Cain His Brother

chapter 6
The next morning, Monk woke with a smile and arose early. The February morning was dark and windy and there was a hard frost in the sheltered hollows of the streets, but he set out before eight for the East End again, and the Blackwall Reach. He meant to find Caleb Stone, and he would not cease until he did, today, tomorrow, or the day after. If the man were alive, he was too angry, too distinctive and too well known to disappear.

By nine he was standing in thin daylight on the banks of the Blackwall Reach on the Isle of Dogs. This time he did not bother with pawnbrokers or street peddlers, but went straight to the places where Caleb might have eaten or slept. He tried hot pie sellers, alehouses and taverns, other vagrants who slept rough in old packing cases and discarded sails or awnings, piles of rotting rope, with timbers rigged to make some kind of shelter.

Yes, one old man had seen him the night before last, striding down Coldharbour towards the Blackwall Stairs. He had been wearing a huge coat, and the tails of it had flapped wide around his legs, like broken wings.

Was he sure it was Caleb?

The answer was a hollow laugh.

He did not ask anyone else if they were sure. Their faces told it for them.

A young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, simply ran away. A one-legged man sitting awkwardly, splicing ropes with horny hands, said he had seen him yesterday going toward the Folly House Tavern. He was walking rapidly against the wind, and looked pleased with himself.

Monk took himself to the Folly House Tavern, a surprisingly clean establishment full of dark oak paneling and the smell of tallow candles whose flickering lights reflected in a mirror over the bar. Even at this hour of the morning there were a dozen people about, either drinking ale or busy with some chore of fetching or cleaning.

"Yeah?" the landlord inquired cautiously. Monk looked ordinary enough, but he was a stranger.

"Ale." Monk leaned against the bar casually.

The landlord pulled it and presented him with the tankard.

Monk handed over threepence, and a penny for the landlord, who took it without comment.

"Do you know Caleb Stone?" Monk said after a few minutes.

"I might," the landlord said guardedly.

"Think he'll be in today?" Monk went on.

"Dunno," the landlord replied expressionlessly.

Monk took half a crown out of his pocket and played with it in his fingers.

Along the bar counter several other drinkers ceased moving and the dull background chatter stopped.

"Pity." Monk took another sip of his ale.

"Don't never know wiv 'im," the landlord said carefully. "'E comes Wen 'e suits, an' goes w'en 'e suits."

"He was here yesterday." Monk made it a statement.

"So wot if 'e were? 'E comes 'ere now an' then."

"Did you see him when he was here two weeks ago last Tuesday?"

"'Ow do I know?" the landlord said in amazement. "D'yer fink I write down everyone wot comes in 'ere every day? Fink I got nuftink better ter do?"

" 'E were." Another little man leaned forward, bright gray eyes in a narrow face. "'lm an' 'is bruvver, both."

"Gars! 'Ow jer know?" a short man said derisively. " 'Ow jer know it were Tuesday?"

" 'Cos it were same day as of Winnie fell orff the dray an' broke 'is 'ead," the little man replied with triumph. "That were Tuesday, an' it were Tuesday as Caleb an' 'is bruvver were 'ere. Lookin' at each other fit to kill, they was, both of 'em blazin' mad, faces like death, they 'ad." Monk could hardly believe his luck.

"Thank you, Mr..."

"Bickerstaff," the man replied, pleased with the attention.

"Thank you, Mr. Bickerstaff," Monk amended. "Have a drink, sir. You have been of great assistance to me." He passed over the half crown, and Bickerstaff grabbed it before such largesse could prove a mirage.

"I will," he said magniloquently. "Mr. Putney, hif you please, we'll 'ave drinks all 'round for them gents as is me friends. An' fer me new friend 'ere too. An' fer yerself, o' course. Not forgettin' yerself."

The landlord obliged.

Monk stayed another half hour, but even in the conviviality of free-flowing beer, he learned nothing further of use, except a more detailed description of precisely where Bickerstaff had seen Caleb and Angus, and their obvious quarrel.

The early afternoon found him pursuing an ephemeral trail downriver towards the East India Docks and Canning Town. Twice it seemed he was almost on Caleb's heels, then the trail petered out and he was left in the gray, winddriven rain staring at an empty dockside. Dark-mounded barges moved silently up the river through the haze, voices calling across the water in strange, echoing singsong, and the incoming tide whispering in the shingle.

He started again, coat collar turned up, feet soaked, face set. Caleb Stone would not escape him if he combed every rookery and tenement along the river's edge; every rickety, overlapping wooden house; every dock and wharf; every flight of dark, water- slimed and sodden steps down to the incoming tide. He questioned, bullied, argued and bribed.

By half past three the light was beginning to weaken and he was standing on the Canal Dock Yard looking across the river at the chemical works and the Greenwich marshes beyond, veiled in misty rain. He had just missed Caleb again, this time by no more than half an hour. He swore long and viciously. A bargee, broad-chested and bow-legged, swayed along the path towards him, chewing on the stem of a clay pipe.

"Gonna throw yourself in, are ye?" he said cheerfully. "Wi' a face like that it wouldn'a surprise me. Ye'll find it powerful cold. Take yer breath away, it will."

"It's bloody cold out here," Monk said ungraciously.

"In't nothing compared with the water," the bargee said, still with a smile. He fished in the pocket of his blue coat and brought out a bottle.

" ' Ave a drop o' this. It don't cure much but the cold, but that's somethin'!"

Monk hesitated. It could be any rotgut, but he was frozen and bitterly angry. He had come so close.

"Not if yer goin' to jump, mind," the bargee said, pulling a face. "Waste o' good rum. Jamaickey, that is. Nothin' else like it. Ever bin ter Jamaickey?"

"No. No, I haven't." It was probably true, and it hardly mattered. The man held out the bottle again.

Monk took it and put it to his lips. It was rum, a good rum too. He took a swig and felt the fire go down his throat. He passed it back.

