Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “She is asleep!” Hester repeated firmly. “The fever has broken. When she wakens she will begin to get better. It may take some time. She has been very ill, but with care she will make a full recovery. That is if you don’t distress her now and break her rest with your temper!”

  “What?” he said, still angry, confused.

  “Do you wish me to repeat it?” she asked.

  “No! No.” He stood perfectly still—just inside the door. “Are you sure? Do you know what you are talking about?”

  “Yes. I have seen a great deal of typhoid fever before.”

  “In the East End?” he said derisively. “They’re dying like flies!”

  “In the Crimea,” she corrected him. “And hundreds of the men died there too, but not all.”

  “Oh.” His face ironed out. “Yes. I forgot about the Crimea.”

  “You wouldn’t had you been there!” she snapped.

  He made no remark, nor did he thank her, but went out, closing the door behind him.

  She rang the bell, to tell Dingle that Enid was past the crisis and have her take away the bowl of used water. She also asked for a cup of tea. Until that moment she had not realized how devastatingly tired she was.

  Dingle brought her tea, hot buttered toast, a fresh stone hot water bottle and a blanket warmed next to the kitchen fire.

  “But you will stay with her, won’t you?” she asked urgently. “Just in case?”

  “Yes I will,” Hester promised.

  For the first time since Hester had arrived, Dingle’s face relaxed into a smile.

  “Thank you, miss. God bless you.”

  Monk was now certain in his own mind that there was no other course but to find Caleb Stone. None of his doubts about Genevieve warranted any delay or gave rise to anything more than a suspicion at the back of his mind, an awareness, haunting and painful, of other possibilities. But whatever they might be, they still led back to Caleb. There would be both time and need to apportion guilt once Angus’s fate was known, or so deeply implicated that the authorities were obliged to investigate it. He dressed in old clothes which he must have purchased some time ago for such a task. His own wardrobe was immaculate. He had the tailor’s bills from past years as testament to that, and to his vanity. The quality and cut of it, the perfectly fitting shoulders, the smooth, flat lapels made him wince at the expense, at the same time as giving him an acute satisfaction. The feel of the cloth pleased him every time he dressed, as did his elegant reflection in the glass.

  However, today he was bound for Limehouse, and possibly the Isle of Dogs, in search of Caleb Stone, and he did not wish to be obvious as a stranger. As such he would be both disliked and despised, and most certainly lied to. Therefore he put on a torn striped shirt without a collar, then baggy, ill-fitting brownish-black trousers, and grimaced at the figure he cut. Then a stained waistcoat (largely for warmth) and an outer jacket of brown wool with several moth holes in it. He crowned it with a tall hat, and—refusing to look at himself again—he set out into the light drizzle of early morning.

  He took a cab as far as the end of Commercial Road East in the heart of Limehouse, then continued on foot. He already knew it was going to be difficult to find Caleb. He had tried tentatively before. No one was eager to talk about him.

  He turned his coat collar up and walked across Britannia Bridge over the dark water of Limehouse Cut, past the town hall and onto the West India Dock Road, then turned sharp right down Three Colt Street towards the river and Gun Lane. He had several places in mind to pursue the serious quest for Caleb. From what he had already learned of him, his life was a precarious balance on the edge of survival. He had been involved in various acts of violence and duplicity. He had a razor-edge temper and was spoken of in anxious and whispered tones. But so far, Monk had not been able to learn exactly how he made his money, nor where he lived, except most approximately that it was east, downriver from the West India Dock.

  He began with the pawnbroker in Gun Lane. He had been there before. He could not remember anything about either the man himself or the small room no doubt crowded with domestic objects of every kind, grim reminders of the degree of poverty in the area. But the man’s expression of alarm when he stood over the counter and the light from the oil lamps caught his face, was proof that some time in the past they had met before, and Monk had had the best of it.

  Of course, he no longer had the power of the police to use, and Wiggins, the proprietor, was a hard man. He could not have plied his trade for long if he were taken advantage of often.

