“Is it him ye're after, or summat else?” Archie asked from just ahead of him in the gloom.
“Him. t 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 ex- pression 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
