“I fear I have been of little service.” Niven moved towards the door.
Monk did not explain that he had not expected to learn anything of Angus from him, but only to make some estimate as to the likelihood of Niven's having harmed Angus himself. Niven was a man of quick intelligence, but also a certain naivete. It would be an unnecessary cruelty to suggest that now.
Monk expended some further effort trying to learn more of Angus from various social and professional acquaintances, but nothing varied from the picture already painted. The Stonefields had enjoyed several pleasant friendships but entertained little. Enjoyment seemed to be within the family, with the exception of the occasional evenings at concerts or the theater. Certainly their manner of living was very well within their means, although those means must now be growing considerably thinner as she was unable to draw from the business. And since he was nominally still in charge, Genevieve was unable to exercise any jurisdiction herself, or to claim any inheritance.
“What am I to do?” she said desperately when Monk called on her at the end of along and fruitless day, now nine days since Angus's disappearance.
“What if you never find… Angus's body?” There was a crack in her voice and she was keeping her composure only with a visible effort.
Monk longed to comfort her, and yet he could not lie. He toyed with it. He turned over in his mind all the possibilities, seriously considering each.
And yet he could not force the words out.
“There are other ways of satisfying the authorities of death, Mrs.
Stonefield,” he answered her. “Especially where a tidal river like the Thames is concerned. But they will require that all other avenues are explored as well.”
“You will not find anything, Mr. Monk,” she said flatly. They were standing in the withdrawing room. It was cold. The fire was not lit, nor were the lamps. “I understand why you must do it, but it is a waste of your time, and mine,” she continued. “And I have less and less left as each day goes by.” She turned away. “I dare not spend money on anything but necessities, food and coal. I do not know how long that will last. I cannot think of things like boots, and James is growing out of his. Already his toes press against the leather. I was about to purchase them…” She did not add the rest; it was obvious, and she did not wish to say it again.
“Will you not consider accepting Lord Ravensbrook's offer, at least temporarily?” Monk asked. He could understand her reluctance to be dependent upon someone else's kindness, but this was not a time to allow pride to dictate.
She took a deep breath. The muscles tightened in her neck and shoulders, pulling the fabric of her blue, checked dress till he could see the line of stitches at the seam.
“I don't believe it is what Angus would have wished,” she said so quietly he barely heard her. She seemed to be speaking as much to herself as to him. “On the other hand,” she went on, scowling in concentration, “he would not wish us to be in want.” She shivered as if the thought made her cold, and not the room.
“It is only just over a week, Mrs. Stonefield,” he pointed out as gently as he could. “I am sure Lord Ravensbrook would advance you sufficient funds for immediate necessities, against the estate, if you do not wish to accept a gift. There cannot be much else that will not wait. If the boots have served until now-”
She swung around to him, her eyes frightened, her hands clenched. “You don't understand!” Her voice rose with a high pitch of fear in it. She was accusing, angry with him. “Angus isn't going to come back! Caleb has finally mur- dered him, and we shall be left on our own with nothing! Today it is just a matter of being a little careful with food. No meat except on Sundays, a little herring or bloater, onions, oatmeal, sometimes cheese. Apples if we are lucky.” She glanced at the fire, then back at him. “Be careful with the coal. Sit in the kitchen where the stove is, instead of lighting the parlor fire. Use tallow candles instead of wax. Don't burn the lights until you absolutely cannot see. Patch your clothes. Pass from the elder children to the younger. Never buy new.” Her voice was growing harsher as panic rose inside her. “But it will get a lot worse. I have no family to help me. It will come to selling the house while I can still afford to bargain and get a fair price. Move to lodgings, two rooms if we are fortunate. Live on bread and tea, and maybe a pig's head or a sheep's head once a month if we are lucky, or a little tripe or offal. The children won't have school anymore-they'll have to work at whatever they can, as will I.” She swallowed convulsively. “I cannot even reasonably hope they will all live to grow up.
In poverty one doesn't. One or two may, and that will be a blessing, at least for me to have them with me. Only God knows what awaits them!” He looked at her in amazement. Her imagination had carried her close to hysteria. He could see it in her eyes and in her body. Part of him was moved by pity for her. Her grief was real and she had cause for anxiety, but the wildness in her was out of character, and he was surprised how it repelled him.
“You are leaping too far ahead, Mrs. Stonefield,” he said without the gentleness he had intended. “You-”
“I won't let it happen!” she interrupted him furiously. “I won't!” He saw the tears in her eyes, and glimpsed how fragile she was under the mask of courage. He had never had to be responsible for other people, for children who trusted and were so vulnerable. At least as far as he knew he had not.
Even the idea of it had no familiarity to him. He realized it only partially, as a stranger might catch sight through a window.
“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 mis- tress.”
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.
