by Anne Perry
“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 mistress.”
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.”
She smiled patiently and made no reply, but her silence and the tension in her face were eloquent enough.
Monk continued to eliminate the possibilities other than violence at the hands of Caleb. He began to trace Angus’s actions over the weeks immediately previous to his disappearance. Arbuthnot had a business diary and allowed Monk free access to it, and assisted him with all his own recollections. From Genevieve, Monk learned of Angus’s comings and goings from the home.
They had dined once with friends, and been to the theater twice. There were also events to which Angus had gone alone, mostly as a matter of improving his professional alliances.
Monk pieced all his information together carefully, and found one or two periods of time still unaccounted for. Had he indeed gone to see Caleb, as Genevieve believed? Or had he led some alternate existence of which she knew nothing, a vice of which he was so ashamed he kept it an utterly separate life?
The most obvious thought was another woman, although even the most scrupulous examination of the accounts revealed not a farthing’s discrepancy. Whatever it was, it apparently cost him nothing in terms of money.
Monk grew more and more puzzled, and unhappier.
It was while pursuing Angus Stonefield’s path over the previous month that he went to the Geographic Society in Sackville Street. Angus had said he attended, but there was no record of him there. Monk was leaving, somewhat preoccupied with his thoughts, when he bumped into a young woman who was just mounting the steps. Her companions had gone on ahead of her and were already inside.
He looked up absentmindedly to apologize, then found his attention grasped most firmly. She was quite small and delicately shaped, but there was a fire and charm in her face unlike any other, and she was staring at him intently, searching his features.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a sincerity which surprised him. “I was not looking where I was going. I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
She smiled with what seemed genuine amusement.
“You were a little preoccupied with your thoughts, sir. I hope they were not as gloomy as they seemed.” Her voice was rich and a little husky.
“I’m afraid they were.” Why on earth had he said that? He should have been cautious instead of so frank. Was it too late to retreat? “I was on an unpleasant errand,” he added, by way of explanation.
“I’m sorry.” Her face filled with concern. “I hope at least you can now say it is concluded.”
It was mid-afternoon. He could not abandon the chase for the day, although he was enjoying it less and less. There were certainly gaps in Angus Stonefield’s life, whether he was as blameless as his wife believed or not. Some of them might have been accounted for by visits to Caleb, but were they all?
“Not concluded,” he replied unhappily. “Simply come to another blind alley.”
She did not move. She made a delightful picture standing on the steps in the winter sun. Her hair was the color of warm honey, and thickly coiled. It looked as if it would be soft to the touch and he imagined it would smell sweet, perhaps faintly of flowers, or musk. Her eyes were wide and hazel-brown, her nose straight and strong enough to speak of character, her mouth full-lipped.
A stout gentleman with a rubicund face came down the steps and tipped his hat to her. She smiled back, then turned to Monk again.
“You are seeking something?” she asked with quick perception.
He might as well tell her the truth.
“Did you ever meet a man named Angus Stonefield?”
Her winged eyebrows rose. “Here? Is he a member?”
He changed his mind rapidly. “I believe so.”
“What was he like?” she countered.
“About my height, dark hair, green eyes.” He was about to add that he was probably well dressed and sober of temperament, then he realized that possibly he was denying himself an entire avenue of exploration. Instead he fished in his pocket and brought out Enid Ravensbrook’s drawing and passed it to her.
She accepted it with a slender hand, delicately gloved, and inspected it with considerable thought.
“What an interesting face,” she said at last, looking up at Monk. “Why do you want to know? Or is that a tactless question?”
“He has been absent from his home, and his family are concerned,” he said noncommittally. “Have you seen him?” He found himself hoping that she had, not only for his investigation but because it would allow him further time in her company.
“I am not sure,” she said slowly. “There is something familiar about him, but I cannot think from where. Isn’t it odd how one can think one knows a face but cannot tell from where? Do you have that happen to you? I am sorry to be so vague. I promise I will search my memory, Mr.…”
“Monk,” he said quickly. “William Monk.” He inclined his head in something resembling a bow.
“Drusilla Wyndham,” she replied with a smile which touched not only her lips but her eyes. She was beautiful, and she could not be unaware of it, but neither did it make her arrogant or cold. Indeed, there was a warmth in her and an ability to laugh which he found not only attractive but eminently comfortable. She was sure of herself, she would not need constant flattery and small attentions, nor would she be simplemindedly focused upon marriage. With her beauty,
she could afford to pick and choose and await her fancy.
