Cain His Brother (9 page)

“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.”