Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “It might be of much use,” he said quickly. “I found him myself, and he admitted having killed Angus, but I still have no corpse. Even if I can never prove Caleb’s guilt, much as I would like to, the important thing is that the authorities will assume Angus’s death, for the widow’s sake.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?” he asked, looking away from Hester.

  Callandra hid the faintest smile, then excused herself and led Monk to the small storeroom where they had spoken earlier, leaving Hester to return to her duties.

  “You look in an ill temper, William,” she observed as soon as the door was closed. She sat on the only chair and he sat half sideways on the bench. “Is it the frustration of your case, or have you been quarreling with Hester again?”

  “She gets more arbitrary and set in her ways every time I see her,” he responded. “And unbearably self-righteous. It is an extraordinarily unattractive quality, especially in a woman. She seems to be utterly without humor or the ability to charm, which is a woman’s greatest asset.”

  “I see.” Callandra nodded, poking the last stray end of hair into a pin behind her ear. “How fortunate that you feel that way. Now, if she should catch typhoid, like poor Enid Ravensbrook, you will not be so distressed as if you were fond of her, or found her pleasing.”

  It was a monstrous thing to say! The idea of Hester as desperately ill as Enid Ravensbrook, or these poor souls around him, was appalling. It chilled his flesh as if he were frozen from the inside. And she would not be cared for in luxury as Enid had been. There would be no one to sit with her day and night, to nurse her with the skill and dedication to keep her alive. He could try, of course, and he would. But he had not the knowledge. How could Callandra speak so utterly heartlessly?

  “Now, about this case,” she said cheerfully, ignoring his feelings altogether. “It sounds most frustrating. What do you propose to do next? Or have you abandoned it?”

  He was about to make an extremely tart reply when he realized there was humor in her eyes, and suddenly he felt foolish, and had a brilliant memory, barely a second long, of standing at the kitchen table, resting his chin on it, watching his mother rolling pastry. She had just told him something which made him realize that she knew almost everything and he knew nothing at all. It had been a revelation, both humiliating and at the same time comforting.

  “No, I have not abandoned it,” he said, and his voice sounded far more meek than he had intended. “I will continue it as long as I am able to, until I find proof, at the very least, that Angus is dead. I would dearly like to prove Caleb murdered him, but that may be impossible.”

  Her rather erratic eyebrows rose. “Has Mrs. Stonefield got funds for that? I gathered she was in some difficulty, or expected to be very shortly.”

  “No, she hasn’t and though Lord Ravensbrook has agreed to pay for the investigation, Mrs. Stonefield seems worried that he will not continue to do so.” Should he ask her? She had taken very little part in the investigation. She might consider the typhoid outbreak to be a more pressing need, and perhaps she was right. He had only the haziest idea how much disposable income she had for such things.

  “Then I shall be happy to take care of the fee for as long as you believe there is purpose in continuing.” She looked at him steadily. “Purpose with advantage to Mrs. Stonefield, that is, or to her children.”

  “Thank you,” he said humbly.

  “Did I overhear you say something about learning more of Caleb Stone?” she asked curiously. “And where he lives, when he can be said to live anywhere. From what I have heard, he spends a great deal of time moving from one place to another. Presumably to avoid his enemies, whom rumor would have to be legion.”

  “Yes. Anything you know, or have heard, might be helpful,” he accepted. “I need to know where they might have been seen together that day. If I could produce a witness who saw them, and then Caleb alone, I should know where to search for a body. Even if I did not find one, it might be sufficient to make the police take up the case. Angus Stonefield was a well-respected man.”

  “I realize why you wish it, William.” She rose to her feet heavily. “I may have spent the last week nursing the sick, but I have not lost my wits. I shall send Hester to you. She has spent more time with the people than I have, especially with Mary. I have been fighting with the frightened, bitter men at the local council, and all that they have said at enormous length and with enough words to fill a library, providing every book were the same, amounts to nothing whatever of the slightest use to man or beast.” And before he could argue, she sailed out and he was left alone sitting on the bench in the light of one tallow candle, looking at the water-stained walls and waiting for Hester.

  She was several minutes in coming, and by the time she did he was thoroughly uncomfortable.

  She arrived and closed the door.

  He stood up automatically, until she seated herself in the chair. She began straightaway, so obviously Callandra had explained his purpose.

  “Everyone seems afraid of Caleb,” she said gravely. “He seems to inhabit an area stretching from the East India Dock Road to the river—”

  “The Isle of Dogs,” he interrupted. “I know that much.”

  “On both sides,” she continued, ignoring him. “And the Greenwich marshes as far as Bugsby’s Reach. A great deal of the time no one knows precisely where he is. He sleeps in the dockyards, on barges, and sometimes with Selina Herries, which you already know.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said impatiently. “I need to prove he was with Angus on the day he was last seen, and when and where.”

  “I know what you want.” She was unruffled. “But you won’t prove anything unless you can persuade someone to speak to you. I don’t think anyone is going to betray Caleb unless they can be sure he won’t take his revenge on them for it. And Selina won’t, regardless. She may be frightened, but she loves him, in her own way.”