"Thank you."

"Why don't ye come away from the water an' have a bite ter eat. I got a pie. Ye can have half."

Monk knew how precious the pie was, a whole pie. The man's kindness made him feel suddenly vulnerable again. There was too much that was worth caring about.

"That's good of you," he said gently. "But I have to catch up with a man, and I keep just missing him."

"What sort of a man?" the bargee said doubtfully, although he must have heard the change in Monk's voice, even if he could not see his expression in the waning light.

"Caleb Stone," Monk replied. "A violent sort of man, who almost certainly murdered his brother. I don't suppose I can prove that, not when the body could be anywhere. But I want to know if he's dead, for the widow's sake.

I don't give a damn about Caleb."

"Don't ye? He murdered his brother, and ye don't care?" the bargee said with a sideways squint.

"I'd prove it if I could," Monk admitted. "But I'm hired to prove the brother's dead, so she can at least have what's hers and feed his children.

I think she'd sooner have that than revenge. Wouldn't you?"

"Aye," the bargee agreed. "Aye, I would that. So ye want Caleb?"

"Yes." Monk stared fixedly at the darkening river. Was it worth trying to get across to the other side now? He had no idea where to start looking, or even if Caleb might have doubled back and by now be safe in some comfortable public house in the Isle of Dogs.

"I'll take ye," the bargee offered suddenly. "I know where 'e's gone.

Leastways, I know where Vs likely gone. I don't do wi' leavin' baims without a father. He's a bad one, Caleb."

"Thank you," Monk accepted before the man had time to change his mind.

"What's your name? Mine's Monk."

"Oh, aye. Don't suit ye, less it be one o' them inquisitor monks what used to burn folks. Mine's Archie McLeish. Ye'd better come wi' me. I've a boat a few paces along. Not much, cold and wet, but it'll get us across." And he turned and ambled off, walking on the sides of his feet with a sway as if the dockside were moving.

Monk caught up with him. "The inquisitors burned peo- ple for their beliefs," he said waspishly. "I don't give a sod what people believe, only what they do to each other."

"Ye have the face o' a man who cares," Archie replied without looking at him. "I wouldn'a want ye after me. I'd as soon have the de'il himself." He stopped at the top of a narrow flight of steps leading down to the water where a very small boat was rising gently as the tide rose. "It's a hard thing to care," he added.

Monk was about to deny that he cared, but Archie was not listening to him.

He had bent his broad back and was loosening the moorings, which seemed to be in an extraordinarily complicated knot.

Monk climbed in and Archie settled to the oars. He pulled out skillfully, twisting the boat around, propelling it and steering it at the same time.

The bank and the steps disappeared into the gray rain within yards. The thought crossed Monk's mind that no one knew where he was. He had accepted the offer without taking the slightest precaution. Archie McLeish could have been paid by Caleb to do precisely this! He must know Monk was after him. Monk could go overboard in the darkness and mist of the river and be swept out with the ebb tide, his body washed up days later, or never. Caleb Stone might be blamed, but no one could prove it. It would be one more accident. Maybe Archie McLeish would even say Monk threw himself in. He sat gripping the gunwales, determined if it came to that, he would make a damned good fight of it. Archie McLeish would go over with him.

They passed barges moving steadily, dark mounds in the mist, riding lights to port and starboard, hundreds of tons of cargo making them juggernauts on the tide. If they were caught in front of one of those they would be splintered like matchwood. There was no sound but the water, the dismal hoot far off of a foghorn, and now and then someone shouting.

They passed a square-rigger coming down from the Pool of London, its bare spars looming above them in the mist, reminding Monk of a row of gibbets. It was growing perceptibly colder. The raw wind blew through his coat as if it had been cotton shoddy, and touched his bones.

"Afraid o' Caleb Stone, then, are ye?" Archie McLeish said cheerfully.

"No," Monk snapped.

"Well, ye look it." Archie pulled hard on the oars, leaning his weight into them. "Feel like I was rowing a man to 'is 'anging wi' a face like that, an' grippin' me boat like it'd escape ye if ye let it go."

Monk realized grimly how he must look, and made an effort to smile. It might well be worse.

"Goin' ter kill 'im, are ye?" Archie said conversationally. "It'd surely be one way. Then ye'd have a corpse ter pass off. I daresay no one'd know it wasn't his brother. Alike as two peas, they say."

Monk laughed abruptly. "I hadn't thought of it-but it sounds like a good idea... in fact, a brilliant one. Accomplish justice for everyone in one blow. Only trouble is, I don't know if Angus is dead. He might not be."

"Angus'd be the brother," Archie said with wide eyes. "Well, I don't know either, I'm glad to say. So I'll not be havin' to take ye back, because I'll no be party to murder... even o' the likes o' Caleb Stone." Monk started to laugh.

"And why'll that be so funny?" Archie asked crossly. "I may be a rough man and not the gentleman ye seem to be, although God knows, ye look hard enough... but I've me standards, same as ye!"

"Maybe better," Monk granted. "It had just occurred to me you might murder me out here in the middle of this godforsaken waste of water... on Caleb's account."

Archie grunted, but his anger appeared to evaporate.

"Oh, aye," he said quietly. "Well... I could have an' all."

He rowed in silence for several minutes. The shadows of the chemical works on the farther shore loomed through the mist, and Archie had to change course with a wrench of the oars to avoid a barge moving out from the dim wharves as the rain drove in their faces.

"Ye'll be needing a spot o' help then," Archie said after several more minutes. "Ye'll no catch the like o' Caleb on your own."

"Possibly," Monk conceded. "But I'm not trying to take him into custody, only to speak with him."

"Oh, aye," Archie said skeptically. "An' ye suppose he'll believe that, do ye?"

On the face of it, it was unlikely, and Monk was indisposed to attempt explanation, partly because it was unclear in his mind anyway. He simply had no alternative but to pursue Caleb.

