William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

trying to establish a clearer picture of Angus. What emerged was an eminently decent man, not only respected by all who knew him but also quite genuinely liked. If he had offended anyone, Monk could not find him. He was a regular attender at church. His employees thought him generous, his business rivals considered him fair in every respect. Even those whom he had beaten to a good deal could find no serious fault with him. If anyone had a criticism, it lay in the fact that his sense of humor was a little slow and he was overformal with women, which probably sprang from shyness. On occasion he spoiled his children and lacked the type of discipline considered proper. All the faults of a careful and gentle man.
    Monk went to see Titus Niven. He didn’t know what he expected to learn, but it was an avenue which should not be overlooked. Possibly Niven might have some insight into Angus Stonefield that no one else had felt comfortable to speak.
    Genevieve had supplied him with Niven’s address, about a mile away, off the Marylebone Road. She had looked somewhat anxious, but she refrained from asking him if he expected to learn anything.
    The first time Monk called there was no one at home except one small maid-of-all-work who said Mr. Niven was out, but she had no idea where or at what time he might be back.
    Monk could see the strain of poverty staring at him from every surface, the girl’s face, the hemp mat on the floor, the unheated air smelling of damp and soot. It was not a poor neighborhood; it was a very comfortable one in which this individual house had fallen upon greatly reduced circumstances. It stirred memories in him, but they were indistinct, emotions of anger and pity rather than fear.
    When he called in the evening, Titus Niven himself opened the door. He was a tall man, slender, with a long-nosed, sensitive face full of humor and, at the moment, a mixture of self-deprecation and hope struggling against despair. Monk’s instinct was to like the man, but his intelligence told him to be suspicious. He was the one person known to have a grudge against Angus Stonefield, perhaps a legitimate one, certainly one that was very real. How successful he had been previously Monk could not estimate until he was inside the house, but he certainly was in dire straits now.
    “Good evening, sir?” Niven said tentatively, his eyes on Monk’s face.
    “Mr. Titus Niven?” Monk inquired, although he was in no doubt.
    “Yes sir?”
    “My name is Monk. I have been retained by Mrs.Stonefield to inquire into Mr. Stonefield’s present whereabouts.” There was no point in evasion any longer. To ask only such questions as would leave it concealed would be a waste of time, which was short enough, and he had accomplished nothing so far. It was already seven days since Angus had last been seen.
    “Come in, sir.” Niven opened the door wide and stood back to allow Monk to pass. “It is a cruel night to stand on the step.”
    “Thank you.” Monk went into the house, and almost immediately was aware just how far Titus Niven had fallen. The architecture was gracious and designed for better times. It had been decorated within the last year or two and was in excellent condition. The curtains were splendid, and presumably would be the last things to be sacrificed to necessity, for the privacy they offered when drawn but even more for their warmth across the cold, rain-streaked glass. But there were no pictures on the walls, although he could see with a practiced eye where the picture hooks had been. There were no ornaments except a simple, cheap clock—to judge from the curtains, not Niven’s taste at all. The furniture was of good quality, but there was far too little of it. There were bare spaces which leaped to the eye, and the fire in the large hearth was a mere smoldering of a couple of pieces of coal, a gesture rather than a warmth.
    Monk looked at Niven and saw from his face that words were unnecessary. Niven had seen that he understood. Neither comment nor excuse would serve purpose, only add weight to the pain that was real enough.
    Monk stood in the center of the room. It would somehow be a presumption to sit down before he was invited, as if the man’s poverty reduced his status as host.
    “I daresay you are aware,” he began, “or have deduced, that Angus Stonefield is missing. No one knows why. It is now of some urgency, for his family’s sake, that he is found. Quite naturally, Mrs. Stonefield is alarmed