Monk thought of Callandra Daviot, and wondered if she would be prepared to support him if he continued the case without payment from Genevieve or Lord Ravensbrook. He deternuned at the first possible moment to ask her. He must know the truth. If Caleb Stone had murdered his brother out of jealousy, Genevieve deserved to have it proven, and Monk could almost taste his own keenness to see Caleb answer first. And if there were some other resolution, even one that involved Titus Niven, Monk wanted to know it. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that Monk wanted to prove that it was not so. The possibility haunted his mind, too nebulous to grasp, too ugly to forget.
“Of course I will, Mrs. Stonefield,” he said aloud. “It may be possible for one to offer sufficient proof or at least a serious case for the police to take over the investigation. Then there will naturally be no private cost.”
“I see.”
“I understand Lady Ravensbrook is past the worst and is expected to recover?” he went on.
She smiled, and Titus Niven also relaxed, although he remained close to her.
“Yes indeed, thank the good Lord. She was most dreadfully ill, and it will take her a long time to be back to herself again, but at least she is alive, and two days ago I had not dared hope for that.”
“And you have moved out of Ravensbrook House?”
Her face tightened, a shadow crossed over her eyes.
“My presence is no longer necessary all the time. Miss Latterly is most competent, and naturally there are maids to take care of the domestic duties. I go every day, but it is far better for my children to be at home.”
Monk was about to argue the issue, thinking of the expense of heating, food, even the retention of her own servants, but Titus Niven cut across him.
“It is good of you to be concerned, Mr. Monk, but with Mr. Stonetield's disappearance, there has been more than enough distress and disturbance in their lives. To leave home again, I am sure you agree, is a trial that is best avoided, as long as that is possible.”
Many answers flashed in Monk's mind: the comfort of Ravensbrook House, particularly in the middle of winter; the warmth; the excellent food; the absence of a hundred worries and responsibilities; and on the other hand the lack of privacy for Genevieve to receive Titus Niven whenever she chose. Perhaps it would even make it easier for her, in time, to move him into Angus's business or install him as its new manager.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he conceded somewhat ungraciously. “I will continue to pursue such evidence as I can find. Can you recall, Mrs. Stonefield, any remark your husband may have made about where he met his brother, any comment upon surroundings, circumstances which may help me to find further proof?” He watched her face closely for the slightest flicker of forethought, guarding her tongue or feeding him information which she knew but should not have were she innocent.
“I don't understand you, Mr. Monk.” She blinked.
He saw nothing but confusion in her.
“Did they eat together, take a pint of ale, for example?” he elaborated.
“Did they meet inside or outside, on the river or ashore? In company with others, or alone?”
“Yes, I see.” Understanding was quick in her face, then distress. “You want to know where to look for… a body…”
Titus Niven winced and his sensitive mouth was pulled crooked with distaste. He shot Monk a look of pleading, but he did not interrupt, though the effort obviously cost him.
“Or a witness,” Monk amended.
“I am afraid he didn't, or I should have told you.” She shook her head. “He never discussed his meetings with Caleb. It always upset him. But once or twice his clothes were damp and smelled of salt and fish.” She took a breath. “And other things I cannot identify for you, but most unpleasant.”
“I see. Thank you.” He had wondered if she would gently lead him to where Angus was. If she knew, then sooner or later she would. She needed his death proved. Standing in this gracious room, knowing it to be slowly de- nuded of its treasures, seeing the tiny heap of coals glowing in the hearth, her pale face smudged with weariness and anxiety, he found it almost impossible to believe she harbored any deceit at all. But he had been wrong before. And the fact that he liked Niven meant nothing either.
He must pursue it. “Then I shall take my leave. Good day, ma'am. Mr.
Niven.”
He followed his hunch diligently for the rest of that day, and half of the next, and learned nothing at all. According to even the most critical of neighborhood gossip, Genevieve was as worthy as her husband, a virtuous woman in every outward regard, even to the point of being a trifle tedious.
If she had any failings they were a carefulness with money, an extreme regard for it, and a rather unreliable sense of humor. She had been known to laugh more often than was entirely suitable, and on quite inappropriate occasions.
Titus Niven was a friend of the family, at least as much of Angus's as hers. And no, no one knew any occasion when he had called at the house when Angus was not also present.
If there had been any secret relationship then it was hidden superbly well.
Titus Niven had cause to be envious of Angus Stonefield, both professionally and personally, perhaps even to hate him, but there was no evidence that indeed he did so.
In the early afternoon Monk went back to the East End, to Limehouse and the makeshift typhoid hospital to see Callandra Daviot. He wanted to see her for several reasons, but paramount in his mind was the matter of funds. It was obvious to Monk that if Lord Ravensbrook withdrew his funds Genevieve could not afford to employ him and the hope of being able to find proof was slight. Yet he was determined to follow the case to the bitter end. Also he needed help, and the fever hospital was a good place to begin seeking more detailed local knowledge. He cursed his own inadequacy. If he had his memory he would probably know all kinds of people he could call upon.
He trudged along Gill Street, collar up against the wind, the stink of soot and middens thick in his nose. The massive outline of the old warehouse was ahead of him, gray against a gray sky. He increased his pace just as it began to rain, and was inside the entrance before he got wet.
The smell of illness caught in his nostrils and his throat immediately, different from the usual sour, rank smell outside, which he was now accustomed to. This was harsher and more intimate, and in spite of all the will he could exercise, it frightened him. This was not the business of life; it was pain, death and the closeness of death. It closed around him like a fog, and he had to grit his teeth and master his body not to turn and run back out of the door into the air again. He was ashamed of it and despised himself.
He saw the woman Mary coming towards him, a covered pail in her hand. He knew what would be in it and his stomach knotted.
“Is Lady Callandra here?” he asked her. His voice sounded brittle.
“Yeah.” Her hair was plastered to her head with rain and sweat and her skin was pasty with exhaustion. She had no strength left for politeness, or even for awe of authority. “In there.” She jerked her head sideways, indicating the vast space of the warehouse floor, then continued on her way.
“Thank you.” Monk went reluctantly into the cavern of the room. It looked exactly the same, dimly lit by candles, floor covered with straw and canvas, the humps of bodies visible under blankets. At either end the black, potbellied stoves gave off heat and the odor of coal and steam from cauldrons. There was also a sharp catch in his throat from the burning tobacco leaves. He remembered Hester saying something about using it in the army for fumigation.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw Callandra standing close to one of the hunched figures on the straw. Kristian Beck was opposite her, and they were absorbed in conversation.
He was aware of movement to his left, and turned to see Hester coming towards him. She seemed even thinner in the candlelight and the severe gray dress, her hair screwed back unflatteringly. Her eyes looked larger than he had remembered, her mouth softer and more capable of passion, or pain. He wished intensely that he had not come. He did not want to see her, especially here. Enid Ravensbrook had caught typhoid here and nearly died.
That thought crushed his mind, closing out almost everything else. “Has something happened in your case?” she asked as soon as she was close enough to him to speak without being overheard.
“Nothing conclusive,” he replied. “I've found Caleb, but not Angus.”
“What happened?” Her expression was sharp with interest.