"If you are offering to help, I'm obliged," he said tartly. "What do you want for it? It won't be easy, or pleasant. Not necessarily even safe."

Archie grunted with disgust. "Think I'm a fool? I know what it'll be a sight better than you do, laddie. I'll come for the satisfaction o' it. I dinna need payin' for every damn thing I do!"

Monk smiled, although in the darkness he was not sure if Archie could see him.

"Thank you," he said graciously.

Archie grunted.

They came ashore on the mudflats and moored the boat to a post sticking up like a broken tooth, then Archie led the way up the bank to the rough grass, tussock and mud, now heavily shrouded in lessening rain and near darkness. There were lights ahead of them across the fields, if one could call them such, although from the squelch and suck on his boots, Monk thought it was bogland.

"Where are we?" he asked quietly.

"Headin' for Blackwall Lane," Archie answered. "Keep quiet. Sound travels, even when ye don't think it."

"He's here?"

"Aye, he came this way not ten minutes before us."

"Why? What's here?" Monk struggled to keep up with him, feeling the ground cling to his feet and the freezing rain drift against his face.

"Is it him ye're after, or summat else?" Archie asked from just ahead of him in the gloom.

"Him. t don't care what else is going on," Monk replied.

"Then be quiet, an' follow me!"

For what seemed like a quarter of an hour, Monk trudged through the darkness, first from marshland to the road, then along harder surface towards the lights of small cottages huddled on the black landscape, marked out only by the dim eye of oil lamps in windows.

Archie knocked at one door, and when it was opened, spoke for a few moments, but so quietly Monk heard no words. He withdrew and the door closed, leaving them in the bitter night. Archie waited a few minutes until his eyes grew accustomed again, then led the way towards the other side of the neck of land and the far curve of the river.

Monk opened his mouth to ask where they were going, then changed his mind.

It was pointless. He pulled his collar even closer, jammed his hat down again and thrust his hands into his coat pockets and trudged on. The raw fog tasted of salt, sewage and the sour water that lies stagnant in fens and pools beyond the tide's reach. The cold seemed to penetrate the bone.

At last they came to the dry dock at the farthest end and Archie put out his hand in warning.

Monk caught the smell of wood smoke.

Ahead of them was a lean-to made of planking and patched with canvas.

Archie pointed to it, and then stepped aside, making for the far end, disappearing into the darkness, almost instantly swallowed up.

Monk took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had no weapon. Then he flung open the wood-and-canvas flap.

Inside was about a dozen square yards of space, bare but for wooden boxes piled against all of the walls except the farther one, where there was another doorway. It was impossible to tell what the boxes contained. There was a pile of rope forming a rough seat and more unraveled hemp for a bed. In the center a fire was burning briskly, sending smoke and flames up a roughly made chimney. It was blessedly warm after the raw night outside, and Monk was aware of it on the front of his body even as he looked at the one man who squatted beside the fire, a coal in his black-gloved hand, clutched like a weapon. He was tall, loosely built, agile, but it was his face that commanded the attention. It was Enid Ravensbrook's drawing come to life, and yet it was not. The bones were the same, the wide jaw and pointed chin, the strong nose, the high cheekbones, even the green eyes. But the flesh of the face was different, the mouth, the lines from nose to corner of lips. The ex- pression was one of anger and mockery, and at this instant, poised on the edge of violence.

It was unnecessary to ask if he were Caleb Stone.

"Genevieve sent me looking for Angus," Monk said simply, standing square in the entrance, blocking it.

Caleb rose very slowly to his feet.

"Looking for Angus, are you?" He said the words as if they were curious and amusing, but he was balanced to move suddenly.

Monk watched him, aware of his weight, the coal in his hand.

"He hasn't returned home..."

Caleb laughed jerkily. "Oh, hasn't he, then! And does Genevieve think I don't know that?"

"She thinks you know it very well," Monk said levelly. "She thinks you are responsible for it."

"Kept him here, have I?" Caleb's smile was derisive, full of rage.

"Thieving and brawling along the river! Is that what she thinks?" He almost spat the words. It was odd to see him, dressed in clothes so old and soiled they had lost all color and most of their shape, and yet he wore leather gloves. His hair was curly and overlong, matted with dirt, a stubble on his chin. And yet for all his hatred, his words were pronounced with the clarity and diction of his youth and the education Milo Ravensbrook had given him. Monk was aware, even through the contempt he felt for him, of the dual nature of the man, and how the promise of his youth had ended in such utter ruin. Had he not destroyed Angus, Monk could have pitied him, even seen some dim, different reflection of himself. He understood both the rage and the helplessness.

"Have you?" Monk asked. "I hadn't thought so. I rather thought you'd killed him."

"Killed him." Caleb smiled, this time showing fine teeth. He weighed the coal in his hand without taking his eyes off Monk. "Killed Angus?" He laughed again, a hard, almost choking, sound. "Yes-I suppose she's right.

I killed Angus!" He started to laugh harder, throwing back his head and letting the noise tear out of him, rising almost hysterically, as if letting go of it hurt.

Monk took a step forward.

Caleb stopped laughing instantly, cut off as if someone had put a hand over his face. He glanced at Monk, his hand raised a little higher.

Monk froze. Caleb had already murdered his brother. If he were to kill Monk here in these desolate marshes, his body might not be found till it was rotted and unrecognizable, if ever. He would fight hard, but Caleb was strong and used to violence, perhaps even to killing, and he had nothing to lose.

Without the slightest warning, Caleb spun around on his heel and lunged for the farther end of the hut, crashing through the makeshift door and sending Archie sprawling in the mud.

By the time Monk had pushed his way through, Archie was scrambling to his feet again, and Caleb had disappeared into the rain and the darkness. They could hear the squelching sound of his feet, and another burst of laughter, then nothing at all.

Oliver Rathbone was one of the most outstanding barristers of the decade.

