by Anne Perry
“Hardly damning,” Rathbone said dryly.
“What do I have to have, legally?” Monk’s face was like ice. Something of the weariness and frustration showed in it, and Rathbone guessed he had been pursuing the case profitlessly for many days and knew his chances were slight, if any.
“Not necessarily a corpse.” Rathbone leaned forward a little, granting Monk the seriousness he wished. “If you can prove Angus went to the Isle of Dogs, that there was ill feeling between the two, that they were in the habit of quarreling or fighting, that they were seen together that day, and no one at all has seen Angus since then, it may be sufficient to cause the police to institute a search. It will be highly unlikely to convict anyone of murder. It is conceivable Angus may have had an accident and fallen in the river, and the body been carried out to sea. He may even deliberately have lost himself, taken a boat elsewhere. I assume you have checked all his private and business finances?”
“Of course! There is nothing whatever amiss.”
“Then you had better see if you can find some evidence of a quarrel, and much tighter witnesses as to Angus not leaving the scene of their last meeting. So far you have insufficient to warrant the police investigating. I’m sorry.”
Monk swore, and rose to his feet, his face set in anger and misery.
“Thank you,” he said grimly, and went to the door, leaving without turning around or looking at Rathbone again.
Rathbone sat motionless for nearly a quarter of an hour before reopening the tied file. It was a delicate problem, and in spite of himself, Monk’s dilemma intrigued him. Monk seemed morally certain that murder had been committed. He knew who was killed, by whom, where and why, and yet he could prove nothing. It was legally correct—and ethically monstrous. Rathbone racked his brain how he might help.
He lay awake that night, and still nothing came to his mind.
Monk was furious. He had never felt more desperately frustrated. He knew Caleb had murdered Angus—he had admitted as much—and yet he was powerless to do anything about it. He could not even prove death to help Genevieve. It was a most appalling injustice, and it burned like acid inside him.
But he must report to Genevieve. She deserved to know at least as much as he did.
She was not at Ravensbrook House. A prim maid in a crisp apron and cap informed him Mrs. Stonefield had returned home, and now came only during the day.
“Then Lady Ravensbrook is better?” Monk said quickly, and with a pleasure that surprised him.
“Yes sir, she is past the worst, thank the Lord. Miss Latterly is still here. Would you care to speak to her?”
He hesitated only a moment, Hester’s face coming to his mind with such clarity it startled him.
“No—thank you. My business is with Mrs. Stonefield. I shall try her home. Good day.”
Genevieve’s door was opened by a between-maid who looked about fifteen years old, round-faced and harassed. Monk gave his name and asked for Genevieve. He was shown into the front parlor and requested to wait. A moment later the maid returned and he was taken to the small, neat withdrawing room with its portrait of the Queen, a pianoforte, legs decently skirted, some embroidered samplers and a few watercolors of the Bay of Naples.
What took him aback completely was Titus Niven standing in front of it, his coat as elegantly cut as before, and as threadbare, his boots polished and paper thin, his face still with the same expression of wry, self-deprecating humor. Genevieve was close beside him, as if they had been in conversation until the moment the door had opened. Monk had the powerful feeling that he had intruded.
Genevieve came forward, her face full of interest and concern. She was still pale and the marks of strain were still visible around her eyes and lips, but there was less tension in her, less overwhelming sense of desperation. She was an extremely attractive woman. Had he not met Drusilla Wyndham, his mind might have dwelt on that fact longer.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk. Have you some news for me?”
“Not what I would have wished, Mrs. Stonefield, but yes, I found Caleb, down in the Greenwich marshes.”
She swallowed hastily, her eyes wide. As if almost unconsciously, Titus Niven moved a step closer to her, also staring at Monk, fear flickering across his face, and then resolution taking its place.
“What did he say?” Genevieve asked.
“That he had killed Angus but I would never prove it.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.” He wished there were more he could add, but there was nothing which was either true or would be of any help or comfort. All his news offered was an end to the exhaustion of veering between hope and terror. There was no justice in it, nothing fair.
