A chance, but he's not optimistic. Would you like a cup of tea? You… look…” He hesitated, not sure how literal to be.

“No-yes.” Monk shrugged. “Tea won't help.” He made as if to stand up, too restless to wait, but then apparently found it painful, and reclined back into his chair.

“It was a rough chase?” Rathbone said with a dry smile.

Monk winced. “Very.”

Rathbone rang his bell and when the clerk appeared he ordered tea. “I want it, even if you don't. Now, tell me why you've come. It wasn't to know the Crown Prosecutor's opinion of the case.”

“No,” Monk agreed, then remained silent for several seconds.

Rathbone felt a chill inside. For something to have affected Monk this deeply it must be very ugly indeed. He had another appointment in twenty minutes. He could not afford delay, and yet he knew impatience would be clumsy, and he had no desire to add to the burden, whatever it was. Perhaps Monk sensed his urgency. He looked up suddenly, as if having reached a resolve. His jaw was clenched and there was a muscle flicking in his temple. His words came out in a tight, level, carefully controlled monotone, as though he dared not allow any emotions through or it would all explode beyond his mastery.

“I met a woman some time ago, by chance, on the steps of the Geographical Society in Sackville Street. We became acquainted and I saw her several times after that. She was charming, intelligent, full of wit and enthusiasm.” His voice was a flat concentrated monotone. “She expressed interest in the Stonefield case, because I was looking to find trace of Angus Stonefield. The long and short of it is we spent an evening together walking around Soho area looking for places where either Angus or Genevieve Stonefield might have met a lover. Of course we didn't find anything. I don't know if either of us expected to. It was an evening of enjoyment, away from the restrictions of society for her, and from the misery of poverty and crime for me.”

Rathbone nodded but did not interrupt. It sounded very natural. He had no idea what was coming.

“I took her home in a hansom-” Monk stopped, his face white.

Rathbone said nothing to fill the silence.

Monk took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

“We were passing along North Audley Street and were forced to slow because one of the large houses had been holding some social event and the guests were leaving. Suddenly she tore open the bodice of her gown, stared at me with passionate hatred, then shrieked and threw herself out of the moving hansom. She landed sprawled in the street, picked herself up and ran, screaming that I had assaulted her.”

It was preposterous, but it was not a story utterly new to Rathbone. He had heard of hysterical women inviting advances and then suddenly and without the slightest warning that a man could see, losing their heads and accusing assault. Usually the matter could be kept private with a little sensible discussion and the exchange of money-or a promise of marriage. Money was preferable-it was a far cheaper price in the long run. But why would anyone do such a thing to Monk? She could hardly wish to marry him. No society woman could marry a private agent of inquiry. And he had no money. Although possibly she did not know that. He dressed like a wealthy man.

Monk had a letter in his hand. He held it out. Rathbone took it and read it, then folded it up and laid it on his desk.

“That puts rather a different complexion on the subject,” he said slowly.

“It would appear from this that it is revenge she wishes. I assume you have no idea why, or you would have mentioned it.”

“No. I've racked my memory, what there is of it.” A bitter mockery passed over his face. “There's nothing at all. Not a shred. She's beautiful, amusing, a delight to be with, and there's not even a ghost, not a tiny thread, of familiarity.” His voice rose, sharp in desperation. “Nothing!”

Rathbone caught a moment of the nightmare, the bitter horror of living inside a man you did not know. The one thing which in all eternity you could never escape was yourself. Quite suddenly and devastatingly he understood Monk as he never had before.

But if he were to be of use, he must quash emotion. A man clouded by feelings was less able to think rationally or to perceive the truth. “Then perhaps it was not she you wronged,” he said thoughtfully, “but someone she loved. A woman will often feel more passionately and take far greater risks to protect a loved one than she will to save herself.” He saw the sudden light of hope in Monk's eyes.

“But for God's sake, who?” he demanded. “It could be anyone!”

There was a light rap on the door, and they both ignored it.

“Well I know of no one better able to investigate it than you,” Rathbone pointed out. “And it matters, Monk.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk between them. “Don't delude yourself you can remain unharmed if she chooses to pursue this. Even if she proves nothing at all, such a charge, quite unsubstantiated, would still be enough to ruin you. If you were a gentleman in society, with means and family reputation, and she were a young woman seeking a husband, then you might ride it out. You could say she was hysterical, a lightly balanced woman, given to vapors or imaginings… even that she had imagined your favor and taken your rejection hard.

But no one is going to believe that of a man in your position.”

“Good God, don't you think I know that!” Monk said furiously. “If she were a young woman seeking a husband, and I were likely material, she wouldn't do it anyway. Think what it would do to her own reputation. What gentleman will look at her now? I'm not so damned ignorant I don't know what it will cost her. Nor is she. That's what makes it so terrifying. She hates me enough to destroy herself in order to destroy me.”

“Then whatever you did to cause it is profound,” Rathbone said. It was not meant in cruelty, but there was no time or space to deal in less than the truth, and he was aware of his desk just beyond the door, and his next ap- pointment. “I'm not sure how much it may protect you to know,” he went on, “but if you do search, I would begin by looking for someone who may have been unjustly convicted, or a person hanged, or jailed and perhaps died there. Don't begin with thefts or embezzlements, or the victims of petty crime. In other words, start with the result of the investigation, not the weight of the evidence or your own certainty that the prosecution was just.”

“Will it help if I find it?” Monk asked, pinned between hope and bitterness.

Rathbone toyed with a lie, but only for an instant. Monk was not a man to give another an easy sop. He did not deserve it himself.

“Possibly not,” he answered. “Only if it comes to trial, and you could prove she has a motive of revenge. But if she has as much intelligence as you suggest, I doubt she'll seek a prosecution. She'd be unlikely in that event to get one, certainly not a conviction, unless she had an extraordi- nary biased jury.” His face tightened and his eyes were steady. “She will do far more damage to you, and leave you less chance of escape, vindication, or counterattack, if she simply passes the word around. She will not land you in prison that way, but she will ruin your career. You will be reduced to-' I know!” Monk snapped, rising to his feet abruptly, and with a sharp intake of breath as his aching muscles and bruised body hurt him. “I shall have to scrape a living working for people in the fringes of trade or the under- world, looking for errant husbands, collecting bad debts and chasing petty thieves.” He turned his back on Rathbone and stared out of the window. “And I shall be lucky if they can afford to pay me enough for me to eat daily.

There will be no more cases of any interest to Callandra Daviot, and she can't keep supporting me for nothing. I don't need you to tell me that. I shall have to move lodgings, and when my clothes wear out I shall be reduced to secondhand. I know all that.”

Rathbone longed to be able to say something, anything, of comfort, but there was nothing, and he was increasingly aware of the faint noises from the office, and his next client waiting.

“Then for your own peace of mind at least, you had better do all you can to discover who she is,” he said grimly. “And more importantly, who she was, and why she hates you so much she is prepared to do this.”

“Thank you,” Monk murmured as he went out, closing the door behind him and all but bumping into the clerk hovering until he should leave, and he might show in the gentleman waiting impatiently at his elbow.

Of course Rathbone was right. He had not really needed anyone to tell him, it was simply a release of the loneliness of it to hear the words from someone else, and someone who, for all their past differences, at least believed his account. And his advice regarding where to search was sound.

He walked along Vere Street deep in thought, oblivious of other pedestrians or carriages passing him by.