He had eloquence, discernment and an excellent sense of timing. And better than that, he had the kind of courage which enabled him to take up controversial and desperate cases.

He was at his office in Vere Street, off Lincoln's Inn Fields, when his clerk announced, with a dubious expression, that Mr. Monk was here to see him on a matter of some urgency.

"Of course," Rathbone said with only the faintest of smiles on his lips.

"Nothing ordinary would bring Monk here. You had better show him in."

"Yes, Mr. Rathbone." The clerk retreated and closed the door behind him.

Rathbone folded away the papers he had been reading and tied the file they had come from. He had mixed feelings himself. He had always admired Monk's professional abilities-they were beyond question-and also his courage in dealing with his loss of memory and the identity that went with it. But he also found his manner difficult -abrasive, to say the least. And there was the matter of Hester Latterly. Her fondness for Monk irritated Rathbone, although he was loath to admit it. Monk did not treat her with anything like the respect or regard she warranted. Monk brought out the worst in Rathbone, the greatest intolerance, shortest temper and most ill-considered judgment.

The door opened and Monk came in. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, but he looked tired and harassed. The skin under his eyes was shadowed and his muscles tense.

"Good morning, Monk." Rathbone rose as an automatic gesture of courtesy.

"What may I do for you?"

Monk closed the door behind himself, not bothering with the trivialities.

He began to speak as he moved to sit down in the chair opposite the desk, crossing his legs.

"I have a case upon which I need your advice." He did not hesitate for Rathbone to make any comment, but continued straight on, taking for granted that he would accept. "A woman consulted me concerning her husband, who is missing. I have traced him as far as Blackwall, on the Isle of Dogs, where he was last seen, in the company of his twin brother, who lives there, more or less..."

"Just a moment." Rathbone held up his hand. "I do not deal in cases of desertion or divorce..."

"Neither do I!" Monk said tersely, although Rathbone knew that if that were true at all, it was only so of the last few months. "If you permit me to finish," Monk continued, "I will reach the point a great deal sooner."

Rathbone sighed and let his hand fall. From the expression on Monk's face, he was going to continue anyway. It crossed Rathbone's mind to remark that if Monk were taking clients from the Isle of Dogs, he had no occasion to be supercilious, but it would serve no purpose. Conceivably, the case could still be of interest.

"The brothers have long hated each other," Monk said, staring at Rathbone.

"Caleb, the one who lives in the Blackwall area, survives by theft, intimidation and violence. Angus, my client's husband, lives on the edge of Mayfair, and is a pillar of respectability and orderly family life. He kept in touch with his brother out of loyalty, a feeling which was not returned.

Caleb was furiously jealous."

Deliberately Rathbone said nothing.

Monk had hesitated only a second. After the silence he swept on. "The wife is convinced Caleb has murdered Angus. He has often attacked him before. I tracked Caleb to the Greenwich marshes, and he admitted having killed An- gus, but I can find no corpse." His face was hard and tight with anger.

"There are a dozen ways it could have been disposed of: down the river is one of the most obvious, buried and left to rot in the marshes, stuffed in the hold of some outgoing ship, or even taken to sea by Caleb himself as far as the estuary and put overboard. Or he could be buried in a common grave with the typhoid victims in Limehouse. Nobody's going to dig them up for a count and identification!"

Rathbone sat back in his large comfortable chair and made a steeple out of his fingers.

"I assume no one else heard this confession of Caleb's?"

"Of course not."

"And what evidence have you that it may be true, apart from the wife's conviction?" Rathbone asked him. "She is not an impartial witness. By the way, how was he placed financially? And what other... interests...

might his wife have?"

A look of contempt crossed Monk's face. "He is doing nicely, as long as he is present in his business. It depends upon his personal judgment. It will fall into decline very rapidly if he remains absent, and the estate cannot be resolved. And as for the other question, as far as I can determine, she seems a most virtuous woman, and handsome, but now very anxious for the welfare of her children."

The irritation in Monk's voice might mean that he resented having his judgment questioned. On the other hand, Rathbone thought, from the level of intensity in Monk's eyes, that he felt some pity for the woman and believed her plight. But then he was uncertain that Monk, who was an excellent judge of men, was equally as good a judge of women.

"Witness to quarrels?" he asked, returning to the immediate issue. "Some specific contention between the two brothers over possessions, a woman, an inheritance, an old injury?"

"A witness who saw them together on the day Angus disappeared," Monk replied. "They were quarreling then."

"Hardly damning," Rathbone said dryly.

"What do I have to have, legally?" Monk's face was like ice. Something of the weariness and frustration showed in it, and Rathbone guessed he had been pursuing the case profitlessly for many days and knew his chances were slight, if any.

"Not necessarily a corpse." Rathbone leaned forward a little, granting Monk the seriousness he wished. "If you can prove Angus went to the Isle of Dogs, that there was ill feeling between the two, that they were in the habit of quarreling or fighting, that they were seen together that day, and no one at all has seen Angus since then, it may be sufficient to cause the police to institute a search. It will be highly unlikely to convict anyone of murder. It is conceivable Angus may have had an accident and fallen in the river, and the body been carried out to sea. He may even deliberately have lost himself, taken a boat elsewhere. I assume you have checked all his private and business finances?"

"Of course! There is nothing whatever amiss."

"Then you had better see if you can find some evidence of a quarrel, and much tighter witnesses as to Angus not leaving the scene of their last meeting. So far you have insufficient to warrant the police investigating.

I'm sorry."

Monk swore, and rose to his feet, his face set in anger and misery.

"Thank you," he said grimly, and went to the door, leaving without turning around or looking at Rathbone again.

Rathbone sat motionless for nearly a quarter of an hour before reopening the tied file. It was a delicate problem, and in spite of himself, Monk's dilemma intrigued him. Monk seemed morally certain that murder had been committed. He knew who was killed, by whom, where and why, and yet he could prove nothing. It was legally correct-and ethically monstrous. Rathbone racked his brain how he might help.