  There was a sound of buckets clanging on the far side of the door, but no one opened it.

  He leaned forward. “How do you know? Do you know her?” It was foolish to get excited by the thought, but it would be the last chance, if he could find a way to gain her trust. “She may only be afraid as well.”

  Hester smiled. It lit her face, not removing the tiredness but overriding it.

  “I don’t doubt she is afraid of him,” she agreed. “And I don’t doubt she has cause, now and then. But by all accounts she also loves him, in her way, and is rather proud of him.”

  “Proud of him! In God’s name, what for? The man’s a failure in every way.” As soon as he had said it, he wished he had not put it in such words. It was a damnation, and Caleb’s vivid face with its rage and its intelligence was sharp in his mind. He could have been so much more. He could have been everything that Angus was. Instead jealousy had corroded his soul until in a passion of hatred he had committed murder and destroyed not only his brother but what was left of himself. The pity in Monk was tight and painful, fraught with loathing. And yet he knew rage himself. It was the grace of God that he had not killed. Could Angus conceivably have been a hypocrite too, a charming, predatory blackguard too clever for anyone to catch?

  Hester did not interrupt his thoughts. He wished she would. Instead she simply sat staring at him, waiting. She knew him too intimately. It was uncomfortable.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What could she be proud of him for?”

  “Because no one cheats him or abuses him,” she answered, her voice suggesting that it was obvious. “He’s strong. Everyone knows his name. The fact that he chooses her makes her important. People don’t dare to take advantage of her either.”

  He stood up and turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  “And that’s the height of her ambition? To be owned by the most hated and feared man in the Isle of Dogs! God, what a life!” He remembered Selina’s beautifully boned face with its wide mouth and bol
d eyes, the proud swaying way she walked. She was worth more than that.

  “It’s better than most women, around here,” Hester said quietly. “She isn’t often cold or hungry, and no one knocks her around.”

  “Except Caleb!” he said.

  “That’s something,” she replied calmly. “It’s many people’s dream to escape, but few ever do, except to the whorehouses up in the Haymarket, or worse.”

  He winced—at her language, not at the truth.

  “Mary says one pretty girl did, Ginny something,” she went on, though he was not interested. “Got married, she thought; but that’s probably more a hope than a fact. Gentlemen don’t marry girls they pick up in Limehouse.”

  It was a bare reality, and if he had said it himself he would have said it was simply the truth. From her lips it had a coarseness and a finality he resented.

  “Do you know anything useful?” he said abruptly. “That Selina won’t betray him doesn’t help me.”

  “You asked me,” she pointed out. “But I can tell you the names of a few of his enemies who would be delighted to see his downfall, if they can do it safely.”

  “Can you?” He could not hide his eagerness. He had not managed to turn up anything so definite himself. Of course, she was trusted in a way he never could be. She was living and working among these people, risking her life daily to tend to them in their extremity. He pushed that thought away. “Who? Where do I find them?”

  She gave him a list of five names—one man, three women and a youth—and in all cases where he could find them.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “That is excellent. If any one of them can tell me something, we may yet help Mrs.

  Stonefield. I shall begin immediately.”

  * * *

  But he did not. That evening he had arranged to see Drusilla, and it was a pleasure he longed for. Not even to help Genevieve Stonefield could he forgo it and creep around the slums and rookeries of Limehouse in the dark and the cold. It could wait until tomorrow, when it would be both easier and safer. Caleb had to be aware Monk was still pursuing him. He was not a man to wait idly to be caught.

  The weather had cleared and it was a dry, chilly evening with only the ever-present pall of smoke hiding the stars.

  Half past seven found Monk superbly dressed, stepping out of a hansom cab to meet Drusilla on the steps of the British Archaeological Association in Sackville Street. She had requested that he meet her there because she had said she had promised to accompany a friend for dinner, which was a great bore. She had cancelled the arrangement, but in order to avoid lengthy and unnecessarily dishonest explanations, she could not be at home.

  She appeared at exactly half past, as she had said she would. She wore a wide-skirted gown of silk the color of candlelight through brandy, and it complimented her marvelously. She seemed to glow in golds and tawny bronzes and her skin had a delicacy and a warmth unlike any he had seen before.

  “Is something amiss?” she said laughingly. “You look terribly serious, William!”

  The sound of his name from her lips was acutely pleasing. He collected his attention with an effort.

  “No, nothing at all. I even have news which may help me eventually to find where poor Angus Stonefield met his death.”

  “Have you?” she said eagerly, taking his arm and falling into step as he matched his pace to hers. “It does seem terribly tragic. Did he do it merely from jealousy, do you suppose? Why now? He must have been jealous of him for years.” She gave a little shiver. “I wonder what happened which suddenly made such a difference? I don’t suppose it really matters, but don’t you long to know?” She turned to look at him curiously. “Don’t you think it is one of the most interesting subjects in the world, why people do what they do?”