  “Yes?” he said guardedly as Monk came in empty-handed. Then he recognized him. “I dunno nuffink ter tell yer,” he said defensively. “I in’t got nuffin ’ot, an’ I don’ do no bis’ness wi’ thieves.” He set his fat jaw hard. It was a lie, and they both knew it. Proving it was the issue.

  Monk had already decided his course.

  “I don’t believe you, but then on the other hand, I don’t care either.”

  “Yeah? Since when?” Wiggins’s face registered profound disbelief.

  “Since you’re more use to me in business than in gaol,” Monk replied.

  “Oh, yeah?” He leaned over the counter in the space between two stone jars on one side and a pile of pans and kettles on the other. “Gorn inter a bit o’ tradin’ on the side, ’ave yer?” It was meant as an insult, then as Monk failed to be angry, his expression suddenly changed to one of amazement. “Gorn a bit bent, ’ave we? Well I never. ’Oo’d a’ thought. Mr. Monk, an’ all, reduced ter a bit on the side. ’Urts does it, not gettin’ a reg’lar wage fer ’ounding folks? ’Ungry, are we, an’ cold now an’ agin? Must say as yer don’ look the dandy as yer used ter. Right come down in the world, we ’ave.” His smile grew with each new thought. “If yer wanter ’ock some o’ that fancy rig o’ yours, I daresay as I could see me way ter a fair price. Sell ’em up west, I could, for a nice penny. O’ course, that’s if yer don’ wanna be seen doin’ it yerself, like? Catches yer pride, do it?”

  Monk made a powerful effort to control his temper. He considered returning at a later date in the very best clothes he had, and giving Wiggins a gold sovereign just to make the point.

  “I’m a bad enemy when I’m hard-pressed,” he replied between his teeth. “And I’m hard-pressed now.”

  “You was always a bad enemy,” Wiggins said sourly. “An’ a bad friend too, for all I know. D’jer wanna ’ock summink or not?”

  “I want to do a little business,” Monk said carefully. “Not with you, with Caleb Stone.”

  Wiggins’s face tightened.

  “I’ve got a job for him,” Monk lied. “One I’ll pay him for, and from what I hear, he could use the money. I need to know where to find him, and you seem a good place to start.”

  “I dunno w’ere ter find ’im, nor I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Wiggins’s eyes were cold and hard. They did not flinch a fraction as they met Monk’s.

  The door opened and an undersized woman came in, a thin shawl held around her hunched shoulders, a pair of boots in her hand. She peered at Monk anxiously to determine whether to wait for him to finish his affairs or not.

  “Wotcher want, Maisie?” Wiggins asked, cutting across Monk. “Them your Billy’s boots agin? I’ll give yer sixpence. If’n I gives yer more, yer’ll not raise enough ter get ’em back.”

  “ ’E’ll get paid Friday,” she said tentatively, as if she were saying it more in hope than belief. “ ’E’s got a bit o’ work. But I gotter feed the kids. Gimme a shilling, Mr. Wiggins. I’ll get it back to yer.”

  “They in’t worth a shillin’,” Wiggins said immediately. “Got ’oles in ’em. I know them boots like the back o’ me ’and. Sevenpence. That’s the lot! Take it or leave it.”

  “What work does Billy do?” Monk asked suddenly.

  Wiggins drew in his breath to interrupt, but the woman was too quick.

  “ ’E’ll do anyfink, mister. Yer got summink as yer wants done, my Billy’ll do it for yer.�
� Her thin face was full of hope.

  “I want to find Caleb Stone,” Monk replied. “I just want to know where he lives, that’s all. I’ll speak to him myself. His brother has died, and I want to inform him officially. They were close, even though his brother lived up in the West End.”

  “I kin tell yer w’ere Selina lives,” she said after taking a deep breath. “She’s ’is woman, like.”

  Monk fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. “That’s for you now, and there’s another when you take me to her doorstep. Keep the boots.”

  She grasped the shilling in a thin, dirty hand, shot Wiggins a look halfway between triumph and the knowledge that she would certainly need him again, then led the way out of the door with Monk close behind her. Wiggins swore and spat into a brass cuspidor on the floor.