“How do you do, Miss Wyndham,” he replied.
A gentleman wearing a dark suit and carrying a newspaper brushed past them, his mustache bristling. Without knowing why, Monk glanced at Drusilla Wyndham and saw amusement flash in her eyes, and they both smiled as if understanding some secret joke.
“Are you about to keep some appointment inside?” he asked, hoping fervently that she was not. Already his mind turned over plans to meet her again in less hasty circumstances.
“Yes, but it is not of the slightest importance,” she replied airily, then dropped her lashes quite deliberately, laughing at both herself and him.
“Then would it be acceptable for me to invite you to accompany me for a cup of coffee or hot chocolate?” he said impulsively. “It is damnably cold out here, and there is a most respectable coffeehouse about a hundred yards along the street. And we might sit near the window, so as to be well observed.” Her gaiety and charm were so infectious they reached out to him like the aroma of food to a hungry man. He was ineffably weary of the smell and sound of distress, of knowing everything he pursued would end in someone’s misery. Whatever he found out about Angus Stonefield, it was going to be wretched for Genevieve and her children. There was no happy ending.
And the last thing he wanted to think of was Hester, laboring in the makeshift fever hospital, trying to relieve some tiny measure of the sea of agony around her. They would not alter the dirt or the despair of people. If typhoid did not kill them, poverty, hunger or some other disease would. Even turning it over in his mind made him angry and vulnerable. He did not even like Hester. She was certainly little enough pleasure to be with. Every encounter ended in a quarrel. Except, of course, the last one in Edinburgh. But that was only brought about by impending disaster. It held no truth in it.
“Should I not be taking you out of your way, Mr. Monk?” Drusilla said cheerfully.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I should be delighted to be out of it. It is a most unhappy and unrewarding way at the moment.”
“Then let us go out of it.” She swung around, her huge, smartly checked crinoline skirts brushing the steps.
He offered his arm, and she took it.
They walked together along the footpath in the brisk wind, he on the outside, sheltering her from the splashes of the passing carriages. He walked slowly, to keep pace with her easily.
“I wish I could remember where I have seen that man,” she said with a little shake of her head. “Do you know him well, Mr. Monk?”
Several answers flashed through his mind that would impress her, cut before her the figure he would wish. But lies would catch up with him, and he wanted to know her for more than a few hours. Anything but the truth would jeopardize the future.
“Not at all,” he replied. “His wife asked me to help her. I used to be with the police.”
“You left?” she asked with extraordinary interest. “Why was that? What do you do now?”
A hansom bowled past them, the draught of its passage sending his coattails flying and making her bend her head and turn a little aside.
“A disagreement of principle,” he said briefly.
She looked at him with fascination, her face reflecting amusement and disbelief.
“Please don’t tantalize me so. Over what?” she begged.
“Prosecuting an innocent man,” he answered.
“Well, I never,” she said quietly, her face reflecting a dozen different and conflicting emotions. “That concerned you! And did your resignation save him?”
“No.”
She walked in silence for about twenty yards. She seemed to be thinking deeply. Then suddenly she turned to face him, and her eyes were bright, her expression relaxed.
“And what is it you do now, Mr. Monk? You didn’t tell me. You help ladies in distress because their husbands are missing?” She had a most attractive and individual voice.
“Among other things.” He stopped and indicated the coffeehouse, stepping ahead and opening the door for her. Inside was warm and noisy, and smelled of the delicious aroma of coffee beans grinding, the sweetness of chocolate, and the close, clinging odor of damp coats, wool and fur and wet leather boots.
They were shown straightaway to a table. He asked her what she wished, and on her reply ordered them both hot coffee. When it came the conversation was resumed, although in truth she was such a pleasure to look at he would not have minded silence. He was also aware of the slight hush around them, and the admiring glances of many of the other guests. If Drusilla noticed, she was so accustomed to it, it had no effect upon her.
“It must be a most interesting occupation you have,” she said, sipping at her coffee. “I suppose you meet all sorts of people? Of course you do. It is a foolish question.” She sipped again. “I don’t suppose you even remember them all when a case is over. It must be like a magic lantern slide of life, all passions and mysteries. And then it is solved, and you leave it and begin the next.”
“I am not sure that I would have phrased it like that,” he replied, smiling at her over the rim of his own cup.
