Cain His Brother (4 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ravensbrook met his eyes with a long, level stare.

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

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

“Come!” Ravensbrook said with surprise.

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

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

Ravensbrook lifted his hand very slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Ravensbrook frowned, thinking on the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night my lady, my lord.”

Monk spent a restless night and was up early the next morning to resume his search for Angus Stonefield, although he realized grimly that he had already assumed Genevieve was right in her fears, and what he was truly seeking was proof of his death. But whatever he found, it was unlikely to bring her any happiness. If Angus had absconded with money. or another woman, that would not only rob her of the future but, in a sense, of the past as well, of all that was good and she had believed to be true. The hansom set him down on the Waterloo Road.

The rain had stopped and it was a brisk, chilly day with fast scudding clouds. A cutting east wind came up from the river with a smell of salt from the incoming tide, and the soot and smoke of countless chimneys. He stepped smartly out of the way of a carriage and leaped for the footpath.

He pulled his coat collar a little higher and strode out towards Angus Stonefield's place of business. The domestic servants yesterday evening had told him nothing of use. No one had noticed any behavior out of the very ordinary routine of rising at seven and taking breakfast with his wife while his children ate in the nursery. After reading the newspaper, and any post that may have been delivered, he left in sufficient time to arrive at his office by half past eight. He did not keep a carriage but traveled by hansom cab.

The day of his disappearance he had followed exactly that pattern. The morning's post had contained a couple of small household bills, an invitation, and a polite letter from an acquaintance. No one had called at the house other than the usual tradesmen and a woman friend of Genevieve's who came for afternoon tea.

Monk arrived at Stonefield's offices too early, and was obliged to wait a quarter of an hour before Mr. Arbuthnot appeared walking along the pavement from the north, carrying an umbrella in his hand and looking hurried and unhappy. He was a small man with thick gray hair and a gray, immaculately trimmed mustache.

Monk introduced himself.

“Ali!” Arbuthnot said anxiously. “Yes. I suppose it was inevitable.” He took out a key from the pocket of his coat and inserted it into the outer door. He turned it with some effort.

“You believe so?” Monk said with some surprise. “You foresaw such a thing?”

Arbuthnot pushed the door open.

“Well, something has to be done,” he said sadly. “We can't go on like this.

Do come in. Allow me to close this wretched door.”

“It needs oiling,” Monk observed, realizing Arbuthnot was referring to his own inquiries as inevitable, not his employer's disappearance.

“Yes, yes,” Arbuthnot agreed. “I keep telling Jenkins to do it, but he doesn't listen.” He led the way into the main office, empty still, and dark before the lamps were lit, the gray light through the windows being inadequate to work by.

Monk followed him through the glass-paned doors and into his own more comfortably furnished room. With a murmur of apology Arbuthnot bent and put a match to the fire, already carefully laid in the hearth, then let out a sigh of satisfaction as the flames took hold. He lit the lamps also, then took off his coat and invited Monk to do the same.

“What can I tell you that may be of service?” he said, knitting his brows together unhappily. “I have no idea what has happened, or I should already have told the authorities, and we should not now be in this terrible position.”

Monk sat in the rather uncomfortable upright chair opposite him. “I presume you have checked the accounts, Mr. Arbuthnot, and any monies which may be kept here?' -ffis is really very unpleasant, sir,” Arbuthnot said in a tight, quiet voice. “But yes, I felt obliged to do that, even though I was quite certain I should find them in perfect order.”

“And did you?” Monk pressed.

“Indeed, sir, to the farthing. Everything is accounted for and as it should be.” He did not hesitate, nor did his eyes waver. Perhaps it was his perfect steadiness which made Monk believe there was something else to add, some qualification.

“What time did Mr. Stonefield arrive that morning?” he asked. “Perhaps you would tell me everything you recall of that day, in the order it happened.”

“Yes… er, of course.” Arbuthnot shivered a little and turned aside to pick up the poker from the hearth and prod at the fire. He continued with his back to Monk. “He arrived at quarter to nine, as usual. The first delivery of post was already here. He took it into his office and read it-“

“Do you know what was in it?” Monk interrupted.

