William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

Monk had worn back from the East India Dock Road. A dead man’s clothes. He nodded, tightening his lips, and unrolled the package out of his bag.
    Niven’s face was ashen. He saw the blood, the stains of mud and water and the torn and slashed fabric. He swallowed with a convulsive movement of his throat, and nodded his head. He looked up at Monk, his blue eyes steady and filled with horror.
    “I’ll get my coat.” And he turned away. Monk noticed that his hands were shaking very slightly and his shoulders were rigidly straight, as if he were making a deliberate effort to control himself and stand almost at attention.
    They took a hansom and rode in silence. There was nothing to say, and neither of them made the pretense of conversation. Monk found himself hoping, so profoundly that it was almost a prayer, that Niven had had no part in Angus’s death. The more he saw of the man, the more he both liked and admired him.
    They alighted at Genevieve’s home, but told the cab to wait. She might be at Ravensbrook House, and they might need to follow her there and very possibly bring her home immediately.
    However, that proved not to be necessary. The housemaid who answered the door informed them that Mrs. Stonefield was at home, and when she recognized Niven, she had no hesitation in letting them in.
    Monk paid the cab and dismissed it, following Niven within moments.
    “What is it, Mr. Monk?” Genevieve asked immediately, dismissing the nursemaid and sending the two children with her. One look at Niven’s face had told her the news was extremely serious. “You’ve found Angus.…”
    “No.” He would tell her as quickly as possible. Drawing it out only added another dimension to the suffering. “I have found some clothes which I believe may be his. If they are, and you have no doubt, it may be sufficient to cause the police to act.”
    “I see.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Allow me to see them.”
    Niven moved closer to her. Even at this anguished time, Monk noticed that he was not embarrassed. He had no self-consciousness. Perhaps it was because his thoughts were entirely upon her that he spared no part of his mind for himself. It was curiously comforting, a moment’s warmth in the icy cold.
    Monk opened his bag and took out the jacket. There was no need for her to see the trousers as well, and the blood soaking them. He unrolled it and held it up. He kept the shoulder towards himself, away from her, showing her only the inside and the tailor’s mark.
    She drew in her breath sharply and her hands flew to her mouth.
    “Is it his?” Monk asked, although he knew the answer.
    She was incapable of speech, but she nodded her head, her eyes filled with tears. She struggled against them, and failed.
    Without a word, Niven put his arms around her, and she turned and buried her head in his shoulder.
    There was nothing for Monk to say or do. He repacked the jacket, closed the bag and left without saying anything further, not troubling the maid to open or close the door for him.
    This time the police did not argue. The sergeant regarded the jacket and trousers with a kind of vicious satisfaction, a slow smile spreading across his thin features.
    “Got ’im,” he said quietly. He regarded the bloodstain on the jacket with a shake of his head. “Poor sod!” He pushed them to one side of the desk and turned his head.“Robinson!” he shouted. “Robinson! Come ’ere! We’re goin’ to get a party together an’ go after Caleb Stone. I want ’alf a dozen men wot knows the river, quick on their feet an’ ready for a fight. Got that?”
    From somewhere out of sight there was an answer in the affirmative.
    The sergeant looked back at Monk.
    “I’m obliged,” he said with a nod. “We’ll get ’im this time. Can’t say as we’ll make it stick, but we’ll scare the ’ell out of ’im.”
    “I’m coming with you,” Monk stated.
    The sergeant sucked in his breath, then changed his mind. Perhaps an extra man would be useful, especially one with such a marked interest in success. And also, perhaps Monk deserved it.
    “Right y’are then,” he agreed. “We’ll be off in”—he consulted his pocket watch, a handsome silver piece of considerable size—“fifteen minutes.”
    Half an hour later Monk was walking down Wharf Road beside a Constable Benyon, a lean young man with an eager face and a long, straight nose. The wind, smelling of smoke, damp and sewage, blew in their faces. They had