  Monk was led through lined and grimy streets down to the river and eastward, as he had expected, towards the Isle of Dogs. A raw wind blew up from the water, carrying the smell of salt, stale fish, the overspill of sewage and the cold dampness of the outgoing tide sweeping down from the Pool of London towards the estuary and the sea. Across the gray water endless strings of barges made their heavy way downstream, laden with merchandise for half the earth. Ships passed them outward bound, down towards the docks of Greenwich and beyond.

  A brewers’ dray kept pace with them along the road, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobbles. A rag-and-bone man called out dolefully, as if expecting an answer. Two women on the corner launched into a fierce quarrel and a cat scuttered across an alleyway with a rat in its mouth.

  They were going down Bridge Street, with Limehouse Reach on one side and the West India Docks on the other. Tall masts broke the skyline, barely moving against the clouds. Chimneys belched thin streams of smoke up into the air. Maisie kept walking on past Cuba Street, then at Manilla Street she stopped.

  “Fird ’ouse along ere,” she said huskily. “Dahn ve steps. On’y one door. Vat’s ’er. Selina, ’er name is.” She held out her hand tentatively, not sure if she would get the second shilling or not.

  “What does she look like?” He wanted to see if her description tallied with Mr. Arbuthnot’s. If it did he would trust her, for a shilling.

  “A tart,” she said quickly, then bit her lip. “Quite ’andsome, really, in a flashy sort o’ way. Thin, I suppose, sharp nose, but good eyes, real good eyes.” She looked at Monk to see if that was sufficient, and saw that it was not. “Sort o’ brownish ’air, good an’ thick. Always kind o’ sure of ’erself, least w’en I sees ’er. Walks cocky, wi’ a swing to ’er ’ips. Like I says, a tart.” She sniffed. “But she’s got guts, I’ll give ’er that. Never ’eard ’er moan, not like some. Put a good face on it, no matter wot. An’ she can’t ’ave an easy time, wi’ Caleb Stone bein’ like ’e is.”

  “Thank you.” Monk gave her the shilling. “Have you seen Caleb Stone?”

  “Me? I don’t go looking fer folks like that. I got enough o’ me own troubles. I reckon as mebbe I seen ’im once. Though I’ll deny it if yer asks in front o’ anyone.”

  “I never saw you before,” Monk said easily. “And if I were to see you again, I don’t suppose I should know you. What’s your name?”

  She smiled conspiratorially, showing chipped teeth.

  “In’t got no name.”

  “That’s what I thought. Third house along?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turned and walked down the narrow footpath, barely wide enough to keep his feet out of the gutter, and at the third house went down the steps to the door which led off the small, rubbish-filled areaway. He knocked sharply, and had just raised his hand to repeat it when a window covered with sacking opened above him and an old woman stuck her head out.

  “She in’t there! Come back later ifn’ yer want ’er.”

  Monk leaned back to look up. “How much later?”

  “I dunno. Middle o’ the day, mebbe.” She ducked back in again without closing the window, and Monk stepped away only just in time to avoid being drenched by a pail of bedroom slops.

  He waited in the street about twenty yards along, half sheltered by an overhanging wall, but from where he could still see the steps down to Selina’s rooms. He grew steadily colder, and towards noon it began to rain. Many people passed him, perhaps taking him for a beggar or simply someone with nowhere else to be, one of the thousands who lived on scraps and slept in doorways. The workhouse provided food of a sort, a shelter, but little heat, and the rigid rules were almost as harsh as those in prison. There were some who thought it an even worse place.

  No one regarded him with more than a passing observation, not even curiosity, and he avoided the challenge of meeting their eyes. Paupers, such as he was pretending to be, cast their glances down, wary, ashamed and frightened of everything.

  Shortly after noon he saw a woman approaching from West Ferry Road, where Bridge Street swept around the curve of the river which formed the Isle of Dogs. She was of average height, but she strode with her head high and a kind of swing in her step. Even across the street he could see that her face was highly individual. Her cheekbones were high, giving her eyes a slanted look, her nose well formed, if a little sharp, and her mouth generous. He had no doubt that this was Selina. Her face had the courage and the originality to hold the attention of men like Caleb Stone, who might be violent and degraded now, but who had been born to better things.

