William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

another woman, that would not only rob her of the future but, in a sense, of the past as well, of all that was good and she had believed to be true.
    The hansom set him down on the Waterloo Road.
    The rain had stopped and it was a brisk, chilly day with fast scudding clouds. A cutting east wind came up from the river with a smell of salt from the incoming tide, and the soot and smoke of countless chimneys. He stepped smartly out of the way of a carriage and leaped for the footpath.
    He pulled his coat collar a little higher and strode out towards Angus Stonefield’s place of business. The domestic servants yesterday evening had told him nothing of use. No one had noticed any behavior out of the very ordinary routine of rising at seven and taking breakfast with his wife while his children ate in the nursery. After reading the newspaper, and any post that may have been delivered, he left in sufficient time to arrive at his office by half past eight. He did not keep a carriage but traveled by hansom cab.
    The day of his disappearance he had followed exactly that pattern. The morning’s post had contained a couple of small household bills, an invitation, and a polite letter from an acquaintance. No one had called at the house other than the usual tradesmen and a woman friend of Genevieve’s who came for afternoon tea.
    Monk arrived at Stonefield’s offices too early, and was obliged to wait a quarter of an hour before Mr. Arbuthnot appeared walking along the pavement from the north, carrying an umbrella in his hand and looking hurried and unhappy. He was a small man with thick gray hair and a gray, immaculately trimmed mustache.
    Monk introduced himself.
    “Ah!” Arbuthnot said anxiously. “Yes. I suppose it was inevitable.” He took out a key from the pocket of his coat and inserted it into the outer door. He turned it with some effort.
    “You believe so?” Monk said with some surprise. “You foresaw such a thing?”
    Arbuthnot pushed the door open.
    “Well, something has to be done,” he said sadly. “We can’t go on like this. Do come in. Allow me to close this wretched door.”
    “It needs oiling,” Monk observed, realizing Arbuthnot was referring to his own inquiries as inevitable, not his employer’s disappearance.
    “Yes, yes,” Arbuthnot agreed. “I keep telling Jenkins to do it, but he doesn’t listen.” He led the way into the main office, empty still, and dark before the lamps were lit, the gray light through the windows being inadequate to work by.
    Monk followed him through the glass-paned doors and into his own more comfortably furnished room. With a murmur of apology Arbuthnot bent and put a match to the fire, already carefully laid in the hearth, then let out a sigh of satisfaction as the flames took hold. He lit the lampsalso, then took off his coat and invited Monk to do the same.
    “What can I tell you that may be of service?” he said, knitting his brows together unhappily. “I have no idea what has happened, or I should already have told the authorities, and we should not now be in this terrible position.”
    Monk sat in the rather uncomfortable upright chair opposite him. “I presume you have checked the accounts, Mr. Arbuthnot, and any monies which may be kept here?”
    “This is really very unpleasant, sir,” Arbuthnot said in a tight, quiet voice. “But yes, I felt obliged to do that, even though I was quite certain I should find them in perfect order.”
    “And did you?” Monk pressed.
    “Indeed, sir, to the farthing. Everything is accounted for and as it should be.” He did not hesitate, nor did his eyes waver. Perhaps it was his perfect steadiness which made Monk believe there was something else to add, some qualification.
    “What time did Mr. Stonefield arrive that morning?” he asked. “Perhaps you would tell me everything you recall of that day, in the order it happened.”
    “Yes … er, of course.” Arbuthnot shivered a little and turned aside to pick up the poker from the hearth and prod at the fire. He continued with his back to Monk. “He arrived at quarter to nine, as usual. The first delivery of post was already here. He took it into his office and read it—”
    “Do you know what was in it?” Monk interrupted.
    Arbuthnot finished his administrations to the fire and laid the poker back on its rest. “Orders, delivery notices, advice of shipments, an application for a position as clerk.” He sighed. “A very promising young man, but if