William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

or heard them quarreling, shouting voices, a cry of fury or pain, and then Caleb carrying the body. Perhaps there had been blood or a weapon. They were the same size, the same build. If it had come to a battle they must have been fairly evenly matched, even allowing for their different lives. What Angus lacked in physical exercise and the practice of fighting, perhaps he would at least partially compensate for with better nourishment and health.
    Monk ate supper in a different tavern and set out into the dark. The rain had stopped and it was even colder. A mist was rising off the river, hanging in thin wreaths across the streets and dimming the few lights. The foghorns of barges drifted across the water, disembodied and mournful. On the corner of Robinhood Lane and the East India Dock Road two men were warming themselves by a brazier of roasting chestnuts.
    Monk was drawn towards it because it was a refuge from the biting cold. It was human company and a light in the enveloping darkness, the endless sound of the creeping tide and the fine beads of moisture that gathered on everything and fell with myriad tiny sounds as if the night were alive.
    As he drew closer he saw that one of the men was wearing an old seaman’s jacket, too narrow across the shouldersfor him, but at least waterproof. The other had on what at a glance he would have taken to be a tailored wool coat, had such a thing not been absurd in this place. And as his eyes followed the line of it down the man’s body, he saw that it hung loosely, even shapelessly. When he moved his arm to poke the brazier, it was obvious the coat was so badly torn it was open at the sides, and there was a patch beneath one shoulder much darker. It was probably wet. Poor devil. Monk was cold enough in his fine broadcloth overcoat.
    “Twopence for some chestnuts,” he offered bluntly. He did not want to stand out as too obviously a stranger.
    The man in the coat held out his hand wordlessly.
    Monk put twopence in it.
    The man picked out a dozen chestnuts expertly and left them in the ashes at the side to cool. His coat was of beautiful cut. The lapels set perfectly, the rim of the collar had been stitched by a tailor who knew his job. And Monk was a connoisseur of such things. The coat had been made for a man of Monk’s height and breadth of shoulder.
    Angus Stonefield?
    He looked down at the man’s trousers. In the light of the brazier’s glow it was hard to see, but he judged they matched.
    A wild idea came into his mind. It was a desperate throw. “I’ll swap clothes with you for a guinea!”
    “What?” The man stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard. On the face of it, it was ridiculous. Monk had not changed since he left Ravensbrook House. His coat had cost him several pounds. He could not afford to replace it. But then if Drusilla went ahead with her intentions, he could end up no better off than this wretched man anyway. At least he would have the satisfaction of having caught Caleb Stone first. That would be one case of justice served!
    “My coat for your jacket and trousers,” he repeated.
    The man weighed up his chances. “An’ yer ’at,” he bargained.
    “The coat or nothing!” Monk snapped.
    “What’ll I do wi’ no trouser?” the man demanded. “In’t decent!”
    “My jacket and trousers for yours, and I’ll keep the coat,” Monk offered. “And the hat.” It was a better deal anyway. He had other suits.
    “Le’s see.” The man was not going to take goods blindly.
    Monk opened his coat so the man could judge his suit.
    “Done!” he said instantly. “Yer daft, yer are, but a deal’s a deal.”
    Solemnly, in the fog-shrouded darkness beside the brazier, they exchanged clothes, Monk holding very firmly to his coat, just in case the man had any ideas of theft.
    “Daft,” the man repeated again as he pulled Monk’s warm jacket around him. It was too big, but it was a great deal better than the ripped one he had parted with.
    Monk replaced his coat, nodded to the other man, who had watched the whole procedure with incredulity as if it had been some kind of drunken illusion, then he turned and walked away back along the East India Dock Road, to somewhere where he could find a hansom and go home.
    Monk woke the following morning with his head reeling and his body feeling stiff and chilled, but also with a sense of anticipation, as if some long-sought success had finally been achieved. Then as he got out of bed and