Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “Caleb Stone,” Monk replied. “A violent sort of man, who almost certainly murdered his brother. I don’t suppose I can prove that, not when the body could be anywhere. But I want to know if he’s dead, for the widow’s sake. I don’t give a damn about Caleb.”

  “Don’t ye? He murdered his brother, and ye don’t care?” the bargee said with a sideways squint.

  “I’d prove it if I could,” Monk admitted. “But I’m hired to prove the brother’s dead, so she can at least have what’s hers and feed his children. I think she’d sooner have that than revenge. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Aye,” the bargee agreed. “Aye, I would that. So ye want Caleb?”

  “Yes.” Monk stared fixedly at the darkening river. Was it worth trying to get across to the other side now? He had no idea where to start looking, or even if Caleb might have doubled back and by now be safe in some comfortable public house in the Isle of Dogs.

  “I’ll take ye,” the bargee offered suddenly. “I know where ’e’s gone. Leastways, I know where ’e’s likely gone. I don’t do wi’ leavin’ bairns without a father. He’s a bad one, Caleb.”

  “Thank you,” Monk accepted before the man had time to change his mind. “What’s your name? Mine’s Monk.”

  “Oh, aye. Don’t suit ye, less it be one o’ them inquisitor monks what used to burn folks. Mine’s Archie McLeish. Ye’d better come wi’ me. I’ve a boat a few paces along. Not much, cold and wet, but it’ll get us across.” And he turned and ambled off, walking on the sides of his feet with a sway as if the dockside were moving.

  Monk caught up with him. “The inquisitors burned people for their beliefs,” he said waspishly. “I don’t give a sod what people believe, only what they do to each other.”

  “Ye have the face o’ a man who cares,” Archie replied without looking at him. “I wouldn’a want ye after me. I’d as soon have the de’il himself.” He stopped at the top of a narrow flight of steps leading down to the water where a very small boat was rising gently as the tide rose. “It’s a hard thing to care,” he added.

  Monk was about to deny that he cared, but Archie was not listening to him. He had bent his broad back and was loosening the moorings, which seemed to be in an extraordinarily complicated knot.

  Monk climbed in and Archie settled to the oars. He pulled out skillfully, twisting the boat around, propelling it and steering it at the same time. The bank and the steps disappeared into the gray rain within yards. The thought crossed Monk’s mind that no one knew where he was. He had accepted the offer without taking the slightest precaution. Archie McLeish could have been paid by Caleb to do precisely this! He must know Monk was after him. Monk could go overboard in the darkness and mist of the river and be swept out with the ebb tide, his body washed up days later, or never. Caleb Stone might be blamed, but no one could prove it. It would be one more accident. Maybe Archie McLeish would even say Monk threw himself in.

  He sat gripping the gunwales, determined if it came to that, he would make a damned good fight of it. Archie McLeish would go over with him.

  They passed barges moving steadily, dark mounds in the mist, riding lights to port and starboard, hundreds of tons of cargo making them juggernauts on the tide. If they were caught in front of one of those they would be splintered like matchwood. There was no sound but the water, the dismal hoot far off of a foghorn, and now and then someone shouting.

  They passed a square-rigger coming down from the Pool of London, its bare spars looming above them in the mist, reminding Monk of a row of gibbets. It was growing perceptibly colder. The raw wind blew through his coat as if it had been cotton shoddy, and touched his bones.

  “Afraid o’ Caleb Stone, then, are ye?” Archie McLeish said cheerfully.

  “No,” Monk snapped.

  “Well, ye look it.” Archie pulled hard on the oars, leaning his weight into them. “Feel like I was rowing a man to ’is ’anging wi’ a face like that, an’ grippin’ me boat like it’d escape ye if ye let it go.”

  Monk realized grimly how he must look, and made an effort to smile. It might well be worse.

  “Goin’ ter kill ’im, are ye?” Archie said conversationally. “It’d surely be one way. Then ye’d have a corpse ter pass off. I daresay no one’d know it wasn’t his brother. Alike as two peas, they say.”

