William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

competitive, sir. Others will seize the chance to profit from our indecision.” His face grew pinker and he bit his lip. “Do you think that he could have been kidnapped, sir?”
    It was not among the possibilities that had occurred to Monk.
    “It would be a most extreme step,” he replied, watching the young man’s face. He saw nothing in it but fear and sympathy. If he knew anything more, he was an actor to rival Henry Irving and had missed a career on the stage.
    “Then he must have been taken ill,” the clerk said with concern. “And is even now lying in some hospital, unable to contact us. He would never wittingly leave us in this way.” He grew even pinker. “Nor his family either, of course! That I need hardly say.” His expression indicated he knew he should have said it to begin with.
    “Does he have business rivals who might think to profit if he were out of the way?” Monk asked, casting his eye discreetly around the tidy, well-furnished room with its desks and shelves of books and files of ledgers. The wintersun came in through high, narrow windows. He still thought a domestic answer more likely.
    “Oh yes, sir,” the clerk replied with assurance. “Mr. Stonefield is most successful, sir. A rare gift he has for knowing what will sell, and for precisely how much. Made a profit where quite a few others would have burned their fingers … and did!” There was a lift of pride in his voice, then as he looked at Monk, a sudden anxiety. “But always strictly honest!” he added, regarding Monk gravely to make sure he understood that. “There’s never been a whisper against him anywhere! Not in the City, not on the Exchange.”
    “The Stock Exchange?” Monk asked.
    “Oh no, sir, the Corn Exchange.”
    He should have asked before he spoke.
    “These rivals of Mr. Stonefield’s,” he said quickly, his voice harder. “Whose business in particular has he taken lately, or whose does he threaten?”
    “Well …” The clerk hesitated unhappily.
    For a moment there was no sound but the scratching of pens and someone shifting his feet.
    “I don’t like to speak ill …” the clerk resumed.
    “If there is a possibility Mr. Stonefield has been kidnapped, then you will do him little service if you remain silent!” Monk snapped.
    The clerk colored. “Yes. I understand. I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Marchmont, of Marchmont and Squires, lost out to him rather badly last month, but they are large enough they will ride that out.” He thought hard. “Mr. Peabody, of Goodenough and Jones, took it very badly when we beat them to a very good price about six weeks ago. But the only person I know who really suffered was poor Mr. Niven. He is no longer in business, I am sorry to say. Took it like a gentleman, but very hard for him, it was, especially with him and Mr. Stonefield being acquaintances socially. Very sad.” He shook his head very slightly. “But having said that, sir, I cannot imagine Mr. Niven wishing Mr.Stonefield any harm. He’s not like that at all. Very decent sort of gentleman, just not as clever as Mr. Stonefield. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s … it’s really very hard to know what to do for the best.” He looked at Monk miserably, seeking some kind of indication.
    “You have done quite the right thing,” Monk assured him. “Without information we cannot even make a judgment, let alone pursue the best course.” As he was speaking he was looking beyond the young man and around the offices. The place had every appearance of prosperity. Several clerks were busy with ledgers, accounts, business letters to other houses, possibly overseas as well. They were all smartly dressed with stiff white collars and tidy hair, and they looked diligent, and content enough in their work. Nothing was shabby or obviously mended. There was no air of discouragement; only anxiety, a discreet glance one to another.
    He returned his attention to the immediate.
    “When was the last occasion on which Mr. Stonefield came into the office?”
    “Three days ago, sir. The morning of the last day in which”—he bit his lip—“on which he was seen.” He eased his neck in his rather tight collar. “But you will have to ask Mr. Arbuthnot what transpired, and he is not here at present. I really do not feel able to tell you anything further. It is … well, company business, sir.” He was apologetic and obviously uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
    Monk