He lay awake that night, and still nothing came to his mind.

Monk was furious. He had never felt more desperately frustrated. He knew Caleb had murdered Angus-he had admitted as much-and yet he was powerless to do anything about it. He could not even prove death to help Genevieve. It was a most appalling injustice, and it burned like acid inside him.

But he must report to Genevieve. She deserved to know at least as much as he did.

She was not at Ravensbrook House. A prim maid in a crisp apron and cap informed him Mrs. Stonefield had returned home, and now came only during the day.

"Then Lady Ravensbrook is better?" Monk said quickly, and with a pleasure that surprised him.

"Yes sir, she is past the worst, thank the Lord. Miss Latterly is still here. Would you care to speak to her?"

He hesitated only a moment, Hester's face coming to his mind with such clarity it startled him.

"No-thank you. My business is with Mrs. Stonefield. I shall try her home.

Good day."

Genevieve's door was opened by a between-maid who looked about fifteen years old, round-faced and harassed. Monk gave his name and asked for Genevieve. He was shown into the front parlor and requested to wait. A moment later the maid returned and he was taken to the small, neat withdrawing room with its portrait of the Queen, a pianoforte, legs decently skirted, some embroidered samplers and a few watercolors of the Bay of Naples.

What took him aback completely was Titus Niven standing in front of it, his coat as elegantly cut as before, and as threadbare, his boots polished and paper thin, his face still with the same expression of wry, self-deprecating humor. Genevieve was close beside him, as if they had been in conversation until the moment the door had opened. Monk had the powerful feeling that he had intruded.

Genevieve came forward, her face full of interest and concern. She was still pale and the marks of strain were still visible around her eyes and lips, but there was less tension in her, less overwhelming sense of desperation. She was an extremely attractive woman. Had he not met Drusilla Wyndham, his mind might have dwelt on that fact longer.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. Have you some news for me?"

"Not what I would have wished, Mrs. Stonefield, but yes, I found Caleb, down in the Greenwich marshes."

She swallowed hastily, her eyes wide. As if almost unconsciously, Titus Niven moved a step closer to her, also staring at Monk, fear flickering across his face, and then resolution taking its place.

"What did he say?" Genevieve asked.

"That he had killed Angus but I would never prove it." He hesitated. "I'm sorry." He wished there were more he could add, but there was nothing which was either true or would be of any help or comfort. All his news offered was an end to the exhaustion of veering between hope and terror. There was no justice in it, nothing fair.

Titus Niven reached out his hand and touched Genevieve very gently on the arm, and, as if hardly aware of it, her hand sought his.

"You mean there is no more you can do?" she said in a whisper, struggling to keep her voice level and under control.

"No, that isn't what I mean," Monk replied, thinking carefully what he said so he did not mislead her. His mind was racing away with ugly thoughts about Titus Niven, barely yet taking shape. "I don't hold great hope of proving his guilt, although it is not impossible, but I shall certainly continue to try to prove Angus's death-if not directly, then indirectly.

Assuming, of course, that that is still what you wish?"

There was an instant's silence so intense Monk could hear the gentle settling of ash in the fireplace.

"Yes," Genevieve said very quietly. "Yes. I wish you to continue, at least for the present. Although I don't know how long Lord Ravensbrook will be willing to pay you and I would be obliged if you would keep the financial account- ancy up to date. I regret to ask you such a thing, it seems so tasteless, but I am obliged by circumstances to do so."

Monk thought of Callandra Daviot, and wondered if she would be prepared to support him if he continued the case without payment from Genevieve or Lord Ravensbrook. He deternuned at the first possible moment to ask her. He must know the truth. If Caleb Stone had murdered his brother out of jealousy, Genevieve deserved to have it proven, and Monk could almost taste his own keenness to see Caleb answer first. And if there were some other resolution, even one that involved Titus Niven, Monk wanted to know it. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that Monk wanted to prove that it was not so. The possibility haunted his mind, too nebulous to grasp, too ugly to forget.

"Of course I will, Mrs. Stonefield," he said aloud. "It may be possible for one to offer sufficient proof or at least a serious case for the police to take over the investigation. Then there will naturally be no private cost."

"I see."

"I understand Lady Ravensbrook is past the worst and is expected to recover?" he went on.

She smiled, and Titus Niven also relaxed, although he remained close to her.

"Yes indeed, thank the good Lord. She was most dreadfully ill, and it will take her a long time to be back to herself again, but at least she is alive, and two days ago I had not dared hope for that."

"And you have moved out of Ravensbrook House?"

Her face tightened, a shadow crossed over her eyes.

"My presence is no longer necessary all the time. Miss Latterly is most competent, and naturally there are maids to take care of the domestic duties. I go every day, but it is far better for my children to be at home."

Monk was about to argue the issue, thinking of the expense of heating, food, even the retention of her own servants, but Titus Niven cut across him.

"It is good of you to be concerned, Mr. Monk, but with Mr. Stonetield's disappearance, there has been more than enough distress and disturbance in their lives. To leave home again, I am sure you agree, is a trial that is best avoided, as long as that is possible."

Many answers flashed in Monk's mind: the comfort of Ravensbrook House, particularly in the middle of winter; the 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 were damp 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 de- nuded 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 was obvious 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 was pain, death and the closeness of death. It closed around him like a fog, and he had to grit his teeth and master his body not to turn and run back out of the door into the air again. He was ashamed of it and despised himself.

He saw the woman Mary coming towards him, a covered pail in her hand. He knew what would be in it and his stomach knotted.

"Is Lady Callandra here?" he asked her. His voice sounded brittle.

"Yeah." Her hair was plastered to her head with rain and sweat and her skin was pasty with exhaustion. She had no strength left for politeness, or even for awe of authority. "In there." She jerked her head sideways, indicating the vast space of the warehouse floor, then continued on her way.

