William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

Rathbone argued. “For America it would more likely be Liverpool or Southampton. Come to that, what time was it he was last seen? Was the tide going out orcoming in? Couldn’t jump a ship on the incoming tide, unless he ended up in London again. And why would he do that? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” He sat back in his chair again. “No. You’d never persuade a jury he simply took flight. From what? He had no debts, no enemies, no incipient scandal. No, he’s dead, poor devil. Probably buried in one of the common graves of the Limehouse typhoid victims.”
    “Then prove it,” the prosecutor said grimly. “If his lawyer is worth his pay, you’ll have a very hard job, Rathbone, a very hard job indeed. But I wish you luck.”
    When Rathbone returned to Vere Street he found Monk waiting for him. Monk looked appalling. His clothes were as immaculate as always and he was freshly shaved, but his face was haggard, as if he were ill and had not slept. When he stood up to follow Rathbone into his office, without permission, he moved as though his entire body ached. From his appearance he might have been in the later stages of rheumatism. Rathbone had very ambivalent feelings about him, but he would never have wished him ill … a slight reduction in arrogance and self-confidence, perhaps, but not this. It disturbed him more than he was prepared for.
    “Close the door,” he ordered unnecessarily. Monk was in the act of doing so, and stood against it for a moment, staring at Rathbone as he went around the desk and sat behind it. “You got Caleb Stone, I know. I’ve just come from the Crown Prosecutor’s office. It would help a great deal to have more evidence.”
    “I know that!” Monk said savagely, moving away from the door and sitting painfully in the chair opposite the desk. “Maybe the police will set up a proper search and find the body. I imagine they’ll go on dragging the river. Something I was hardly equipped to do. Although this much later, they’d have to be lucky to find it. They could always search the Greenwich and Bugsby marshes. For someone of Angus Stonefield’s standing they’d think it worth it.”
    “They might also think it worth it to get a conviction,now that they have made an arrest,” Rathbone said with a slight smile. “They have rather committed themselves. They won’t want to be obliged to let Caleb Stone free. He’d be insufferable. He’d be a hero to every villain from Wapping to Woolwich. But you know that better than I.”
    “What does he think?”
    “The prosecutor?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “A chance, but he’s not optimistic. Would you like a cup of tea? You … look …” He hesitated, not sure how literal to be.
    “No—yes.” Monk shrugged. “Tea won’t help.” He made as if to stand up, too restless to wait, but then apparently found it painful, and reclined back into his chair.
    “It was a rough chase?” Rathbone said with a dry smile.
    Monk winced. “Very.”
    Rathbone rang his bell and when the clerk appeared he ordered tea.
    “I want it, even if you don’t. Now, tell me why you’ve come. It wasn’t to know the Crown Prosecutor’s opinion of the case.”
    “No,” Monk agreed, then remained silent for several seconds.
    Rathbone felt a chill inside. For something to have affected Monk this deeply it must be very ugly indeed. He had another appointment in twenty minutes. He could not afford delay, and yet he knew impatience would be clumsy, and he had no desire to add to the burden, whatever it was.
    Perhaps Monk sensed his urgency. He looked up suddenly, as if having reached a resolve. His jaw was clenched and there was a muscle flicking in his temple. His words came out in a tight, level, carefully controlled monotone, as though he dared not allow any emotions through or it would all explode beyond his mastery.
    “I met a woman some time ago, by chance, on the steps of the Geographical Society in Sackville Street. We became acquainted and I saw her several times after that. She was charming, intelligent, full of wit and enthusiasm.” His voicewas a flat concentrated monotone. “She expressed interest in the Stonefield case, because I was looking to find trace of Angus Stonefield. The long and short of it is we spent an evening together walking around Soho area looking for places where either Angus or Genevieve Stonefield might have met a lover. Of course we didn’t find anything. I don’t know if either