William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

“Terrible business, that. Awful. Thank goodness they got the man who did it. Kidnapped the daughter too, by all accounts.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue.
    “When did you last see Shearer?” Monk asked.
    The clerk thought for a few minutes. “Doesn’t deal with us a lot,” he replied. “Certainly I haven’t seen him for a couple of months or more. I expect he’s very busy, what with poor Mr. Alberton gone. Don’t know what’s going to happen to the business. Good reputation, but won’t be the same without Mr. Alberton himself. Very reliable, he was. Knew a lot about shipping, and trade too. Knew who had what, and always paid a fair price, but nobody’s fool. Can’t replace that, even though Mr. Casbolt is brilliant at the buying, so I hear. Terrible shame.”
    “I can’t find anybody who has seen Shearer since Mr. Alberton’s death,” Monk told him.
    The clerk looked surprised. “Well, I never. Knew he thought the world of Mr. Alberton, but didn’t think he’d gooff like that. Thought he’d stay around to look after the business best he could, for the widow’s sake, poor woman. Goes to show, you never know, do you?”
    “No. Who did Shearer deal with mostly, if not you?”
    “Pocock and Aldridge, up on the West India Dock Road. Big place. Ask anyone.”
    Monk thanked him and left. It was some distance to the West India docks, so he took the first hansom he saw and arrived twenty-five minutes later. He paid the driver and alighted, then turned towards the building, and suddenly he knew exactly what it would be like inside, as if he had visited it frequently and this were only one more routine call.
    It was unnerving. He had no idea why he would have come here, or when. It was no time he could recall since the accident. He strode across the pavement, almost bumping into a thin man in gray, and without apologizing, he went up the few steps and pulled the door open.
    Inside was completely strange to him, not as he had seen it in his mind’s eye at all. The proportions were more or less the same, but there was a desk where he had not seen it, the walls were the wrong color, and the floor, which had been the most individual feature, tiled in gray-and-white marble, was now wooden.
    He stopped abruptly, confused.
    “Mornin’, sir. Can I ’elp yer?” the man behind the desk asked.
    Monk collected himself with difficulty. He found he was fumbling for words, trying to bring himself back to the present.
    “Yes … I need to speak to …” The name Taunton came into his mind, but he had no idea from where.
    “Yes, sir? ’Oo was it yer wanted?” the man asked helpfully.
    “Do you have a Mr. Taunton here?”
    “Yes, sir. Would that be the elder Mr. Taunton or the younger?”
    Monk had no idea. But he must answer. He went with instinct rather than sense.
    “The elder.”
    “Yes, sir. What name shall I say?”
    “Monk. William Monk.”
    “Right, sir. If yer’d care ter wait, sir, I’ll tell ’im.”
    The message came back within minutes, and Monk was directed up a stair that curved graciously onto a landing. He could not remember what the man in the hall had said, but he had no hesitation in turning left and walking to the end of the corridor. This was familiar, a little smaller than he recalled, but he even knew the feel of the handle when he touched it, recalled the catch as the door stuck before it swung wide.
    The man inside the comfortable room was standing. There was surprise in his face, and unease in the angles of his body. He was a little older than Monk, perhaps fifty. His hair was receding, auburn in color, his cheeks ruddy. Monk knew that Mr. Taunton the younger was his half brother, not his son, a taller, darker man with a sallow complexion.
    “Well, well,” Taunton said nervously. “After all these years! What brings you here, Monk? Thought I’d seen the last of you.” He looked puzzled, as if Monk’s appearance confused him. He could not help staring, first at Monk’s face, then at his clothes, even his boots.
    Monk realized that Taunton was older than he had expected. He could not recall him with a full head of hair, but the gray in it was new, the lines in his face, a certain coarsening of features. He had no idea how long it had been since they had last met, or what the circumstances were. Was it to do with police work, or even before that? That would make it twenty years or more, well into the past that Monk had lost completely, not even patched