  Monk laughed abruptly. “I hadn’t thought of it—but it sounds like a good idea … in fact, a brilliant one. Accomplish justice for everyone in one blow. Only trouble is, I don’t know if Angus is dead. He might not be.”

  “Angus’d be the brother,” Archie said with wide eyes. “Well, I don’t know either, I’m glad to say. So I’ll not be havin’ to take ye back, because I’ll no be party to murder … even o’ the likes o’ Caleb Stone.”

  Monk started to laugh.

  “And why’ll that be so funny?” Archie asked crossly. “I may be a rough man and not the gentleman ye seem to be, although God knows, ye look hard enough … but I’ve me standards, same as ye!”

  “Maybe better,” Monk granted. “It had just occurred to me you might murder me out here in the middle of this godforsaken waste of water … on Caleb’s account.”

  Archie grunted, but his anger appeared to evaporate.

  “Oh, aye,” he said quietly. “Well … I could have an’ all.”

  He rowed in silence for several minutes. The shadows of the chemical works on the farther shore loomed through the mist, and Archie had to change course with a wrench of the oars to avoid a barge moving out from the dim wharves as the rain drove in their faces.

  “Ye’ll be needing a spot o’ help then,” Archie said after several more minutes. “Ye’ll no catch the like o’ Caleb on your own.”

  “Possibly,” Monk conceded. “But I’m not trying to take him into custody, only to speak with him.”

  “Oh, aye,” Archie said skeptically. “An’ ye suppose he’ll believe that, do ye?”

  On the face of it, it was unlikely, and Monk was indisposed to attempt explanation, partly because it was unclear in his mind anyway. He simply had no alternative but to pursue Caleb.

  “If you are offering to help, I’m obliged,” he said tartly. “What do you want for it? It won’t be easy, or pleasant. Not necessarily even safe.”

  Archie grunted with disgust. “Think I’m a fool? I know what it’ll be a sight better than you do, laddie. I’ll come for the satisfaction o’ it. I dinna need payin’ for every damn thing I do!”

  Monk smiled, although in the darkness he was not sure if Archie could see him.

  “Thank you,” he said graciously.

  Archie grunted.

  They came ashore on the mudflats and moored the boat to a post sticking up like a broken tooth, then Archie led the way up the bank to the rough grass, tussock and mud, now heavily shrouded in lessening rain and near darkness. There were lights ahead of them across the fields, if one could call them such, although from the squelch and suck on his boots, Monk thought it was bogland.

  “Where are we?” he asked quietly.

  “Headin’ for Blackwall Lane,” Archie answered. “Keep quiet. Sound travels, even when ye don’t think it.”

  “He’s here?”

  “Aye, he came this way not ten minutes before us.”

  “Why? What’s here?” Monk struggled to keep up with him, feeling the ground cling to his feet and the freezing rain drift against his face.

  “Is it him ye’re after, or summat else?” Archie asked from just ahead of him in the gloom.

  “Him. I don’t care what else is going on,” Monk replied.

  “Then be quiet, an’ follow me!”

  For what seemed like a quarter of an hour, Monk trudged through the darkness, first from marshland to the road, then along harder surface towards the lights of small cottages huddled on the black landscape, marked out only by the dim eye of oil lamps in windows.

  Archie knocked at one door, and when it was opened, spoke for a few moments, but so quietly Monk heard no words. He withdrew and
the door closed, leaving them in the bitter night. Archie waited a few minutes until his eyes grew accustomed again, then led the way towards the other side of the neck of land and the far curve of the river.

  Monk opened his mouth to ask where they were going, then changed his mind. It was pointless. He pulled his collar even closer, jammed his hat down again and thrust his hands into his coat pockets and trudged on. The raw fog tasted of salt, sewage and the sour water that lies stagnant in fens and pools beyond the tide’s reach. The cold seemed to penetrate the bone.

  At last they came to the dry dock at the farthest end and Archie put out his hand in warning.

  Monk caught the smell of wood smoke.

  Ahead of them was a lean- to made of planking and patched with canvas. Archie pointed to it, and then stepped aside, making for the far end, disappearing into the darkness, almost instantly swallowed up.