  “Yes, of course it is.” She could not know the nerve her question had struck in him, how many of his own acts he had learned from the evidences left of his life, and yet could not remember, so did not know why he had done them. So much can be understood, even excused, when one understands.

  “You look sad.” She was searching his face with her wide hazel eyes. “Where shall we go, so I can cheer you up? Do you still think the widow is innocent? Do you think she may have known Caleb, recently?”

  The idea was funny. He could not imagine the socially correct, money-careful, domestic Genevieve having the slightest thing in common with the violent, lonely Caleb, who lived from hand to mouth, never knowing what he would eat next or where he would sleep.

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Why not?” she pursued. “After all, he must look very much like her husband. There must have been something in him which could have attracted her.” She smiled, her eyes close to laughter. “I know you say Angus was very worthy, and virtuous in every way.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But perhaps he was just the slightest bit tedious? Some of the most worthy people are, you know.”

  He said nothing.

  “Don’t you know some very worthy women who are crashingly dull?” She looked at him sideways, a little through her lashes.

  He smiled back. If he had denied it she would not have believed him for a moment. And perhaps Angus was everything Genevieve wanted and needed in a husband, but he could indeed have been a bore.

  “If it were so, where do you suppose they might meet?” she asked thoughtfully. “Where would a respectable woman, with a limited knowledge of the less salubrious sides of society, go in order to meet a lover?”

  “That would depend upon whether the lover were Titus Niven or Caleb,” he replied, not taking the idea seriously, but thinking it would be fun to humor Drusilla. It would be a far more entertaining evening than sitting in some musical concert, or listening to a lecture, however profound the subject.

  They crossed the road and he held her arm a trifle more tightly. It was a pleasing feeling, a warmth even in the raw wind that was blowing down the street and funneling between the buildings, carrying the smell of a thousand smoking chimneys.

  He entered into the spirit of it.

  “She could want something that was fun,” he said cheerfully. “If Angus were a bore, then definitely she would seek something he would not do.”

  “A music hall,” she said with a laugh. “A penny arcade. A marionette show, maybe Punch and Judy? A band or a street musician? There are so many things that a stuffy man wouldn’t do which could be marvelous—don’t you think? How about a hurdy-gurdy? A bazaar?” She gave a little giggle. “A peep show? A bare-knuckle fight?”

  “What do you know about bare-knuckle fights?” he asked in surprise. It was such a brutal sport, as well as illegal.

  She waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. I was thinking of her doing something really daring, where Angus would never think of looking for her, and none of his social circle would ever see her either,” she reasoned. “After all, it would have to be somewhere where no one she knew would ever see her. They might talk, and she couldn’t afford that, the more especially if she was party to his murder.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if she was seen with Caleb,” he pointed out. “In the lamplight and shadow, half-decently dressed, anyone would simply assume it was Angus.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip. “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that.” She was silent for a space of about fifty yards or so. They came to a crossroad and he guided her around Piccadilly Circus and along the far side towards the Haymarket. Most of the possibilities they mentioned were offered here, in Great Windmill Street or Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Already in the glare of the gas lamps and the illumination of shop windows among the theater crowds and sightseers, they noticed women walking slowly with an arrogant set to their shoulders and swinging their hips in invitation. Skirts swayed, and now and then an ankle was visible.

  They were all sorts of women: young and fresh-faced from the country; pale and sophisticated; those who had been milliners or dressmakers, or in domestic service, and lost their positions through seduction; older women, some already riddle
d with venereal disease.

  Young gentlemen sauntered by, well-dressed, taking their pick. Others were older, even silver-haired. Every now and again two would disappear, arm-in-arm, into a doorway to some house of accommodation.

  Carriages passed, hooves clattering, occupants laughing. Gaudy theater signs advertised melodrama and titillation. Monk and Drusilla passed a brazier roasting chestnuts and the wave of heat engulfed them for a moment.

  “Would you like some?” he asked.

  “Oh yes! Yes. I’d love some,” she accepted quickly. “I haven’t tasted them for ages.”

  He bought threepence worth, and they shared them, nibbling carefully not to burn their lips or tongues, now and then glancing at each other. The chestnuts were delicious, the more so for being a touch charred on the outside and too hot in the bitter evening.

  Around them swirled laughter and a spice of danger. Some men hurried by with coat collars drawn up and hats pulled down over their brows, bent on pleasures for which they preferred to be anonymous. Others were quite open and swaggered brazenly, calling out comments.

  Drusilla moved closer to Monk, her eyes bright, her face smooth and glowing with an inner excitement which gave her skin a kind of radiance and made her even lovelier. She was full of laughter, as if she were on the edge of some wonderful joke.

  They passed a peep show. It rose to his mind to point out that they could not actually accomplish anything, because they had no way of learning if Genevieve had ever been here, or with whom. He had no likeness of her to show. But to say so would have spoiled their fun, and that was what actually mattered. It was conceivable that Genevieve had connived at Angus’s death, but he did not believe it. Without a body, she had nothing to gain and everything to lose.