"Thank you." Monk went reluctantly into the cavern of the room. It looked exactly the same, dimly lit by candles, floor covered with straw and canvas, the humps of bodies visible under blankets. At either end the black, potbellied stoves gave off heat and the odor of coal and steam from cauldrons. There was also a sharp catch in his throat from the burning tobacco leaves. He remembered Hester saying something about using it in the army for fumigation.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw Callandra standing close to one of the hunched figures on the straw. Kristian Beck was opposite her, and they were absorbed in conversation.

He was aware of movement to his left, and turned to see Hester coming towards him. She seemed even thinner in the candlelight and the severe gray dress, her hair screwed back unflatteringly. Her eyes looked larger than he had remembered, her mouth softer and more capable of passion, or pain. He wished intensely that he had not come. He did not want to see her, especially here. Enid Ravensbrook had caught typhoid here and nearly died.

That thought crushed his mind, closing out almost everything else. "Has something happened in your case?" she asked as soon as she was close enough to him to speak without being overheard.

"Nothing conclusive," he replied. "I've found Caleb, but not Angus."

"What happened?" Her expression was sharp with interest.

He did not want to tell her, because he did not want to stand here in this fearful place, talking to her. If he had had any luck, she would have been at Ravensbrook House.

"Why aren't you with Lady Ravensbrook?" he said curtly. "She can't be fully recovered yet."

"It's Genevieve's turn," she said with surprise. "Callandra needs help here. I would have thought you might see that for yourself. I assume from your temper that your conversation with Caleb Stone was unsatisfactory? I don't know what else you expected. He was hardly going to confess and lead you to the body."

"On the contrary," he said impatiently. "He did confess!"

She raised her eyebrows. "And led you to the body?"

"No..."

"Then confession wasn't much use, was it? Did he tell you how he killed him, or where?"

"No."

"Or even why?"

He was thoroughly annoyed. It would not be so infuriating if she were always so obstructive and unintelligent, but memories kept coming to his mind of other times, when she had been so different, full of perception and courage. He should make some allowance. She must be very tired. Perhaps it was only natural that she should be a little slowwitted in the circumstances. But then he wished intensely that she was not here anyway.

He hated having to admire her for it. It was like gall in his mouth, and the hotter taste of fear. In fact, perhaps that was what it was-fear. And that was natural. It was hard to lose a friend, even one you only partially liked. No decent man could view it with equanimity.

"Did he tell you why?" she demanded, cutting across his thoughts. "It might be some help."

The dim hump of the body nearest them groaned and moved restlessly in the straw.

"No," Monk said abruptly. "No, he didn't."

"I suppose it doesn't matter, except insofar as it might have been a clue to-" She stopped. "I don't know what."

"Of course it matters," he contradicted her instantly. "He might not have acted alone. Maybe Genevieve put him up to it."

She was startled. "Genevieve! That's ridiculous! Why would she? She has everything to lose and nothing to gain from Angus's death."

"She has a tidy inheritance to gain," he pointed out. "And the freedom, after a decent period, to marry again."

"Whatever makes you think she wants to?" she demanded hotly. It was apparent the idea was new to her, and repugnant. "There is every evidence she loved her husband deeply. What makes you think otherwise?" That was a challenge. It was quick in her eyes and her voice.

He responded with a similar sharpness. "Her close friendship with Titus Niven, which is quite remarkable for a woman hardly on the brink of widowhood. Her husband is not even pronounced dead yet, never mind in his grave."

"You have a vicious mind." She looked at him witheringly. "Mr. Niven is a family friend. For most people it is very natural to comfort a friend in time of bereavement. I'm surprised you haven't observed it in others, even if you wouldn't have thought it yourself."

"If I had just lost my wife, I wouldn't turn to the most attractive woman I could find," he retorted. "I would turn to another man."

Her contempt only increased. "Don't be naive. If you were a woman, you would turn to a man rather than a woman, for the practical matters. Not that they are any better at it, simply that they are taken seriously by others. People always assume women are incompetent, whether they are or not. And of course they have no legal standing anyway."

Before he could make exactly the right crushing remark, Callandra came over to them. She too looked tired and untidy, her clothes soiled, but there was a look of pleasure in her face at seeing him.

"Hello, William. How is your case progressing? I assume that is why you are here?" She brushed her hair out of her eyes absently, at the same time smearing her face with soot from the stove, but there was a lift in her voice and a calmness in her eyes as of some inner radiance. She met his glance absolutely squarely. "Is there something with which we can help you?

We have heard quite a lot more about this wretched man, Caleb Stone. I am not sure of what use it could be."

"It might be of much use," he said quickly. "I found him myself, and he admitted having killed Angus, but I still have no corpse. Even if I can never prove Caleb's guilt, much as I would like to, the important thing is that the authorities will assume Angus's death, for the widow's sake." "Yes, of course. I understand."

"Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?" he asked, looking away from Hester.

Callandra hid the faintest smile, then excused herself and led Monk to the small storeroom where they had spoken earlier, leaving Hester to return to her duties.

"You look in an ill temper, William," she observed as soon as the door was closed. She sat on the only chair and he sat half sideways on the bench.

"Is it the frustration of your case, or have you been quarreling with Hester again?"

"She gets more arbitrary and set in her ways every time I see her," he responded. "And unbearably self-righteous. It is an extraordinarily unattractive quality, especially in a woman. She seems to be utterly without humor or the ability to charm, which is a woman's greatest asset."

"I see." Callandra nodded, poking the last stray end of hair into a pin behind her ear. "How fortunate that you feel that way. Now, if she should catch typhoid, like poor Enid Ravensbrook, you will not be so distressed as if you were fond of her, or found her pleasing."

