William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

untried for as long as I have any means with which to recompense you. For my children’s sake, as well as my own, I have to know what has happened to Angus.” She stopped. She would not repeat herself or beg for pity beyond his labor that she could hire. She stood very straight in the room he still merely observed only as a kind of elegance behind her. He was unaware even of the ash settling in the fire.
    Not only for her, but for the man whose wife and home this was, he had no hesitation in accepting the task wholeheartedly.
    “I will do everything in my power, Mrs. Stonefield, I promise you,” he answered. “May I continue by speaking to some of your servants who may have noticed letters or callers?”
    She looked puzzled, and a flicker of disillusion shadowed her eyes.
    “How will that help?”
    “It may not,” he conceded. “But without some kind ofindication that some of the more obvious answers are untrue, I cannot request the help I shall need from the River Police to conduct a search of the docks or of the quarter where you say Caleb lives. If he has indeed killed his brother, it will not be easy to prove.”
    “Oh …” She let out her breath in a jerky little sigh. “Of course.” She was very pale. “I had not thought of that. I’m sorry, Mr. Monk. I shall not interfere again. Whom would you like to see first?”
    He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening questioning the staff from the butler and the cook through to the between-maid and the bootboy, and learned nothing to contradict his first impression that Angus Stonefield was a diligent and prosperous man of excellent taste and very ordinary habits, with a wife to whom he was devoted, and five children ranging in age from three to thirteen years.
    The butler had heard of the brother, Caleb, but had never seen him. He knew only that Mr. Stonefield would go quite regularly to the East End to meet with him, that he seemed nervous and unhappy prior to going and sad on his return. On almost every occasion he had sustained both personal injury and severe damage to his clothes, sometimes beyond repair. Mr. Stonefield had refused to call a doctor, insisting that the matter not be reported, and Mrs. Stonefield had cared for him herself. None of it helped to explain where Angus Stonefield was now or what had happened to him. Even his effects, and the few letters in the top drawer of his tallboy, were precise, each in its place, and exactly what Monk would have expected.
    “Did you learn anything?” Genevieve asked when he returned to the withdrawing room to take his leave.
    He would have disliked disappointing her, but there was no hope in her face.
    “No,” he confessed. “It was simply an avenue I dared not leave unexplored.”
    She looked down at her hands, twisting together in front of her dress, the only betrayal of the emotion within her.
    “I received a letter today from Angus’s guardian, Lord Ravensbrook, offering to assist us until we can … until … You might care to see if he can … help … with information, I mean.” She looked up at him. “I have written his address for you. I am sure he will receive you whenever you care to call.”
    “You are going to accept his offer?” he said urgently.
    The moment he asked he saw her face shadow, and knew he had been intrusive. It was not his concern. She had promised to pay him, and he wondered now if she assumed that concern for money was the reason he had asked.
    “No,” she said, before he could apologize and find some excuse to moderate his discourtesy. “I would very much prefer not to be”—she hesitated—“indebted to him, if it can be avoided. He is a good man, of course!” She went on quickly. “He raised Angus and Caleb when their own parents died. They are only distant relatives. He had no real obligation, but he gave them every opportunity, as if they were his own. His first wife died very young. He has married again now. I am sure he would give you any assistance he can.”
    “Thank you,” he accepted, grateful that she had apparently taken no more offense at his clumsiness. “As soon as I learn anything, I promise I will let you know.”
    “I am most obliged,” she said quietly. She seemed about to add something, then changed her mind. He wondered if it had been about the depth of her fears for her husband, or the urgency with which she needed an answer. “Good evening, Mr. Monk.”
    It was not a courteous time to call upon Lord and