William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

years ago, sir, on the twenty-eighth of March, 1851.” He frowned. “The cause of death was listed as chill, rather unspecific. He was not an elderly man, indeed only in his fifty-sixth year, and apparently had been in good health until that time.”
    “His family!” Monk said urgently. “Did he have children?”
    “Why yes, yes he did. And he left a widow, a Mary Ann.”
    “Names of the children!” Monk demanded. “What were their names? What were their ages?”
    “My goodness, sir, don’t distress yourself so! Yes, there were children, indeed there were. One son named Octavian, which is curious, since apparently he was the eldest—”
    “Curious?”
    “Yes sir. Clergymen often have large families, and Octavian means eighth, you know.…”
    “Daughters! Did he have daughters?”
    “Yes, yes he did. Eldest named Julia, second named Septima. Poor man really cannot count! Quite amusing … yes! Yes! I am coming to the rest. Another son named Marcus … all very Roman. Perhaps it was an interest of his, a hobby. Yes! And a last daughter named Drusilla—ah!” This last gasp was because Monk had again clapped him on the back and driven the air out of his lungs. “I take it that is the lady whom you are seeking?”
    “Yes, yes. I think it is. Now—the living. What was his position, and where?”
    “Wymondham, sir. It is only a small village.”
    “Was he simply the parson?” It did not seem to fit what he had seen of Drusilla. Could it be no more than an extraordinary coincidence, and after all, have no meaning?
    “No sir,” the clerk replied with growing enthusiasm himself. “I believe he had an attachment to the Norwich Cathedral, or he had had in the recent past. A distinguished scholar, so my informant tells me.”
    “Ah—thank you.” Hope surged back up again. “Is there anything else you know? About the family, for example? The widow? The daughters? In what circumstances do they find themselves now?”
    The clerk’s face fell.
    “I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea. I daresay you would have to travel to Norfolk for that.”
    “Yes, of course. Thank you. I am enormously obliged to you.” And indeed he was. He raced out of the building and flung himself into the first vacant hansom that passed, shouting to the driver to take him to the police station, where he could find John Evan and tell him what he now knew.
    But he was obliged to wait nearly three hours before Evan returned from the case he was on, by which time it was long after dark and had begun to rain. They sat together in the coffee shop, warming themselves with hands around hot mugs, sipping slowly at the steaming liquid, a babble of noise around them and constant movement as people came and went.
    “Buckingham!” Evan said with surprise. “I don’t recall the name.”
    “But there must be a case concerning a Buckingham!” Monk insisted. “Try eight years ago specifically.” It was a cry of desperation. Terror gripped inside him that his wrongagainst Drusilla had been personal … and unforgivable not only to her but to himself as well.
    “I went back over all your cases,” Evan said with pain in his eyes. “There was no Buckingham that I can remember, either charged or accused. But of course I’ll try again. I’ll look specifically for the name.”
    “Perhaps I’d better go to Norfolk.” Monk stared beyond Evan without seeing the thronged room or hearing the laughter. “That’s where they lived.”
    “Why would you have gone to Norfolk?” Evan was puzzled. “You only dealt with London cases. If it happened there, the local police would have handled it, not you.” He shrugged very slightly, and shivered as if someone had opened an outside door, although the coffee shop was almost too hot, with its crowded atmosphere and steaming drinks, and the fire leaping in the hearth. “I suppose it could have started in London, and there have been witnesses—and suspects, for that matter—in Norfolk. I’ll try.” He frowned, knowing he was speaking only for comfort. “Don’t worry, if it’s there, I’ll find it.”
    And if it is not, Monk thought, then any injury to her was personal, and how in God’s name do I learn that? How will I ever know my own view of it, why I did whatever it was, what I thought or felt, what there is in mitigation for me?
    He finished his coffee and stood up. He had not the heart even to meet Evan’s eyes. What would he think or feel when he knew the truth, what bitter