William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

and tightening his lips, as though he smelled something distasteful. But then if he were correct and she had come from the slums of the East End dockside, he may well have. The damp overcrowded rooms, the open middens, and the sewage from the river made any alternative impossible.
    “Handsome,” Arbuthnot said sadly. “At least nature gave her that, even if she did her best to hide it with paint and garish clothes. Very immodest.”
    “A prostitute?” Monk said bluntly.
    Arbuthnot winced. “I have no idea. She said nothing to indicate so.”
    “What did she say? For heaven’s sake, man, don’t make me draw answers from you like teeth! Who was she and what did she want? Not to buy or sell corn futures!”
    “Of course not!” Arbuthnot blushed furiously. “She asked for Mr. Stonefield, and when I informed him of her presence, he saw her immediately.” He took another deep breath. “She had been here before. Twice, that I am aware of. She gave her name as Selina, just that, no surname.”
    “Thank you. What did Mr. Stonefield say about her? Did he explain her presence?”
    Arbuthnot’s eyes widened. “No, sir. It was not our business to inquire into who she was.”
    “And he felt no wish to tell you?” Monk let his surprise show. “Who did you suppose her to be? Don’t say you did not think of it.”
    “Well, yes,” Arbuthnot admitted. “Naturally we did wonderwho she was. I assumed it was something to do with his brother, since as you observe, it could not be business.”
    The first flush of fire settled down now that the kindling was burned, and Arbuthnot put more coal on.
    “What was Mr. Stonefield’s manner after she left?” Monk pursued.
    “Disturbed. He was somewhat agitated,” Arbuthnot answered unhappily. “He withdrew what money there was in the safe—five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence. He signed a receipt for it, and then he left.”
    “How long after Selina was this?”
    “As near as I can remember, about ten or fifteen minutes.”
    “Did he say where he was going, or when he expected to return?” He watched Arbuthnot closely.
    “No, sir.” Arbuthnot shook his head slowly, his eyes sad and anxious. “He said some urgent matter needed his attention, and I should see Mr. Hurley in his stead. Mr. Hurley was a broker who was expected that afternoon. I assumed he thought he might be out all day, but I fully expected him the following morning. He gave no instructions for the next day, and there were most important matters to attend to. He would not have forgotten.” Suddenly his face filled with grief and an agonizing fear and bewilderment, and Monk realized with a jolt how Arbuthnot’s own world had been damaged by Stonefield’s disappearance. One day everything had been safe and assured, predictable, if a little pedestrian. The next it was overturned, filled with mystery. Even his livelihood and perhaps his home were jeopardized. There was uncertainty in every direction. It was he who would have to tell Genevieve that they could no longer continue, and then he would have to dismiss all the rest of the staff and try to wind up the company and salvage what was left, pay the debts and leave a name of honor behind, if little else.
    Monk searched his mind for something comforting or helpful to say, and found nothing.
    “What time did he leave, as closely as you can recall?” he asked. The question was dry and literal, reflecting nothing of what he felt.
    “About half past ten,” Arbuthnot said bleakly, his mild eyes reflecting a dislike Monk understood only too easily.
    “Do you know how?”
    Arbuthnot stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Do you know how?” Monk repeated. “If I am to trace him, it would be helpful to know if he went on foot or took a hansom, what he was wearing, if he turned left or right upon leaving …”
    “I see, yes, I see.” Arbuthnot looked relieved. “Of course. I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. It was a most inclement day. He always wore a hat, naturally, a black high hat. He took a hansom, down towards the Waterloo Bridge.” He searched Monk’s face. “Do you think you have some chance of finding him?”
    A lie sprang to Monk’s mind. It would have been easier. He would have liked to leave him with hope, but habit was too strong.
    “Not a great deal. But I may learn what became of him, which will be of practical use to Mrs. Stonefield, though of little comfort.