then?”
Drusilla passed her Enid's drawing of Angus. She peered at it in the gray light. Then her face tightened and she thrust the drawing back at Monk, anger harsh in her voice.
“If yer wants Caleb Stone, yer'll find 'im wivaht my 'elp! Stuff yer money.
In't no use ter mie in me grave!”
“It isn't Caleb Stone,” Monk said quickly.
“Yeah 'tis!” The woman thrust the picture back at him. “Wotcha take me fer?
I know Caleb Stone Wen I sees 'imp›, “It isn't Caleb,” Drusilla said urgently, stepping forward for the first time. “He is related to him, that's why there is such a resemblance. But look more closely.” She took the picture back from Monk and passed it to the woman. “Look at his face again. Look at his expression. Does he appear the sort of man Caleb Stone is?”
The woman screwed up her face in concentration. “Looks like Caleb Stone ter me. All got up like a toff, but got them same eyes, an' nose.”
“But he isn't the same,” Drusilla insisted. “This is his brother.” “Garn!
'E in't got no bruvver.”
“Yes, he has.”
“Well…” the woman said dubiously. “Mebbe 'e do look a bit different, abaht the marf, partic'lar. But I in't seen 'im!”
“He'd be well-dressed and well-spoken,” Drusilla added.
“I tol'jer, I in't seen 'im, an' wot's more, I don' wanter!” She shoved the picture back.
But before Drusilla could take it the door swung open and a lean man with a swarthy, unshaven face poked his head out.
“In't yer ever goin' ter stop yer yappin', yer fat cow? W'ere's me dinner?
I don' work me guts aht ter come 'ome an' listen ter yer yap, yap, yap in the street wi' some tart! Get in 'ere!”
“Shut yer face an' come an' look at this pikcher, will yer?” the woman yelled back, no particular venom in her voice at being thus spoken to.
“Still worf money ter yer?” she asked Monk.
“Yes,” Monk agreed.
The man came out reluctantly, his face creased with suspicion. He glared at Drusilla, looked at Monk narrowly, then finally at the picture.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I seen 'im. So wot's it ter yer? 'Ad a pint down the Artichoke, then went dahn towards the river. W'y?”
“It wasn't Caleb Stone you saw?” Monk said doubtfully.
“No, it wasn't Caleb Stone I saw.” The man mimicked his voice viciously.
“I know the difference 'atween Caleb Stone an' some geezer wi' fancy manners an' dressed like a toff.”
“When was this?” Monk asked.
“'Ow do I know?” the man said irritably. “Las' week, or week afore.” Monk put both hands harder into his pockets.
“ 'Course yer knows, yer stupid sod!” the woman said sharply. “Fink, an' it will come back ter yer. Wot day was it? Was it afore or arter Aunt give yer them socks?”
“It were the same day,” he said sullenly. “Or the day afore.” He belched.
“It were the day afore, which makes it two weeks ago, 'zac'ly! An' all I kin tell yer.” He turned to go back inside.
The woman shot out her hand, and Monk gave her a shilling. That was the day Angus Stonefield had disappeared. It was worth a shilling.
“Thank you,” he said graciously. She grasped the money, hid it in her voluminous skirts, and followed her husband inside, slamming the door.
Monk turned to Drusilla. There was a look of triumph in her face, her eyes were bright, her skin glowing. Delighted as he was with having traced Angus to the Isle of Dogs on the day of his disappearance, even to a specific tavern, his foremost emotion was pleasure in her company, a lift of ex- citement as he looked at her and he thought how lovely she was.
“Shall we adjourn to the Artichoke and take some luncheon?” he said with a wide smile. “I think we deserve it.”
“Indeed we do,” she agreed heartily, taking his arm. “The very best they have to offer.”
They ate at the Artichoke and Monk attempted to question the landlord, a burly man with a red face and a magnificent nose, squashed sideways from some ancient injury. But he was busy and highly disinclined to answer any questions that were not to do with the bill of fare. Monk learned nothing, except that it would be an excellent place in which two men might meet unnoticed.
Afterwards they tried a few more shops and passersby; there were few idlers in the thick fog and darkening afternoon. By three o'clock Monk offered to take her home. It was bitterly cold with a rawness that chilled to the bone, and she must be weary.
“Thank you, but you don't need to come with me,” she said with a smile. “I know you want to go on until darkness.”
“Of course I shall take you,” he persisted. “You should not be alone anywhere near here!”
“Nonsense!” she said briskly. “We are equals in this. Courtesy I accept, but I refuse to be treated as an incompetent. Call me a hansom, and I shall be home within the hour. If you make me feel a burden to you, you will rob me of all the pleasure I feel now.” She smiled at him dazzlingly, laughter in her voice. “And the very considerable feeling of accomplishment. Please, William?” She had not used his name before. He found it peculiarly pleasing to hear it on her lips.
And the argument was telling. He conceded, and took her to the nearest main thoroughfare, where he stopped a hansom and helped her in, paid the driver, and watched it retreat into the looming fog. It was quickly swallowed, even its lights engulfed within minutes. Then he turned back and spent one more hour asking, probing, seeking. But he learned nothing more, only fear and rumor of Caleb Stone, all of it ugly. He seemed an elusive man, appearing and disappearing at will, always angry, always on the edge of violence.
Everything that he knew convinced him the more that Angus Stonefield was indeed dead and that Caleb had murdered him when the hatred and jealousy of years had finally exploded.
But how to prove it to a jury? How to create more than a moral certainty, a crushing sense of injustice, of wrong done, and all answer for it defied?
There was no corpse. Maybe there never would be. Everything he knew of Caleb depicted him as a man of cruelty and absolute selfishness, but also of considerable cunning, with many friends along the waterfront who would hide him-who did, whenever he was threatened.
But surely Monk had the intelligence and the imagination to outwit him? He was walking slowly, almost feeling his way as the fog turned to darkness.
He could barely hear the muffled footsteps of others returning home in the late afternoon. Carriage lamps hung like moons suspended in the shrouds of mist. The sound of horses' hooves had no sharpness on the freezing cobbles.
There was so much of himself he did not know, but at least since the accident he had never been permanently defeated in a case that really mattered-a few thefts, never a murder. Before the accident he knew only from what he had read of his own case notes in the police files.
But every case he read showed a man of relentless tenacity, broad imagination and a passion for truth. There had been other adversaries as harsh and violent as Caleb Stone, and none of them had beaten him. He had walked a mile and a half along the West India Dock Road before he finally found a hansom and directed it to take him home to Fitzroy Street. He was expecting Genevieve Stonefield. He had promised her some report of his progress, and he must be there when she arrived. He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes for the long, slow journey. It would be well over an hour at this time of night, and in this weather, even as far as Bloomsbury.
By the time he had changed his clothes and had a hot cup of tea, and Genevieve had arrived, he was set in his determination not only to find the truth but to prove it.
