William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

any bodies in the last five days which might answer the description of Angus Stonefield.
    The sergeant looked at him patiently. As always, Monk did not recognize him but had no knowledge of whether the man knew him or not. More than once he had realized he was familiar, and disliked. At first he had been at a loss as to why. Gradually he had learned his own quick brain and hard tongue had earned the fear of men less gifted, less able to defend themselves or retaliate with words. It had not been pleasant.
    Now he regarded the sergeant steadily, hiding his own misgivings behind a steady, unblinking gaze.
    “Description?” the sergeant said with a sigh. If he had ever seen Monk before he did not seem to remember it. Of course, Monk would have been in uniform then. That might make all the difference. Monk would not remind him.
    “About my height,” he replied quietly. “Dark hair, strong features, green eyes. His clothes would be good quality, well cut, expensive cloth.”
    The sergeant blinked. “Relative, sir?” A quiet flicker of sympathy crossed his blunt face, and Monk realized with a start how close the description was to his own, except for the color of the eyes. And yet he did not look like the picture Enid Ravensbrook had drawn. There was a rakishness in that face which set it at odds with what both Genevieve and Arbuthnot had said of Angus Stonefield, but not of his brother Caleb. Had Enid unintentionally caught more of thespirit of Caleb? Or was Angus not the sedate man his family and employees supposed? Had he a secret other life?
    The sergeant was waiting.
    “No,” Monk answered. “I am inquiring on behalf of his wife. This is not something a woman should have to do.”
    The sergeant winced. He had seen too many pale-faced, frightened women doing exactly that; wives, mothers, even daughters, standing as Monk was now, afraid, and yet half hoping the long agony of uncertainty was over.
    “ ’Ow old?” the sergeant asked.
    “Forty-one.”
    The sergeant shook his head. “No sir. No one answering to that. Got two men, one not more’n twenty, the other fat wi’ ginger ’air. Though ’ed be late thirties or thereabouts, poor devil.”
    “Thank you.” Monk was suddenly relieved, which was absurd. He was no further forward. If Angus Stonefield was dead, he needed to find proof of it for Genevieve. If he had simply absconded, that would be a worse blow for her, leaving her both destitute and robbed even of the comfort of the past. “Thank you,” he repeated, his voice grimmer.
    The sergeant frowned, at a loss to understand.
    Monk did not owe him an explanation. On the other hand, he might very well need him again. A friend was more valuable than an enemy. He winced at his own stupidity in the past.
    Arrogance was self-defeating. He bit his lip and smiled dourly at the sergeant. “I think the poor man is dead. To have found his body would be a relief … in a way. Of course, I would like to hope he is alive, but it is not realistic.”
    “I see.” The sergeant sniffed. Monk had no doubt from the expression in his mild eyes that he did indeed understand. He had probably met many similar cases before.
    “I’ll come back,” Monk said briefly. “He may yet turn up.”
    “If yer like,” the sergeant agreed.
    Monk left the East End and traveled west again to resume investigation into other possibilities. The more he thought of the face Enid Ravensbrook had drawn, the more he thought he would be remiss simply to accept Genevieve’s word for Angus’s probity and almost boringly respectable life. The sergeant of the River Police had thought him, for a moment, to be a relative of Monk’s because of the similarity of description. What words would Monk have used of his own face? How did you convey anything of the essence of a man? Not by the color of his eyes or hair, his age, his height or weight. There was something reckless in his own face. He remembered the shock with which he had first seen it in the glass after his return from hospital. Then it had been the face of a stranger, a man about whom he knew nothing. But the strength had been there in the nose, the smooth cheeks, the thin mouth, the steadiness of the eyes.
    In what way was Angus Stonefield different, that they could not be brothers? It was there, but he could not place it, it was something elusive, something he thought was vulnerable.
    Was it in the man? Or only in Enid Ravensbrook’s sketch?
    He spent a further day and a half