It was a monstrous thing to say! The idea of Hester as desperately ill as Enid Ravensbrook, or these poor souls around him, was appalling. It chilled his flesh as if he were frozen from the inside. And she would not be cared for in luxury as Enid had been. There would be no one to sit with her day and night, to nurse her with the skill and dedication to keep her alive. He could try, of course, and he would. But he had not the knowledge. How could Callandra speak so utterly heartlessly?

"Now, about this case," she said cheerfully, ignoring his feelings altogether. "It sounds most frustrating. What do you propose to do next? Or have you abandoned it?"

He was about to make an extremely tart reply when he realized there was humor in her eyes, and suddenly he felt foolish, and had a brilliant memory, barely a second long, of standing at the kitchen table, resting his chin on it, watching his mother rolling pastry. She had just told him something which made him realize that she knew almost everything and he knew nothing at all. It had been a revelation, both humiliating and at the same time comforting.

"No, I have not abandoned it," he said, and his voice sounded far more meek than he had intended. "I will continue it as long as I am able to, until I find proof, at the very least, that Angus is dead. I would dearly like to prove Caleb murdered him, but that may be impossible."

Her rather erratic eyebrows rose. "Has Mrs. Stonefield got funds for that?

I gathered she was in some difficulty, or expected to be very shortly."

"No, she hasn't and though Lord Ravensbrook has agreed to pay for the investigation, Mrs. Stonefield seems worried that he will not continue to do so." Should he ask her? She had taken very little part in the investigation. She might consider the typhoid outbreak to be a more pressing need, and perhaps she was right. He had only the haziest idea how much disposable income she had for such things.

"Then I shall be happy to take care of the fee for as long as you believe there is purpose in continuing." She looked at him steadily. "Purpose with advantage to Mrs. Stonefield, that is, or to her children."

"Thank you," he said humbly.

"Did I overhear you say something about learning more of Caleb Stone?" she asked curiously. "And where he lives, when he can be said to live anywhere.

From what I have heard, he spends a great deal of time moving from one place to another. Presumably to avoid his enemies, whom rumor would have to be legion."

"Yes. Anything you know, or have heard, might be helpful," he accepted. "I need to know where they might have been seen together that day. If I could produce a witness who saw them, and then Caleb alone, I should know where to search for a body. Even if I did not find one, it might be sufficient to make the police take up the case. Angus Stonefield was a well-respected man."

"I realize why you wish it, William." She rose to her feet heavily. "I may have spent the last week nursing the sick, but I have not lost my wits. I shall send Hester to you. She has spent more time with the people than I have, especially with Mary. I have been fighting with the frightened, bitter men at the local council, and all that they have said at enormous length and with enough words to fill a library, providing every book were the same, amounts to nothing whatever of the slightest use to man or beast." And before he could argue, she sailed out and he was left alone sitting on the bench in the light of one tallow candle, looking at the water-stained walls and waiting for Hester.

She was several minutes in coming, and by the time she did he was thoroughly uncomfortable.

She arrived and closed the door.

He stood up automatically, until she seated herself in the chair. She began straightaway, so obviously Callandra had explained his purpose.

"Everyone seems afraid of Caleb," she said gravely. "He seems to inhabit an area stretching from the East India Dock Road to the river-"

"The Isle of Dogs," he interrupted. "I know that much."

"On both sides," she continued, ignoring him. "And the Greenwich marshes as far as Bugsby's Reach. A great deal of the time no one knows precisely where he is. He sleeps in the dockyards, on barges, and sometimes with Selina Herries, which you already know."

"Yes, I do," he said impatiently. "I need to prove he was with Angus on the day he was last seen, and when and where."

"I know what you want." She was unruffled. "But you won't prove anything unless you can persuade someone to speak to you. I don't think anyone is going to betray Caleb unless they can be sure he won't take his revenge on them for it. And Selina won't, regardless. She may be frightened, but she loves him, in her own way."

There was a sound of buckets clanging on the far side of the door, but no one opened it.

He leaned forward. "How do you know? Do you know her?" It was foolish to get excited by the thought, but it would be the last chance, if he could find a way to gain her trust. "She may only be afraid as well."

Hester smiled. It lit her face, not removing the tiredness but overriding it.

"I don't doubt she is afraid of him," she agreed. "And I don't doubt she has cause, now and then. But by all accounts she also loves him, in her way, and is rather proud of him."

"Proud of him! In God's name, what for? The man's a failure in every way."

As soon as he had said it, he wished he had not put it in such words. It was a damnation, and Caleb's vivid face with its rage and its intelligence was sharp in his mind. He could have been so much more. He could have been everything that Angus was. Instead jealousy had corroded his soul until in a passion of hatred he had committed murder and destroyed not only his brother but what was left of himself. The pity in Monk was tight and painful, fraught with loathing. And yet he knew rage himself. It was the grace of God that he had not killed. Could Angus conceivably have been a hypocrite too, a charming, predatory blackguard too clever for anyone to catch?

Hester did not interrupt his thoughts. He wished she would. Instead she simply sat staring at him, waiting. She knew him too intimately. It was uncomfortable.

"Well?" he demanded. "What could she be proud of him for?"

"Because no one cheats him or abuses him," she answered, her voice suggesting that it was obvious. "He's strong. Everyone knows his name. The fact that he chooses her makes her important. People don't dare to take advantage of her either."

He stood up and turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "And that's the height of her ambition? To be owned by the most hated and feared man in the Isle of Dogs! God, what a life!" He remembered Selina's beautifully boned face with its wide mouth and bold eyes, the proud swaying way she walked. She was worth more than that. "It's better than most women, around here," Hester said quietly. "She isn't often cold or hungry, and no one knocks her around."

"Except Caleb!" he said.

"That's something," she replied calmly. "It's many people's dream to escape, but few ever do, except to the whorehouses up in the Haymarket, or worse."

He winced-at her language, not at the truth.