  Monk took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had no weapon. Then he flung open the wood-and-canvas flap.

  Inside was about a dozen square yards of space, bare but for wooden boxes piled against all of the walls except the farther one, where there was another doorway. It was impossible to tell what the boxes contained. There was a pile of rope forming a rough seat and more unraveled hemp for a bed. In the center a fire was burning briskly, sending smoke and flames up a roughly made chimney. It was blessedly warm after the raw night outside, and Monk was aware of it on the front of his body even as he looked at the one man who squatted beside the fire, a coal in his black-gloved hand, clutched like a weapon. He was tall, loosely built, agile, but it was his face that commanded the attention. It was Enid Ravensbrook’s drawing come to life, and yet it was not. The bones were the same, the wide jaw and pointed chin, the strong nose, the high cheekbones, even the green eyes. But the flesh of the face was different, the mouth, the lines from nose to corner of lips. The expression was one of anger and mockery, and at this instant, poised on the edge of violence.

  It was unnecessary to ask if he were Caleb Stone.

  “Genevieve sent me looking for Angus,” Monk said simply, standing square in the entrance, blocking it.

  Caleb rose very slowly to his feet.

  “Looking for Angus, are you?” He said the words as if they were curious and amusing, but he was balanced to move suddenly.

  Monk watched him, aware of his weight, the coal in his hand.

  “He hasn’t returned home.…”

  Caleb laughed jerkily. “Oh, hasn’t he, then! And does Genevieve think I don’t know that?”

  “She thinks you know it very well,” Monk said levelly. “She thinks you are responsible for it.”

  “Kept him here, have I?” Caleb’s smile was derisive, full of rage. “Thieving and brawling along the river! Is that what she thinks?” He almost spat the words. It was odd to see him, dressed in clothes so old and soiled they had lost all color and most of their shape, and yet he wore leather gloves. His hair was curly and overlong, matted with dirt, a stubble on his chin. And yet for all his hatred, his words were pronounced with the clarity and diction of his youth and the education Milo Ravensbrook had given him. Monk was aware, even through the contempt he felt for him, of the dual nature of the man, and how the promise of his youth had ended in such utter ruin. Had he not destroyed Angus, Monk could have pitied him, even seen some dim, different reflection of himself. He understood both the rage and the helplessness.

  “Have you?” Monk asked. “I hadn’t thought so. I rather thought you’d killed him.”

  “Killed him.” Caleb smiled, this time showing fine teeth. He weighed the coal in his hand without taking his eyes off Monk. “Killed Angus?” He laughed again, a hard, almost choking, sound. “Yes—I suppose she’s right. I killed Angus!” He started to laugh harder, throwing back his head and letting the noise tear out of him, rising almost hysterically, as if letting go of it hurt.

  Monk took a step forward.

  Caleb stopped laughing instantly, cut off as if someone had put a hand over his face. He glanced at Monk, his hand raised a little higher.

  Monk froze. Caleb had already murdered his brother. If he were to kill Monk here in these desolate marshes, his body might not be found till it was rotted and unrecognizable, if ever. He would fight hard, but Caleb was strong and used to violence, perhaps even to killing, and he had nothing to lose.

  Without the slightest warning, Caleb spun around on his heel and lunged for the farther end of the hut, crashing through the makeshift door and sending Archie sprawling in the mud.

  By the time Monk had pushed his way through, Archie was scrambling to his feet again, and Caleb had disappeared into the rain and the darkness. They could hear the squelching sound of his feet, and another burst of laughter, then nothing at all.

  * * *

  Oliver Rathbone was one of the most outstanding barristers of the decade. He had eloquence, discernment and an excellent sense of timing. And better than that, he had the kind of courage which enabled him to take up controversial and desperate cases.

  He was at his office in Vere Street, off Lincoln’s Inn Fields, when his clerk announced, with a dubious expression, that Mr. Monk was here to see him on a matter of some urgency.

  “Of course,” Rathbone said with only the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Nothing ordinary would bring Monk here. You had better show him in.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rathbone.” The clerk retreated and closed the door behind him.

