William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

warmth; the excellent food; the absence of a hundred worries and responsibilities; and on the other hand the lack of privacy for Genevieve to receive Titus Niven whenever she chose. Perhaps it would even make it easier for her, in time, to move him into Angus’s business or install him as its new manager.
    “Yes, I suppose it is,” he conceded somewhat ungraciously. “I will continue to pursue such evidence as I can find. Can you recall. Mrs. Stonefield, any remark your husband may have made about where he met his brother, any comment upon surroundings, circumstances which may help me to find further proof?” He watched her face closely for the slightest flicker of forethought, guarding her tongue or feeding him information which she knew but should not have were she innocent.
    “I don’t understand you, Mr. Monk.” She blinked.
    He saw nothing but confusion in her.
    “Did they eat together, take a pint of ale, for example?” he elaborated. “Did they meet inside or outside, on the river or ashore? In company with others, or alone?”
    “Yes, I see.” Understanding was quick in her face, then distress. “You want to know where to look for … a body.…”
    Titus Niven winced and his sensitive mouth was pulled crooked with distaste. He shot Monk a look of pleading, but he did not interrupt, though the effort obviously cost him.
    “Or a witness,” Monk amended.
    “I am afraid he didn’t, or I should have told you.” She shook her head. “He never discussed his meetings with Caleb. It always upset him. But once or twice his clothes weredamp and smelled of salt and fish.” She took a breath. “And other things I cannot identify for you, but most unpleasant.”
    “I see. Thank you.” He had wondered if she would gently lead him to where Angus was. If she knew, then sooner or later she would. She needed his death proved. Standing in this gracious room, knowing it to be slowly denuded of its treasures, seeing the tiny heap of coals glowing in the hearth, her pale face smudged with weariness and anxiety, he found it almost impossible to believe she harbored any deceit at all. But he had been wrong before. And the fact that he liked Niven meant nothing either. He must pursue it. “Then I shall take my leave. Good day, ma’am. Mr. Niven.”
    He followed his hunch diligently for the rest of that day, and half of the next, and learned nothing at all. According to even the most critical of neighborhood gossip, Genevieve was as worthy as her husband, a virtuous woman in every outward regard, even to the point of being a trifle tedious. If she had any failings they were a carefulness with money, an extreme regard for it, and a rather unreliable sense of humor. She had been known to laugh more often than was entirely suitable, and on quite inappropriate occasions.
    Titus Niven was a friend of the family, at least as much of Angus’s as hers. And no, no one knew any occasion when he had called at the house when Angus was not also present.
    If there had been any secret relationship then it was hidden superbly well. Titus Niven had cause to be envious of Angus Stonefield, both professionally and personally, perhaps even to hate him, but there was no evidence that indeed he did so.
    In the early afternoon Monk went back to the East End, to Limehouse and the makeshift typhoid hospital to see Callandra Daviot. He wanted to see her for several reasons, but paramount in his mind was the matter of funds. It wasobvious to Monk that if Lord Ravensbrook withdrew his funds Genevieve could not afford to employ him and the hope of being able to find proof was slight. Yet he was determined to follow the case to the bitter end.
    Also he needed help, and the fever hospital was a good place to begin seeking more detailed local knowledge. He cursed his own inadequacy. If he had his memory he would probably know all kinds of people he could call upon.
    He trudged along Gill Street, collar up against the wind, the stink of soot and middens thick in his nose. The massive outline of the old warehouse was ahead of him, gray against a gray sky. He increased his pace just as it began to rain, and was inside the entrance before he got wet.
    The smell of illness caught in his nostrils and his throat immediately, different from the usual sour, rank smell outside, which he was now accustomed to. This was harsher and more intimate, and in spite of all the will he could exercise, it frightened him. This was not the business of life; it