Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  The sergeant was waiting.

  “No,” Monk answered. “I am inquiring on behalf of his wife. This is not something a woman should have to do.”

  The sergeant winced. He had seen too many pale-faced, frightened women doing exactly that; wives, mothers, even daughters, standing as Monk was now, afraid, and yet half hoping the long agony of uncertainty was over.

  “ ’Ow old?” the sergeant asked.

  “Forty-one.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “No sir. No one answering to that. Got two men, one not more’n twenty, the other fat wi’ ginger ’air. Though ’ed be late thirties or thereabouts, poor devil.”

  “Thank you.” Monk was suddenly relieved, which was absurd. He was no further forward. If Angus Stonefield was dead, he needed to find proof of it for Genevieve. If he had simply absconded, that would be a worse blow for her, leaving her both destitute and robbed even of the comfort of the past. “Thank you,” he repeated, his voice grimmer.

  The sergeant frowned, at a loss to understand.

  Monk did not owe him an explanation. On the other hand, he might very well need him again. A friend was more valuable than an enemy. He winced at his own stupidity in the past.

  Arrogance was self-defeating. He bit his lip and smiled dourly at the sergeant. “I think the poor man is dead. To have found his body would be a relief … in a way. Of course, I would like to hope he is alive, but it is not realistic.”

  “I see.” The sergeant sniffed. Monk had no doubt from the expression in his mild eyes that he did indeed understand. He had probably met many similar cases before.

  “I’ll come back,” Monk said briefly. “He may yet turn up.”

  “If yer like,” the sergeant agreed.

  Monk left the East End and traveled west again to resume investigation into other possibilities. The more he thought of the face Enid Ravensbrook had drawn, the more he thought he would be remiss simply to accept Genevieve’s word for Angus’s probity and almost boringly respectable life. The sergeant of the River Police had thought him, for a moment, to be a relative of Monk’s because of the similarity of description. What words would Monk have used of his own face? How did you convey anything of the essence of a man? Not by the color of his eyes or hair, his age, his height or weight. There was something reckless in his own face. He remembered the shock with which he had first seen it in the glass after his return from hospital. Then it had been the face of a stranger, a man about whom he knew nothing. But the strength had been there in the nose, the smooth cheeks, the thin mouth, the steadiness of the eyes.

  In what way was Angus Stonefield different, that they could not be brothers? It was there, but he could not place it, it was something elusive, something he thought was vulnerable.

  Was it in the man? Or only in Enid Ravensbrook’s sketch?

  He spent a further day and a half trying to establish a clearer picture of Angus. What emerged was an eminently decent man, not only respected by all who knew him but also quite genuinely liked. If he had offended anyone, Monk could not find him. He was a regular attender at church. His employees thought him generous, his business rivals considered him fair in every respect. Even those whom he had beaten to a good deal could find no serious fault with him. If anyone had a criticism, it lay in the fact that his sense of humor was a little slow and he was overformal with women, which probably sprang from shyness. On occasion he spoiled his children and lacked the type of discipline considered proper. All the faults of a careful and gentle man.

  Monk went to see Titus Niven. He didn’t know what he expected to learn, but it was an avenue which should not be overlooked. Possibly Niven might have some insight into Angus Stonefield that no one else had felt comfortable to speak.

  Genevieve had supplied him with Niven’s address, about a mile away, off the Marylebone Road. She had looked somewhat anxious, but she refrained from asking him if he expected to learn anything.

  The first time Monk called there was no one at home except one small maid-of-all-work who said Mr. Niven was out, but she had no idea where or at what time he might be back.

  Monk could see the strain of poverty staring at him from every surface, the girl’s face, the hemp mat on the floor, the unheated air smelling of damp and soot. It was not a poor neighborhood; it was a very comfortable one in which this individual house had fallen upon greatly reduced circumstances. It stirred memories in him, but they were indistinct, emotions of anger and pity rather than fear.

  When he called in the evening, Titus Niven himself opened the door. He was a tall man, slender, with a long-nosed, sensitive face full of humor and, at the moment, a mixture of self-deprecation and hope struggling against despair. Monk’s instinct was to like the man, but his intelligence told him to be suspicious. He was the one person known to have a grudge against Angus Stonefield, perhaps a legitimate one, certainly one that was very real. How successful he had been previously Monk could not estimate until he was inside the house, but he certainly was in dire straits now.

  “Good evening, sir?” Niven said tentatively, his eyes on Monk’s face.

  “Mr. Titus Niven?” Monk inquired, although he was in no doubt.

  “Yes sir?”

  “My name is Monk. I have been retained by Mrs. Stonefield to inquire into Mr. Stonefield’s present whereabouts.” There was no point in evasion any longer. To ask only such questions as would leave it concealed would be a waste of time, which was short enough, and he had accomplished nothing so far. It was already seven days since Angus had last been seen.

  “Come in, sir.” Niven opened the door wide and stood back to allow Monk to pass. “It is a cruel night to stand on the step.”

  “Thank you.” Monk went into the house, and almost immediately was aware just how far Titus Niven had fallen. The architecture was gracious and designed for better times. It had been decorated within the last year or two and was in excellent condition. The curtains were splendid, and presumably would be the last things to be sacrificed to necessity, for the privacy they offered when drawn but even more for their warmth across the cold, rain-streaked glass. But there were no pictures on the walls, although he could see with a practiced eye where the picture hooks had been. There were no ornaments except a simple, cheap clock—to judge from the curtains, not Niven’s taste at all. The furniture was of good quality, but there was far too little of it. There were bare spaces which leaped to the eye, and the fire in the large hearth was a mere smoldering of a couple of pieces of coal, a gesture rather than a warmth.

  Monk looked at Niven and saw from his face that words were unnecessary. Niven had seen that he understood. Neither comment nor excuse would serve purpose, only add weight to the pain that was real enough.

  Monk stood in the center of the room. It would somehow be a presumption to sit down before he was invited, as if the man’s poverty reduced his status as host.

  “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 affairs.” He frowned and regarded Monk anxiously. “You understand, I do not mean that in any critic
al 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 far 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 unfortunate. 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 naïveté. 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 a long 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 murdered 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.