William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

I am sorry.”
    A succession of emotions played across Arbuthnot’s face—pain, resignation, pity, ending in a kind of grudging respect.
    “Thank you for your candor, sir. If there is anything else I can do to be of assistance, you have but to inform me.” He rose to his feet. “Now there is a great deal I must attend to.” He gulped and coughed. “Just in case Mr. Stonefield should return, things must be kept going.…”
    Monk nodded and said nothing. He stood up and put on his coat. Arbuthnot showed him out through the office, now filled with clerks busy with letters, ledgers, and messages. The room was brightly lit, every lamp burning, neat heads bent over quills, ink and paper. There was no sound but thescratching of nibs and the gentle hissing of the gas. No one looked up as he passed, but he knew there would be whispers and the exchanging of glances the moment he was gone.
    Monk assumed Stonefield had gone to the East End in answer to some message either directly from Caleb or at least concerning him. There was no other explanation suggested. It did cross his mind as he went down the steps into the windy street, fastening his coat again, that the woman, Selina, might have some relationship with Stonefield which had nothing to do with Caleb. Some eminently respectable men with faultless domestic lives still had a taste for the rougher charms of street women, and kept a second establishment quite separate from, and unknown to, the first. He discounted it because he did not believe Stonefield would have been rash enough to allow such a woman, if she existed, to know of his business address. It would be absurdly dangerous and completely unnecessary. Such arrangements survived only if total secrecy were observed.
    He walked briskly down as far as the bridge. Perhaps it was unprofessional, but he believed Genevieve that Angus Stonefield had gone to see his brother and that this time the quarrel between them had ended in violence which had either injured Angus so seriously he had been unable to return home, or even to send a message, or else he was dead, and the best Monk could do would be to find proof of it adequate to entitle his widow to his estate.
    He must begin by finding the cabby who had picked Angus up on the morning he disappeared. It would most probably be one from the nearest stables; if not, he would move outward from there.
    Actually it took him five cold and exhausting hours, and more than one false trail, before he was certain he had the man. He caught up with him at mid-afternoon, in Stamford Street, near the river. He was standing over a brazier, thawing out his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. Behind him, his horse was snortingbreath into the cold air, waiting impatiently, head down, for the next fare and the chance of movement.
    “Goin’ somewhere, guv?” the cabby asked hopefully.
    “Depends,” Monk replied, stopping beside him. “Did you pick up a fare on the Waterloo Road, about half past ten in the morning, last Tuesday, and take him probably east? Tall, dark gentleman with an overcoat, high hat and an umbrella.” He showed him Lady Ravensbrook’s drawing.
    “Wot’s it to yer if I did?” the cabby asked guardedly.
    “Hot cup of tea laced with something stronger, and a fare to wherever you set him off,” Monk replied. “And a great deal of unpleasantness if you lie to me.”
    The cabby swiveled around from the brazier and eyed Monk narrowly.
    “Well now, if it in’t Inspector Monk,” he said with surprise. “Left the rozzers, ’ave we? ’Eard about that.” Neither his voice nor his face gave any indication as to his feelings on the subject.
    It was a sore one to Monk. His departure from the police force had been forced upon him by that final quarrel with Runcorn. The fact that he had been proved right and Runcorn wrong had helped nothing. With no livelihood anymore, he had been obliged to take up private inquiries, since detection was the only marketable skill he possessed. But he no longer had either the authority of the police force nor the facilities of its vast network and specialist abilities, as the cabby had so pertinently reminded him.
    “Well, why d’yer want the poor geezer as I took, then? Wot’s ’e done? Took the funds with ’im, did ’e?” the cabby asked. “An’ if ’e did, why do you care?”
    “No, he didn’t,” Monk said truthfully. “He’s missing. His wife is afraid some harm may have befallen