  He moved from his position, his legs aching, joints locked from having maintained his stillness for so long. He almost stumbled off the curb; his feet were so cold he had lost sensation in them. He made his way across the street, stepping in the filth and regaining his balance by flailing his arms. Furious with himself, he caught up with her just as she started down the steps.

  She swung around when he was a yard away from her, a knife in her hand.

  “You watch yerself, mister!” she warned. “Try anyfink, an’ I’ll cut yer gizzard out, I warn yer!”

  Monk stood his ground, though she had taken him by surprise. If he backed away she would tell him nothing.

  “I don’t pay for women,” he said with a tight smile. “And I’ve never had to take one who wasn’t willing. I want to talk to you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Disbelief was plain in her face, and yet she was looking at him squarely. There was no broken spirit behind her dark eyes, and her fear was only physical.

  “I’ve come from your sister-in-law.”

  “Well, that’s a new one.” She arched her fine brows with amusement. “I in’t got no sister-in-law, so that’s a lie. Best try again.”

  “I was being polite,” he said between his teeth. “The benefit of the doubt. She is certainly married to Angus. I thought it possible you might be married to Caleb.”

  Her body tightened. Her slim hands on the broken railing were grasping it till the knuckles were white. But her face barely changed.

  “Did yer. So wot if I are? ’Oo are yer?”

  “I told you, I represent Angus’s wife.”

  “No yer don’t.” She looked him up and down with immeasurable scorn. “She wouldn’t give yer ’ouse room! She’d call the rozzers if summink like you even spoke to ’er, less’n it were to ask her for an ’alfpenny’s charity.”

  Monk enunciated very carefully in his best diction.

  “And if I were to come here in my usual clothes, I would be as obvious as you would be dressed like that at a presentation to the Queen. Young ladies wear white for such occasions,” he added.

  “An’ o’ course yer invited ter such fings, so you’d know!” she said sarcastically, but her eyes were searching his face, and the disbelief was waning.

  He put out a strong, clean hand, slim-fingered, immaculate-nailed, and grasped the railing near hers, but did not touch her.

  She looked at his hand a moment, then back at his face.

  “Wotcher want?” she said slowly.

  “Do you want to discuss it on the step? You’ve got nosy neighbors—upstairs, if nowhere else.�
�

  “Fanny Bragg? Jealous ol’ cow. Yeah, she’d love the chance ter throw a bucket o’ slops over me. Come on inside.” And she took out a key and inserted it in the door, turned it and led him in.

  The room was dark, being lit by only one window, and that below street level, but it was larger than he would have guessed from outside, and surprisingly clean. The black potbellied stove gave out a considerable warmth, and there was a rug of knotted rags on the floor. There were three chairs of various colors and in different states of repair, but all of them comfortable enough, and the large bed in the shadows at the farther end was made up and covered with a ragged quilt.

  He closed the door behind him and looked at her with a new regard. Whatever else she was, she had done her best to make a home of this.

  “Well?” she demanded. “So yer come from Angus’s wife. Wot abaht it? Why? Wot does she want wi’ me?” Her lips tightened into an unreadable grimace. Her voice altered tone. “Or is it Caleb yer wants?” There was a world of emotion behind the simple pronunciation of his name. She was afraid of it, and yet her tongue lingered over it as if it were precious and she wanted an excuse to say it again.

  “Yes, Caleb too,” he agreed. She would not have believed him had he denied it.

  “Why?” She did not move. “She never bothered wi’ me afore. Why now? Angus comes ’ere now an’ agin, but she never come.”

  “But Angus does?” he said gently.

  She stared at him. There was fear in the back of her eyes, but also defiance. She would not betray Caleb, whether from love of him, self-interest because in some way he provided for her, or because she knew the violence in him and what he might do to her if she let him down. Monk had no way of knowing. And he would like to have known. In spite of the contempt with which he had begun, he found himself regarding her as more than just a means to find Caleb, or a woman who had attached herself to a bestial man simply to survive.

  He had assumed she was not going to answer when finally she spoke.