Titus Niven reached out his hand and touched Genevieve very gently on the arm, and, as if hardly aware of it, her hand sought his.
“You mean there is no more you can do?” she said in a whisper, struggling to keep her voice level and under control.
“No, that isn’t what I mean,” Monk replied, thinking carefully what he said so he did not mislead her. His mind was racing away with ugly thoughts about Titus Niven, barely yet taking shape. “I don’t hold great hope of proving his guilt, although it is not impossible, but I shall certainly continue to try to prove Angus’s death—if not directly, then indirectly. Assuming, of course, that that is still what you wish?”
There was an instant’s silence so intense Monk could hear the gentle settling of ash in the fireplace.
“Yes,” Genevieve said very quietly. “Yes. I wish you to continue, at least for the present. Although I don’t know how long Lord Ravensbrook will be willing to pay you and I would be obliged if you would keep the financial accountancy up to date. I regret to ask you such a thing, it seems so tasteless, but I am obliged by circumstances to do so.”
Monk thought of Callandra Daviot, and wondered if she would be prepared to support him if he continued the case without payment from Genevieve or Lord Ravensbrook. He determined at the first possible moment to ask her. He must know the truth. If Caleb Stone had murdered his brother out of jealousy, Genevieve deserved to have it proven, and Monk could almost taste his own keenness to see Caleb answer first. And if there were some other resolution, even one that involved Titus Niven, Monk wanted to know it. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that Monk wanted to prove that it was not so. The possibility haunted his mind, too nebulous to grasp, too ugly to forget.
“Of course I will, Mrs. Stonefield,” he said aloud. “It may be possible for one to offer sufficient proof or at least a serious case for the police to take over the investigation. Then there will naturally be no private cost.”
“I see.”
“I understand Lady Ravensbrook is past the worst and is expected to recover?” he went on.
She smiled, and Titus Niven also relaxed, although he remained close to her.
“Yes indeed, thank the good Lord. She was most dreadfully ill, and it will take her a long time to be back to herself again, but at least she is alive, and two days ago I had not dared hope for that.”
“And you have moved out of Ravensbrook House?”
Her face tightened, a shadow crossed over her eyes.
“My presence is no longer necessary all the time. Miss Latterly is most competent, and naturally there are maids to take care of the domestic duties. I go every day, but it is far better for my children to be at home.”
Monk was about to argue the issue, thinking of the expense of heating, food, even the retention of her own servants, but Titus Niven cut across him.
“It is good of you to be concerned, Mr. Monk, but with Mr. Stonefield’s disappearance, there has been more than enough distress and disturbance in their lives. To leave home again, I am sure you agree, is a trial that is best avoided, as long as that is possible.”
Many answers flashed in Monk’s mind: the comfort of Ravensbrook House, particularly in the middle of winter; the warmth; the excellent food; the absence of a hundred worries and responsibilities; and on the other hand the lack of pri
vacy for Genevieve to receive Titus Niven whenever she chose. Perhaps it would even make it easier for her, in time, to move him into Angus’s business or install him as its new manager.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he conceded somewhat ungraciously. “I will continue to pursue such evidence as I can find. Can you recall. Mrs. Stonefield, any remark your husband may have made about where he met his brother, any comment upon surroundings, circumstances which may help me to find further proof?” He watched her face closely for the slightest flicker of forethought, guarding her tongue or feeding him information which she knew but should not have were she innocent.
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Monk.” She blinked.
He saw nothing but confusion in her.
“Did they eat together, take a pint of ale, for example?” he elaborated. “Did they meet inside or outside, on the river or ashore? In company with others, or alone?”
“Yes, I see.” Understanding was quick in her face, then distress. “You want to know where to look for … a body.…”
Titus Niven winced and his sensitive mouth was pulled crooked with distaste. He shot Monk a look of pleading, but he did not interrupt, though the effort obviously cost him.
