In the past, Monk had inquired into matters solely at her behest, when she felt that an injustice was threatened or had been done.
To begin with, he caught a cab to see Mrs. Stonefield in her own home, as he had said he would. It would give him a clearer impression of her, of the family's well-being, both financial and social, and-if he were perceptive enoughalso of the relationships beneath the surface of what she had told him.
The house was on Upper George Street, on the corner of Seymour Place just east of the Edgware Road. It took him more than an hour in heavy traffic and a hard, soaking rain, from the far side of the river to arrive at the other side of Mayfair, alight, and pay the driver. It was nearly four o'clock, and the lamplighters were already out in the thickening dusk. He turned his coat collar up and crossed the footpath to knock on the front door. At this hour any formal callers would have been and gone, if indeed she were receiving callers.
He shivered and turned to look back at the street. It was quiet and eminently respectable. Rows of similar windows looked out onto neat front gardens. Areaways were swept clean. Behind closed back gates would be cellar chutes for coal, dustbins, scrubbed scullery steps and back door en- trances for tradesmen and deliveries.
Was this what Angus Stonefield wanted? Or had he become suffocated by its predictability and discretion? Had his soul yearned for something wilder, more exhilarating, something that challenged the mind and disturbed the heart? And had he been prepared to sacrifice safety, the warmth of family, as its price? Had he grown to loathe being known by his neighbors, relied upon by his dependents; every day, every year mapped out before him to a decent and uneventful old age?
Monk felt a sharp sadness that it was such a vivid possibility. Stonefield would not be the first man to have run away from the reality of love and its responsibilities, to grasp instead the illusion and excitement of lust and what might seem like freedom, only later to realize it was loneliness.
Another gust of rain soaked him just as he turned back to the door and it opened. The fair-haired parlormaid looked at him inquiringly.
“William Monk, to call upon Mrs. Stonefield,” he announced, dropping his card on the tray she held. “I believe she is expecting me.”
“Yes sir. If you care to wait in the morning room, I shall see if Mrs.
Stonefield is at home,” she replied, stepping back for him to enter. Monk walked through the pleasant hall behind her to wait in the room which he was shown. It gave him an opportunity to glance around and make some estimate of Stonefield's character and circumstances-although if he were in difficulties, the front rooms where guests were received would be the last to show it. Monk had known families to live without heat, and eat little more than bread and gruel, and yet keep up the facade of prosperity the moment visitors called. Generosity, even extravagance, was displayed to foster the pretense. Sometimes it aroused his contempt for the ridiculousness of it. At others he was moved to a strange, hurting pity that they found it necessary, that they believed their worth to their friends lay in such things.
He stood in the small, tidy room in which the maid had left him, and looked around it. To the outward eye it presented every sign of comfort and good taste. It was a little overcrowded, but that was the fashion, and there was no fire lit, in spite of the weather.
The furniture was solid and the upholstery of good quality and, as far as he could see, not overly worn. He looked more closely at the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but they were clean and unfaded or rubbed. The gas mantles on the walls were immaculate, the curtains unfaded in the folds. The red-and-cream Turkey carpet was only slightly worn in a passage from doorway to hearth. There were no darker patches on the wallpaper to indicate a picture missing. The fine china and glass ornaments were unchipped. He could see no hairline cracks carefully glued together.
Everything was of good quality and individual taste. It reaffirmed the impression of Genevieve Stonefield he had already formed.
He was about to begin reading the titles of the books in the oak case when he was interrupted by the return of the maid to conduct him to the withdrawing room.
He had intended to make a discreet assessment of that room also, but as soon as he was through the doorway his entire attention was taken by Genevieve Stonefield herself. She was dressed in a smoky blue gown with darker stripes of velvet around the skirt. Perhaps it was an obvious choice for a woman of her warm skin and rich hair, but nonetheless, it was extraordinarily flattering. She was not lovely in the classical mold, and certainly she had not the pallor and childlike daintiness which was currently admired. There was an earthy, more immediate quality to her, as if in other circumstances she would have been full of laughter, imagi- nation, even hunger. Her features were those of a woman who threw herself wholeheartedly into whatever she espoused. Monk could not imagine what sort of a man Angus Stonefield could be to have won her love in the first place and then to have left her willingly. It precluded his being any kind of coward, or a retreater from life.
The room and its furnishings dissolved into irrelevance. “Mr. Monk,” she said eagerly. “Please do sit down. Thank you, Janet.” She lifted one hand in dismissal of the maid. “If anyone else should call, I am not at home.” “Yes ma'am.” Janet went out obediently, closing the door behind her. As soon as they were alone, Genevieve turned to Monk, then realized it was far too soon for him to have learned anything. She attempted to disguise her disappointment and her foolishness for having allowed hope in the first place.
He wanted to tell her that his initial suspicions seemed less and less likely, but to do so he would have to tell her what they were, and he was not prepared to do that.
“I have been to Mr. Stonefield's place of business,” he began. “Only briefly, as yet, but I can see nothing out of order. I shall return when Mr. Arbuthnot is present and see what more he can tell me.”
“I doubt there will be anything,” she said sadly. “Poor Mr. Arbuthnot is as confused as I. Of course, he does not know what I do of Caleb.” Her mouth tightened, and she turned half away towards the very small fire glimmering in the hearth. “It is something I prefer not to make public, unless I am left no alternative whatever. One does not like to air one's family tragedies for all to know. Poor Angus tried to keep it as discreet as he could, and I don't believe his friends or colleagues were aware.” She lifted one shoulder very slightly in a gesture of despair. “It is most embarrassing that one's relatives are… criminal.” She looked back at him as if it had been a kind of relief to her to speak the truth aloud.
Perhaps she saw a shred of incredulity in his eyes.
“I do not blame you for finding it hard to believe, Mr. Monk, that two brothers could be so different. I found it hard myself. I used to fear Angus had conceived some jealousy or fancy which made him see his brother in such a light. But a little investigation will show you that far from painting Caleb black, Angus was, if anything, too kind in his judgment.”
He did not doubt her sincerity, but he still held his reservations as to what Caleb Stonefield might really be like.. probably no more than a rake or a gambler, someone Angus did not wish to bring to his charming and comfortable home, perhaps least of all leave in the company of his wife. If Caleb were a womanizer, he could never resist trying to awaken in this woman the fires which might so easily lie nascent beneath her proper exterior. Monk himself could feel the temptation. There was a richness in her mouth, a daring in her eyes, and strength in the angle at which she carried her head.
“Why do you believe your brother-in-law might have harmed your husband, Mrs. Stonefield?” he said aloud. “After all the long years of relationship between them, and your husband's loyalty, why should he now hate so deeply as to commit violence against him? What has changed?”
“Nothing that I know,” she said unhappily, staring now at the fire. There was no doubt in her voice, no lessening of the emotion.
“Did your husband threaten him in any way, financially or professionally?”
Monk went on. “Is it likely that he became aware of some misdemeanor, or even crime, that Caleb may have been involved with? And if he did, would he have reported it?”
Her eyes flickered up quickly, meeting his with sudden light. “I don't know, Mr. Monk. You must think me very vague, and most uncharitable to a man I don't even know. Of course what you suggest is possible. Caleb lives in a way which would make it likely he is involved in many crimes. But it is not that which causes my fear.”
Had she said anything else he would have known she lied. He had seen the spark of realization in her eyes, and the doubt.
“What is it?” he said with a gentleness unusual to him.
“I wish I could tell you more precisely,” she answered with a tiny, self-deprecating smile. Then she looked up at him and her expression was startlingly intense. “My husband was not a cowardly man, Mr.