Arbuthnot finished his administrations to the fire and laid the poker back on its rest. “Orders, delivery notices, advice of shipments, an application for a position as clerk.” He sighed. “A very promising young man, but if Mr. Stonefield does not return, I doubt we should be able to keep those we have, much less employ additional staff.”

“And that was all? Are you quite sure?” Monk avoided the subject of Stonefield's return and the dismissing of staff. There was nothing helpful he could say.

“Yes, I am,” Arbuthnot said firmly. “I asked young Barton about it, and he remembered precisely. You can ask him yourself if you wish, but there was nothing in the post to occasion Mr. Stonefield's departure, of that I am quite certain.”

“Visitors?” Monk asked, watching Arbuthnot's face.

“Ali…” He hesitated. “Yes.”

Monk looked at him steadily. Arbuthnot was distinctly uncomfortable, but Monk had no way of knowing whether it was embarrassment, guilt, or just the general distress of talking about someone he had liked and respected and who was in all probability now dead. And, of course, if the business had to be sold or closed down, he too would lose his livelihood.

“Who?” Monk prompted him.

Arbuthnot gazed at the floor between them.

“Mr. Niven. He's in a similar line of trade himself. At least… he.

.. he was.”

“And now?”

Arbuthnot took a deep breath. “I fear he is on hard times.”

“Why did he come here? I understood from your clerk when I was here yesterday that it was largely Mr. Stonefield's superior skill which was responsible for his misfortune.”

Arbuthnot looked up quickly, his long face full of reproach. “If you think Mr. Stonefield did him out of business on purpose, sir, you are quite wrong, quite wrong indeed! It was never his intention at all. It's just that you have to do the best you can if you want to survive yourself. And Mr. Stonefield was quicker in his judgment, and more accurate. Never exactly took chances”-he shook his head-”if you understand me? But he was very diligent in his studies of trends, and well liked in the business.

People trusted him when they might not someone else.” There was a furrow of concern between his brows and he searched Monk's face to be certain he took his meaning exactly.

Was his scrupulous honesty a safeguarding of his position in case Stonefield should return after all, or a protection for Niven for any of a dozen reasons, including some nature of collusion?

“Why did Mr. Niven come?” Monk repeated. “How was he dressed? What was his demeanor?” As Arbuthnot hesitated again, he became impatient. “If you wish me to have any chance whatever of finding Mr. Stonefield, you must tell me the exact truth!”

Arbuthnot caught the hard edge of Monk's voice, and his prevarication dropped like a mask to reveal acute pity and discomfort.

“He came to see if we could put any work his way, sir. I'm afraid things are most difficult for him. He knew Mr. Stonefield would help him if he could, but I'm afraid there was nothing at present. He did give him a letter of commendation for his honesty and diligence, though, in case that might be of use to him.” He swallowed with an effort.

“And his demeanor?” Monk insisted.

“Distressed,” Arbuthnot said quietly. “At the end of his strength, poor man.” His eyes flicked up at Monk's again. “But a complete gentleman, sir.

Never for a moment did he indulge in self-pity or anger against Mr.

Stonefield. The simple truth is he made an error of judgment in trade which Mr. Stonefield avoided, and at a juncture in the ebb and flow of business when it cost him very dear. He understood that, I believe, and took it like a man.”

Monk was inclined to believe him, but he would still see Titus Niven for himself.

“Was he the only visitor?” he asked.

Arbuthnot colored painfully and took several moments to compose his answer.

His hands were clenched together in front of him, and he looked anywhere but at Monk's eyes.

“No, sir. There was also a lady… at least, a female person. I don't know how to describe her…”

“Honestly!” Monk said tersely.

Arbuthnot drew in his breath, then let it out again.

Monk waited.

Arbuthnot took him very literally, as if it were an escape from expressing a more personal judgment.

“Ordinary sort of height, a trifle thin maybe, but that's a matter of opinion I suppose. Quite well built, really, considering where she came from-”

“Where did she come from?” Monk interrupted. The man was rambling. “Oh, Limehouse way, I should think, from her speech.” Unconsciously Arbuthnot was widening his nostrils and tightening his lips, as though he smelled something distasteful. But then if he were correct and she had come from the slums of the East End dockside, he may well have. The damp overcrowded rooms, the open middens, and the sewage from the river made any alternative impossible.