  Rathbone folded away the papers he had been reading and tied the file they had come from. He had mixed feelings himself. He had always admired Monk’s professional abilities—they were beyond question—and also his courage in dealing with his loss of memory and the identity that went with it. But he also found his manner difficult—abrasive, to say the least. And there was the matter of Hester Latterly. Her fondness for Monk irritated Rathbone, although he was loath to admit it. Monk did not treat her with anything like the respect or regard she warranted. Monk brought out the worst in Rathbone, the greatest intolerance, shortest temper and most ill-considered judgment.

  The door opened and Monk came in. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, but he looked tired and harassed. The skin under his eyes was shadowed and his muscles tense.

  “Good morning, Monk.” Rathbone rose as an automatic gesture of courtesy. “What may I do for you?”

  Monk closed the door behind himself, not bothering with the trivialities. He began to speak as he moved to sit down in the chair opposite the desk, crossing his legs.

  “I have a case upon which I need your advice.” He did not hesitate for Rathbone to make any comment, but continued straight on, taking for granted that he would accept. “A woman consulted me concerning her husband, who is missing. I have traced him as far as Blackwall, on the Isle of Dogs, where he was last seen, in the company of his twin brother, who lives there, more or less …”

  “Just a moment.” Rathbone held up his hand. “I do not deal in cases of desertion or divorce.…”

  “Neither do I!” Monk said tersely, although Rathbone knew that if that were true at all, it was only so of the last few months. “If you permit me to finish,” Monk continued, “I will reach the point a great deal sooner.”

  Rathbone sighed and let his hand fall. From the expression on Monk’s face, he was going to continue anyway. It crossed Rathbone’s mind to remark that if Monk were taking clients from the Isle of Dogs, he had no occasion to be supercilious, but it would serve no purpose. Conceivably, the case could still be of interest.

  “The brothers have long hated each other,” Monk said, staring at Rathbone. “Caleb, the one who lives in the Blackwall area, survives by theft, intimidation and violence. Angus, my client’s husband, lives on the edge of Mayfair, and is a pillar of respectability and orderly family life. He kept in touch with his brother out of loyalty, a feeling which was not returned. Caleb was furiously jealous.”

  Deliberately Rathbone said nothing.

  Monk had hesitated only a second. After the silence
he swept on. “The wife is convinced Caleb has murdered Angus. He has often attacked him before. I tracked Caleb to the Greenwich marshes, and he admitted having killed Angus, but I can find no corpse.” His face was hard and tight with anger. “There are a dozen ways it could have been disposed of: down the river is one of the most obvious, buried and left to rot in the marshes, stuffed in the hold of some outgoing ship, or even taken to sea by Caleb himself as far as the estuary and put overboard. Or he could be buried in a common grave with the typhoid victims in

  Limehouse. Nobody’s going to dig them up for a count and identification!”

  Rathbone sat back in his large comfortable chair and made a steeple out of his fingers.

  “I assume no one else heard this confession of Caleb’s?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And what evidence have you that it may be true, apart from the wife’s conviction?” Rathbone asked him. “She is not an impartial witness. By the way, how was he placed financially? And what other … interests … might his wife have?”

  A look of contempt crossed Monk’s face. “He is doing nicely, as long as he is present in his business. It depends upon his personal judgment. It will fall into decline very rapidly if he remains absent, and the estate cannot be resolved. And as for the other question, as far as I can determine, she seems a most virtuous woman, and handsome, but now very anxious for the welfare of her children.”

  The irritation in Monk’s voice might mean that he resented having his judgment questioned. On the other hand, Rathbone thought, from the level of intensity in Monk’s eyes, that he felt some pity for the woman and believed her plight. But then he was uncertain that Monk, who was an excellent judge of men, was equally as good a judge of women.

  “Witness to quarrels?” he asked, returning to the immediate issue. “Some specific contention between the two brothers over possessions, a woman, an inheritance, an old injury?”

  “A witness who saw them together on the day Angus disappeared,” Monk replied. “They were quarreling then.”