“Of course you would. It is fascinating, and so unlike my life, where I know the same tedious people year after year. Now please tell me more of this man who is missing. What manner of person is he?”
Quite unwillingly he told her all he knew that was not in confidence, and watched with pleasure both her intelligence and the smooth, unharassed expression of her face, as if her mind were engaged but she was not going to permit another woman’s tragedy to spoil the pleasure or ease of their encounter.
“It seems to me,” she said thoughtfully, drinking the last of her coffee, “that the first thing you need to determine is whether he has a secret habit of some sort, be it another woman or some vice or other; or if he did as his wife feared, and went to visit his brother in the East End, and met with violence.”
“Quite,” he agreed. “That is why I am pursuing all I can in an effort to trace him during the last two or three weeks before his disappearance.”
“Hence the Geographical Society.” She nodded. “Where else might you try? Perhaps I may be of some assistance?” She bit her lip. “This is, if I am not being too presumptuous?” She looked at him candidly with her wide, hazel eyes, but there was amusement and confidence in them. He knew that if he had refused her she would not have been hurt or offended, simply philosophical, and turned her attention to something else.
Not for a moment did he hesitate.
“Thank you. The matter is urgent, for Mrs. Stonefield’s sake, so I should be grateful for any help at all. As you say, the first thing is to eliminate the most obvious alternative. His business affairs seem to be in excellent order, and his personal finances, so I cannot believe he gambled or indulged in any other vice which cost him money. Would you care for more coffee?”
“Thank you. I should like it very much,” she accepted.
It took him a moment to attract the waiter’s attention, then when the man weaved his way through the tables to them, he ordered and paid. When the coffee came it was as steaming and fragrant as the first.
“Perhaps he was a successful gambler?” Drusilla raised her eyebrows.
“Then why disappear?” he countered.
“Oh, yes, I see.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Well … naughty theater? Peep shows? Some forbidden religion? Séances or black magic?”
He started to laugh. It was wonderful to be able to wander into the realms of the absurd and forget poverty, disease and all the wretchedness he had seen.
“I can’t see the man I’ve discovered so far indulging in anything so frivolous,” he said candidly.
She was laughing too. “Is black magic frivolous?”
“I don’t honestly know,” he confessed. “It sounds pretty irrelevant to reality to me, a sort of escape from responsibility and the daily round of duties, particularly for a man who spends his working hours considering the price of corn and other
commodities.”
“And leads family prayers,” she added, “for a good wife and five children, and however many servants they have, not to mention goes to church every Sunday and observes the Sabbath with all diligence.”
There was a burst of laughter from the next table, and they both ignored it.
“Did you find out if they eat cold meals only, don’t permit singing, whistling, games of any nature, and reading of fiction, taking of sugar in his tea or the eating of sweets or chocolates, in case it causes inappropriate love of luxury? And of course no laughing.”
He groaned. It was not the picture he had formed of Genevieve, but he had not asked. Perhaps Angus was as sober and worthy as that. She had certainly spoken of him in glowing, but rather formal and reverent, words.
“Poor devil,” he said aloud. “If he lived like that, there would be little wonder if he took leave of reality on occasion and did something totally bizarre. It might save his sanity.”
She finished her coffee the second time and sat back.
“Then permit me to discover what I can of such societies, and if anyone I know has met this Angus Stonefield.” Her eyes flickered down and then up again. “And of course there is the other possibility, which seems indelicate to mention, but we are speaking to each other without pretense—I do get so tired of pretense all the time, don’t you? He may have met another woman, one who offers him laughter and affection without demanding anything from him at all, except the same in return. He may long for the freedom from the responsibility of children and the sobriety and decorum of family life. Many men find a liberty to express themselves to another woman in a way they cannot to their wives, if nothing else, simply because they do not have to face her every day across the breakfast table. If they make a fool of themselves, they may walk away and never meet again.”
He looked at her where she sat smiling at him, her slender shoulders so feminine and delicate, her thick shining hair, her lively face with its wide eyes, and always the air of composed amusement about her, as if she knew some secret happiness. He could well understand if Angus Stonefield, or any other man, found such a woman irresistible, a blazing, delicious freedom from the restrictions of the domestic round, the wife who was harassed by the duties of household and children, who did not feel it proper to laugh too easily or too loudly, who was conscious of her duty to him, and her dependence, and very probably who also knew him too well, and had expectations of what he should be, and how it was proper for him to behave.