“Handsome,” Arbuthnot said sadly. “At least nature gave her that, even if she did her best to hide it with paint and garish clothes. Very immodest.”

“A prostitute?” Monk said bluntly.

Arbuthnot winced. “I have no idea. She said nothing to indicate so.”

“What did she say? For heaven's sake, man, don't make me draw answers from you like teeth! Who was she and what did she want? Not to buy or sell corn futures!”

“Of course not!” Arbuthnot blushed furiously. “She asked for Mr.

Stonefield, and when I informed him of her presence, he saw her immediately.” He took another deep breath. “She had been here before.

Twice, that I am aware of. She gave her name as Selina, just that, no surname.”

“Thank you. What did Mr. Stonefield say about her? Did he explain her presence?”

Arbuthnot's eyes widened. “No, sir. It was not our business to inquire into who she was.”

“And he felt no wish to tell you?” Monk let his surprise show. “Who did you suppose her to be? Don't say you did not think of it.”

“Well, yes,” Arbuthnot admitted. “Naturally we did won- der who she was. I assumed it was something to do with his brother, since as you observe, it could not be business.”

The first flush of fire settled down now that the kindling was burned, and Arbuthnot put more coal on.

“What was Mr. Stonefield's manner after she left?” Monk pursued.

“Disturbed. He was somewhat agitated,” Arbuthnot answered unhappily. “He withdrew what money there was in the safe-five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence. He signed a receipt for it, and then he left.”

“How long after Selina was this?”

“As near as I can remember, about ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Did he say where he was going, or when he expected to return?” lie watched Arbuthnot closely.

“No, sir.” Arbuthnot shook his head slowly, his eyes sad and anxious. “He said some urgent matter needed his attention, and I should see Mr. Hurley in his stead. Mr. Hurley was a broker who was expected that afternoon. I assumed he thought he might be out all day, but I fully expected him the following morning. He gave no instructions for the next day, and there were most important matters to attend to. He would not have forgotten.” Suddenly his face filled with grief and an agonizing fear and bewilderment, and Monk realized with a jolt how Arbuthnot's own world had been damaged by Stonefield's disappearance. One day everything had been safe and assured, predictable, if a little pedestrian. The next it was overturned, filled with mystery. Even his livelihood and perhaps his home were jeopardized.

There was uncertainty in every direction. It was he who would have to tell Genevieve that they could no longer continue, and then he would have to dismiss all the rest of the staff and try to wind up the company and salvage what was left, pay the debts and leave a name of honor behind, if little else.

Monk searched his mind for something comforting or helpful to say, and found nothing.

“What time did he leave, as closely as you can recall?” he asked. The question was dry and literal, reflecting nothing of what he felt.

“About half past ten,” Arbuthnot said bleakly, his mild eyes reflecting a dislike Monk understood only too easily.

“Do you know how?”

Arbuthnot stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know how?” Monk repeated. “If I am to trace him, it would be helpful to know if he went on foot or took a hansom, what he was wearing, if he turned left or right upon leaving…

“I see, yes, I see.” Arbuthnot looked relieved. “Of course. I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. It was a most inclement day. He always wore a hat, naturally, a black high hat. He took a hansom, down towards the Waterloo Bridge.” He searched Monk's face. “Do you think you have some chance of finding him?”

A lie sprang to Monk's mind. It would have been easier. He would have liked to leave him with hope, but habit was too strong.

“Not a great deal. But I may learn what became of him, which will be of practical use to Mrs. Stonefield, though of little comfort. I am sorry.”

A succession of emotions played across Arbuthnot's face-pain, resignation, pity, ending in a kind of grudging respect.

“Thank you for your candor, sir. If there is anything else I can do to be of assistance, you have but to inform me.” He rose to his feet. “Now there is a great deal I must attend to.” He gulped and coughed. “Just in case Mr.

Stonefield should return, things must be kept going…”

Monk nodded and said nothing. He stood up and put on his coat. Arbuthnot showed him out through the office, now filled with clerks busy with letters, ledgers, and messages. The room was brightly lit, every lamp burning, neat heads bent over quills, ink and paper. There was no sound but the scratching of nibs and the gentle hissing of the gas. No one looked up as he passed, but he knew there would be whispers and the exchanging of glances the moment he was gone.