“Or a witness,” Monk amended.
“I am afraid he didn’t, or I should have told you.” She shook her head. “He never discussed his meetings with Caleb. It always upset him. But once or twice his clothes were damp and smelled of salt and fish.” She took a breath. “And other things I cannot identify for you, but most unpleasant.”
“I see. Thank you.” He had wondered if she would gently lead him to where Angus was. If she knew, then sooner or later she would. She needed his death proved. Standing in this gracious room, knowing it to be slowly denuded of its treasures, seeing the tiny heap of coals glowing in the hearth, her pale face smudged with weariness and anxiety, he found it almost impossible to believe she harbored any deceit at all. But he had been wrong before. And the fact that he liked Niven meant nothing either. He must pursue it. “Then I shall take my leave. Good day, ma’am. Mr. Niven.”
He followed his hunch diligently for the rest of that day, and half of the next, and learned nothing at all. According to even the most critical of neighborhood gossip, Genevieve was as worthy as her husband, a virtuous woman in every outward regard, even to the point of being a trifle tedious. If she had any failings they were a carefulness with money, an extreme regard for it, and a rather unreliable sense of humor. She had been known to laugh more often than was entirely suitable, and on quite inappropriate occasions.
Titus Niven was a friend of the family, at least as much of Angus’s as hers. And no, no one knew any occasion when he had called at the house when Angus was not also present.
If there had been any secret relationship then it was hidden superbly well. Titus Niven had cause to be envious of Angus Stonefield, both professionally and personally, perhaps even to hate him, but there was no evidence that indeed he did so.
In the early afternoon Monk went back to the East End, to Limehouse and the makeshift typhoid hospital to see Callandra Daviot. He wanted to see her for several reasons, but paramount in his mind was the matter of funds. It was obvious to Monk that if Lord Ravensbrook withdrew his funds Genevieve could not afford to employ him and the hope of being able to find proof was slight. Yet he was determined to follow the case to the bitter end.
Also he needed help, and the fever hospital was a good place to begin seeking more detailed local knowledge. He cursed his own inadequacy. If he had his memory he would probably know all kinds of people he could call upon.
He trudged along Gill Street, collar up against the wind, the stink of soot and middens thick in his nose. The massive outline of the old warehouse was ahead of him, gray against a gray sky. He increased his pace just as it began to rain, and was inside the entrance before he got wet.
The smell of illness caught in his nostrils and his throat immediately, different from the usual sour, rank smell outside, which he was now accustomed to. This was harsher and more intimate, and in spite of all the will he could exercise, it frightened him. This was not the business of life; it was pain, death and the closeness of death. It closed around him like a fog, and he had to grit his teeth and master his body not to turn and run back out of the door into the air again. He was ashamed of it and despised himself.
He saw the woman Mary coming towards him, a covered pail in her hand. He knew what would be in it and his stomach knotted.
“Is Lady Callandra here?” he asked her. His voice sounded brittle.
“Yeah.” Her hair was plastered to her head with rain and sweat and her skin was pasty with exhaustion. She had no strength left for politeness, or even for awe of authority. “In there.” She jerked her head sideways, indicating the vast space of the warehouse floor, then continued on her way.
“Thank you.” Monk went reluctantly into the cavern of the room. It looked exactly the same, dimly lit by candles, floor covered with straw and canvas, the humps of bodies visible under blankets. At either end the black, potbellied stoves gave off heat and the odor of coal and steam from cauldrons. There was also a sharp catch in his throat from the burning tobacco leaves. He remembered Hester saying something about using it in the army for fumigation.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw Callandra standing close to one of the hunched figures on the straw. Kristian Beck was opposite her, and they were absorbed in conversation.
He was aware of movement to his left, and turned to see Hester coming towards him. She seemed even thinner in the candlelight and the severe gray dress, her hair screwed back unflatteringly. Her eyes looked larger than he had remembered, her mouth softer and more capable of passion, or pain. He wished intensely that he had not come. He did not want to see her, especially here. Enid Ravensbrook had caught typhoid here and nearly died. That thought crushed his mind, closing out almost everything else.
