William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

ceased moving and the dull background chatter stopped.
    “Pity.” Monk took another sip of his ale.
    “Don’t never know wiv ’im,” the landlord said carefully. “ ’E comes w’en ’e suits, an’ goes w’en ’e suits.”
    “He was here yesterday.” Monk made it a statement.
    “So wot if ’e were? ’E comes ’ere now an’ then.”
    “Did you see him when he was here two weeks ago last Tuesday?”
    “ ’Ow do I know?” the landlord said in amazement. “D’yer fink I write down everyone wot comes in ’ere every day? Fink I got nuffink better ter do?”
    “ ’E were.” Another little man leaned forward, bright gray eyes in a narrow face. “ ’Im an’ ’is bruvver, both.”
    “Garn! ’Ow jer know?” a short man said derisively. “ ’Ow jer know it were Tuesday?”
    “ ’Cos it were same day as ol’ Winnie fell orff the dray an’ broke ’is ’ead,” the little man replied with triumph. “That were Tuesday, an’ it were Tuesday as Caleb an’ ’is bruvver were ’ere. Lookin’ at each other fit to kill, they was, both of ’em blazin’ mad, faces like death, they ’ad.”
    Monk could hardly believe his luck.
    “Thank you, Mr.…”
    “Bickerstaff,” the man replied, pleased with the attention.
    “Thank you, Mr. Bickerstaff,” Monk amended. “Have a drink, sir. You have been of great assistance to me.” He passed over the half crown, and Bickerstaff grabbed it before such largesse could prove a mirage.
    “I will,” he said magniloquently. “Mr. Putney, hif you please, we’ll ’ave drinks all ’round for them gents as is me friends. An’ fer me new friend ’ere too. An’ fer yerself, o’ course. Not forgettin’ yerself.”
    The landlord obliged.
    Monk stayed another half hour, but even in the conviviality of free-flowing beer, he learned nothing further of use, except a more detailed description of precisely where Bickerstaff had seen Caleb and Angus, and their obvious quarrel.
    The early afternoon found him pursuing an ephemeral trail downriver towards the East India Docks and Canning Town. Twice it seemed he was almost on Caleb’s heels, then the trail petered out and he was left in the gray, wind-driven rain staring at an empty dockside. Dark-mounded barges moved silently up the river through the haze, voices calling across the water in strange, echoing singsong, and the incoming tide whispering in the shingle.
    He started again, coat collar turned up, feet soaked, face set. Caleb Stone would not escape him if he combed every rookery and tenement along the river’s edge; every rickety,overlapping wooden house; every dock and wharf; every flight of dark, water-slimed and sodden steps down to the incoming tide. He questioned, bullied, argued and bribed.
    By half past three the light was beginning to weaken and he was standing on the Canal Dock Yard looking across the river at the chemical works and the Greenwich marshes beyond, veiled in misty rain. He had just missed Caleb again, this time by no more than half an hour. He swore long and viciously.
    A bargee, broad-chested and bow-legged, swayed along the path towards him, chewing on the stem of a clay pipe.
    “Gonna throw yourself in, are ye?” he said cheerfully. “Wi’ a face like that it wouldn’a surprise me. Ye’ll find it powerful cold. Take yer breath away, it will.”
    “It’s bloody cold out here,” Monk said ungraciously.
    “In’t nothing compared with the water,” the bargee said, still with a smile. He fished in the pocket of his blue coat and brought out a bottle. “ ’Ave a drop o’ this. It don’t cure much but the cold, but that’s somethin’!”
    Monk hesitated. It could be any rotgut, but he was frozen and bitterly angry. He had come so close.
    “Not if yer goin’ to jump, mind,” the bargee said, pulling a face. “Waste o’ good rum. Jamaickey, that is. Nothin’ else like it. Ever bin ter Jamaickey?”
    “No. No, I haven’t.” It was probably true, and it hardly mattered.
    The man held out the bottle again.
    Monk took it and put it to his lips. It was rum, a good rum too. He took a swig and felt the fire go down his throat. He passed it back.
    “Thank you.”
    “Why don’t ye come away from the water an’ have a bite ter eat. I got a pie. Ye can have half.”
    Monk knew how precious the pie was, a whole pie. The man’s kindness made him feel suddenly vulnerable again. There was too much that was worth caring about.
    “That’s good of you,”