William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

timing. And better than that, he had the kind of courage which enabled him to take up controversial and desperate cases.
    He was at his office in Vere Street, off Lincoln’s Inn Fields, when his clerk announced, with a dubious expression, that Mr. Monk was here to see him on a matter of some urgency.
    “Of course,” Rathbone said with only the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Nothing ordinary would bring Monk here. You had better show him in.”
    “Yes, Mr. Rathbone.” The clerk retreated and closed the door behind him.
    Rathbone folded away the papers he had been reading and tied the file they had come from. He had mixed feelings himself. He had always admired Monk’s professional abilities—they were beyond question—and also his courage in dealing with his loss of memory and the identity that went with it. But he also found his manner difficult—abrasive, to say the least. And there was the matter of Hester Latterly. Her fondness for Monk irritated Rathbone, although he was loath to admit it. Monk did not treat her with anything like the respect or regard she warranted. Monk brought out the worst in Rathbone, the greatest intolerance, shortest temper and most ill-considered judgment.
    The door opened and Monk came in. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, but he looked tired and harassed. The skin under his eyes was shadowed and his muscles tense.
    “Good morning, Monk.” Rathbone rose as an automatic gesture of courtesy. “What may I do for you?”
    Monk closed the door behind himself, not bothering with the trivialities. He began to speak as he moved to sit down in the chair opposite the desk, crossing his legs.
    “I have a case upon which I need your advice.” He did not hesitate for Rathbone to make any comment, butcontinued straight on, taking for granted that he would accept. “A woman consulted me concerning her husband, who is missing. I have traced him as far as Blackwall, on the Isle of Dogs, where he was last seen, in the company of his twin brother, who lives there, more or less …”
    “Just a moment.” Rathbone held up his hand. “I do not deal in cases of desertion or divorce.…”
    “Neither do I!” Monk said tersely, although Rathbone knew that if that were true at all, it was only so of the last few months. “If you permit me to finish,” Monk continued, “I will reach the point a great deal sooner.”
    Rathbone sighed and let his hand fall. From the expression on Monk’s face, he was going to continue anyway. It crossed Rathbone’s mind to remark that if Monk were taking clients from the Isle of Dogs, he had no occasion to be supercilious, but it would serve no purpose. Conceivably, the case could still be of interest.
    “The brothers have long hated each other,” Monk said, staring at Rathbone. “Caleb, the one who lives in the Blackwall area, survives by theft, intimidation and violence. Angus, my client’s husband, lives on the edge of Mayfair, and is a pillar of respectability and orderly family life. He kept in touch with his brother out of loyalty, a feeling which was not returned. Caleb was furiously jealous.”
    Deliberately Rathbone said nothing.
    Monk had hesitated only a second. After the silence he swept on. “The wife is convinced Caleb has murdered Angus. He has often attacked him before. I tracked Caleb to the Greenwich marshes, and he admitted having killed Angus, but I can find no corpse.” His face was hard and tight with anger. “There are a dozen ways it could have been disposed of: down the river is one of the most obvious, buried and left to rot in the marshes, stuffed in the hold of some outgoing ship, or even taken to sea by Caleb himself as far as the estuary and put overboard. Or he could be buried in a common grave with the typhoid victims in
    Limehouse. Nobody’s going to dig them up for a count and identification!”
    Rathbone sat back in his large comfortable chair and made a steeple out of his fingers.
    “I assume no one else heard this confession of Caleb’s?”
    “Of course not.”
    “And what evidence have you that it may be true, apart from the wife’s conviction?” Rathbone asked him. “She is not an impartial witness. By the way, how was he placed financially? And what other … interests … might his wife have?”
    A look of contempt crossed Monk’s face. “He is doing nicely, as long as he is present in his business. It depends upon his personal judgment. It will fall into decline very rapidly if he