his brother out of loyalty, a feeling which was not returned.
Caleb was furiously jealous.”
Deliberately Rathbone said nothing.
Monk had hesitated only a second. After the silence he swept on. “The wife is convinced Caleb has murdered Angus. He has often attacked him before. I tracked Caleb to the Greenwich marshes, and he admitted having killed An- gus, but I can find no corpse.” His face was hard and tight with anger.
“There are a dozen ways it could have been disposed of: down the river is one of the most obvious, buried and left to rot in the marshes, stuffed in the hold of some outgoing ship, or even taken to sea by Caleb himself as far as the estuary and put overboard. Or he could be buried in a common grave with the typhoid victims in Limehouse. Nobody's going to dig them up for a count and identification!”
Rathbone sat back in his large comfortable chair and made a steeple out of his fingers.
“I assume no one else heard this confession of Caleb's?”
“Of course not.”
“And what evidence have you that it may be true, apart from the wife's conviction?” Rathbone asked him. “She is not an impartial witness. By the way, how was he placed financially? And what other… interests…
might his wife have?”
A look of contempt crossed Monk's face. “He is doing nicely, as long as he is present in his business. It depends upon his personal judgment. It will fall into decline very rapidly if he remains absent, and the estate cannot be resolved. And as for the other question, as far as I can determine, she seems a most virtuous woman, and handsome, but now very anxious for the welfare of her children.”
The irritation in Monk's voice might mean that he resented having his judgment questioned. On the other hand, Rathbone thought, from the level of intensity in Monk's eyes, that he felt some pity for the woman and believed her plight. But then he was uncertain that Monk, who was an excellent judge of men, was equally as good a judge of women.
“Witness to quarrels?” he asked, returning to the immediate issue. “Some specific contention between the two brothers over possessions, a woman, an inheritance, an old injury?”
“A witness who saw them together on the day Angus disappeared,” Monk replied. “They were quarreling then.”
“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 account- ancy up to date. I regret to ask you such a thing, it seems so tasteless, but I am obliged by circumstances to do so.”