“Has something happened in your case?” she asked as soon as she was close enough to him to speak without being overheard.
“Nothing conclusive,” he replied. “I’ve found Caleb, but not Angus.”
“What happened?” Her expression was sharp with interest.
He did not want to tell her, because he did not want to stand here in this fearful place, talking to her. If he had had any luck, she would have been at Ravensbrook House.
“Why aren’t you with Lady Ravensbrook?” he said curtly. “She can’t be fully recovered yet.”
“It’s Genevieve’s turn,” she said with surprise. “Callandra needs help here. I would have thought you might see that for yourself. I assume from your temper that your conversation with Caleb Stone was unsatisfactory? I don’t know what else you expected. He was hardly going to confess and lead you to the body.”
“On the contrary,” he said impatiently. “He did confess!”
She raised her eyebrows. “And led you to the body?”
“No …”
“Then confession wasn’t much use, was it? Did he tell you how he killed him, or where?”
“No.”
“Or even why?”
He was thoroughly annoyed. It would not be so infuriating if she were always so obstructive and unintelligent, but memories kept coming to his mind of other times, when she had been so different, full of perception and courage. He should make some allowance. She must be very tired. Perhaps it was only natural that she should be a little slow-witted in the circumstances. But then he wished intensely that she was not here anyway. He hated having to admire her for it. It was like gall in his mouth, and the hotter taste of fear. In fact, perhaps that was what it was—fear.
And that was natural. It was hard to lose a friend, even one you only partially liked. No decent man could view it with equanimity.
“Did he tell you why?” she demanded, cutting across his thoughts. “It might be some help.”
The dim hump of the body nearest them groaned and moved restlessly in the straw.
&n
bsp; “No,” Monk said abruptly. “No, he didn’t.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, except insofar as it might have been a clue to—” She stopped. “I don’t know what.”
“Of course it matters,” he contradicted her instantly. “He might not have acted alone. Maybe Genevieve put him up to it.”
She was startled. “Genevieve! That’s ridiculous! Why would she? She has everything to lose and nothing to gain from Angus’s death.”
“She has a tidy inheritance to gain,” he pointed out. “And the freedom, after a decent period, to marry again.”
“Whatever makes you think she wants to?” she demanded hotly. It was apparent the idea was new to her, and repugnant. “There is every evidence she loved her husband deeply. What makes you think otherwise?” That was a challenge. It was quick in her eyes and her voice.
He responded with a similar sharpness. “Her close friendship with Titus Niven, which is quite remarkable for a woman hardly on the brink of widowhood. Her husband is not even pronounced dead yet, never mind in his grave.”
“You have a vicious mind.” She looked at him witheringly. “Mr. Niven is a family friend. For most people it is very natural to comfort a friend in time of bereavement. I’m surprised you haven’t observed it in others, even if you wouldn’t have thought it yourself.”
“If I had just lost my wife, I wouldn’t turn to the most attractive woman I could find,” he retorted. “I would turn to another man.”
Her contempt only increased. “Don’t be naive. If you were a woman, you would turn to a man rather than a woman, for the practical matters. Not that they are any better at it, simply that they are taken seriously by others. People always assume women are incompetent, whether they are or not. And of course they have no legal standing anyway.”
Before he could make exactly the right crushing remark, Callandra came over to them. She too looked tired and untidy, her clothes soiled, but there was a look of pleasure in her face at seeing him.
“Hello, William. How is your case progressing? I assume that is why you are here?” She brushed her hair out of her eyes absently, at the same time smearing her face with soot from the stove, but there was a lift in her voice and a calmness in her eyes as of some inner radiance. She met his glance absolutely squarely. “Is there something with which we can help you? We have heard quite a lot more about this wretched man, Caleb Stone. I am not sure of what use it could be.”