William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

household with him.”
    “Is there no one I could find who lived in the house then?” Monk pressed. “What about outside staff? Even a gardener, gamekeeper, coachman? Is it still the same vicar as it was then?”
    The stationmaster nodded. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nicolson is still the vicar. Vicarage is opposite the church, just beyond that second stand of elms.” He pointed. “Can’t miss it. Just follow the road ’round. About two miles from here, sir.”
    “Thank you. I’m obliged to you for your time and your courtesy.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, Monk strode out in the direction the stationmaster had indicated.
    The wind sighed through the bare branches of the elms and a cloud of rooks soared up into the air, disturbed by some predatory cat. Their black, tangled nests were low in the forks, towards the trunks. It had been a hard winter.
    The vicar was an elderly man, but spry and bright-eyed. He greeted Monk over the hedge from where he had been looking hopefully at the green lawn and first spears of bulbs showing through.
    Monk gave the briefest of explanations as to his purpose.
    The vicar regarded him with a lively interest.
    “Yes sir, of course I can. What a fine morning, isn’t it? Won’t be long before the daffodils come through. Love a good show of daffodils. Come into the parlor, my dear fellow. Got a decent fire going. Get the chill out of yourself.”
    He came to the gate and opened it for Monk to walkthrough. Then he led him up a chipped stone path to the door, which was heavily bowered with honeysuckle, now a dark tangle of stems not yet showing green.
    “In fact, would you like a spot of luncheon?” he invited, showing Monk the way inside, where it was immediately warm. “Hate to eat alone. Uncivilized. Good conversation best for a meal, don’t you think?” He went through the overcrowded hall and opened the door into a bright, chintz-curtained room. “Wife died five years ago. Have to grasp at all the company I can. Know everyone here. Have done for years. Can’t surprise each other anymore. Gets tedious in the winter. Don’t mind in the summer, enough to do in the garden. What did you say your name was?”
    “William Monk, Mr. Nicolson.”
    “Ah, well, Mr. Monk, would you care for some luncheon, while you tell me your business here in Chilverley?”
    Monk was delighted to accept. He was cold and hungry, and it would be far easier to stretch out a conversation over the table than sitting in even the most agreeable parlor.
    “Good, good. Now please make yourself comfortable while I inform the cook!”
    The Reverend Nicolson was so obviously happy to have company that Monk allowed at least half the meal to pass before he broached the subject of his journey. He swallowed the last of the cold mutton, pickles and vegetables and set his knife and fork down.
    The maid appeared with hot, flaky apple pie and a jug of cream and set them on the table with evident satisfaction, taking away the empty plates.
    Then the vicar began his tale and Monk listened with amazement, anger, and growing compassion.

  13  
    T
HE CORONER’S INQUEST
into the death of Caleb Stone opened two days later. The public benches were packed. It was an extraordinary incident, and people were curious to learn how such a thing had happened.
    Lord Ravensbrook was obliged to attend and give evidence; indeed, he was the only immediate witness. Also to be called were the three gaolers, all sitting rigidly upright, embarrassed and profoundly frightened. Jimson was convinced they were all innocent, Bailey, that they were all to blame, and would be punished appropriately. The third gaoler, who had gone to report the matter, refused to have an opinion at all.
    Hester was to be called, by Rathbone, if not by the coroner. There was also the doctor who had examined the body officially.
    Enid Ravensbrook sat beside her husband, still pale-faced and gaunt, but steady-eyed, and less physically ill than the week before. Next to her was Genevieve Stonefield, and beside her, calm and resolute, Titus Niven.
    Selina Herries sat alone, head high, face white and set, eyes hollow with shock. Rathbone looked at her, and felt an unaccountable grief for her. They had nothing whatever in common, no culture, no cause, no beliefs, barely even a common language. And yet the sight of her filled him with a sense of the universality of bereavement. He knew whatit was to lose that which had been dear, in whatever manner, however