"Mary says one pretty girl did, Ginny something," she went on, though he was not interested. "Got married, she thought; but that's probably more a hope than a fact. Gentlemen don't marry girls they pick up in Limehouse."

It was a bare reality, and if he had said it himself he would have said it was simply the truth. From her lips it had a coarseness and a finality he resented.

"Do you know anything useful?" he said abruptly. "That Selina won't betray him doesn't help me."

"You asked me," she pointed out. "But I can tell you the names of a few of his enemies who would be delighted to see his downfall, if they can do it safely."

"Can you?" He could not hide his eagerness. He had not managed to turn up anything so definite himself. Of course, she was trusted in a way he never could be. She was living and working among these people, risking her life daily to tend to them in their extremity. He pushed that thought away.

"Who? Where do I find them?"

She gave him a list of five names-one man, three women and a youth-and in all cases where he could find them.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "That is excellent. If any one of them can tell me something, we may yet help Mrs. Stonefield. I shall begin immediately."

But he did not. That evening he had arranged to see Drusilla, and it was a pleasure he longed for. Not even to help Genevieve Stonefield could he forgo it and creep around the slums and rookeries of Limehouse in the dark and the cold. It could wait until tomorrow, when it would be both easier and safer. Caleb had to be aware Monk was still pursuing him. He was not a man to wait idly to be caught.

The weather had cleared and it was a dry, chilly evening with only the ever-present pall of smoke hiding the stars.

Half past seven found Monk superbly dressed, stepping out of a hansom cab to meet Drusilla on the steps of the British Archaeological Association in Sackville Street. She had requested that he meet her there because she had said she had promised to accompany a friend for dinner, which was a great bore. She had cancelled the arrangement, but in order to avoid lengthy and unnecessarily dishonest explanations, she could not be at home.

She appeared at exactly half past, as she had said she would. She wore a wide-skirted gown of silk the color of candlelight through brandy, and it complimented her marvelously. She seemed to glow in golds and tawny bronzes and her skin had a delicacy and a warmth unlike any he had seen before.

"Is something amiss?" she said laughingly. "You look terribly serious, William!"

The sound of his name from her lips was acutely pleasing. He collected his attention with an effort.

"No, nothing at all. I even have news which may help me eventually to find where poor Angus Stonefield met his death."

"Have you?" she said eagerly, taking his arm and falling into step as he matched his pace to hers. "It does seem terribly tragic. Did he do it merely from jealousy, do you suppose? Why now? He must have been jealous of him for years." She gave a little shiver. "I wonder what happened which suddenly made such a difference? I don't suppose it really matters, but don't you long to know?" She turned to look at him curiously. "Don't you think it is one of the most interesting subjects in the world, why people do what they do?"

"Yes, of course it is." She could not know the nerve her question had struck in him, how many of his own acts he had learned from the evidences left of his life, and yet could not remember, so did not know why he had done them. So much can be understood, even excused, when one understands.

"You look sad." She was searching his face with her wide hazel eyes. "Where shall we go, so I can cheer you up? Do you still think the widow is innocent? Do you think she may have known Caleb, recently?"

The idea was funny. He could not imagine the socially correct, money-careful, domestic Genevieve having the slightest thing in common with the violent, lonely Caleb, who lived from hand to mouth, never knowing what he would eat next or where he would sleep.

"No, I don't!"

"Why not?" she pursued. "After all, he must look very much like her husband. There must have been something in him which could have attracted her." She smiled, her eyes close to laughter. "I know you say Angus was very worthy, and virtuous in every way." She shrugged her shoulders. "But perhaps he was just the slightest bit tedious? Some of the most worthy people are, you know."

He said nothing.

"Don't you know some very worthy women who are crashingly dull?" She looked at him sideways, a little through her lashes.

He smiled back. If he had denied it she would not have believed him for a moment. And perhaps Angus was everything Genevieve wanted and needed in a husband, but he could indeed have been a bore.

"If it were so, where do you suppose they might meet?" she asked thoughtfully. "Where would a respectable woman, with a limited knowledge of the less salubrious sides of society, go in order to meet a lover?"

"That would depend upon whether the lover were Titus Niven or Caleb," he replied, not taking the idea seriously, but thinking it would be fun to humor Drusilla. It would be a far more entertaining evening than sitting in some musical concert, or listening to a lecture, however profound the sub- ject.

They crossed the road and he held her arm a trifle more tightly. It was a pleasing feeling, a warmth even in the raw wind that was blowing down the street and funneling between the buildings, carrying the smell of a thousand smoking chimneys.

He entered into the spirit of it.

"She could want something that was fun," he said cheerfully. "If Angus were a bore, then definitely she would seek something he would not do." "A music hall," she said with a laugh. "A penny arcade. A marionette show, maybe Punch and Judy? A band or a street musician? There are so many things that a stuffy man wouldn't do which could be marvelous-don't you think?

How about a hurdy-gurdy? A bazaar?" She gave a little giggle. "A peep show?

A bare-knuckle fight?"

"What do you know about bare-knuckle fights?" he asked in surprise. It was such a brutal sport, as well as illegal.

She waved a hand. "Oh, nothing. I was thinking of her doing something really daring, where Angus would never think of looking for her, and none of his social circle would ever see her either," she reasoned. "After all, it would have to be somewhere where no one she knew would ever see her.

They might talk, and she couldn't afford that, the more especially if she was party to his murder."

"It wouldn't matter if she was seen with Caleb," he pointed out. "In the lamplight and shadow, half-decently dressed, anyone would simply assume it was Angus."

"Oh." She bit her lip. "Yes, of course. I'd forgotten that." She was silent for a space of about fifty yards or so. They came to a crossroad and he guided her around Piccadilly Circus and along the far side towards the Haymarket. Most of the possibilities they mentioned were offered here, in Great Windmill Street or Shaftesbury Avenue.

Already in the glare of the gas lamps and the illumination of shop windows among the theater crowds and sightseers, they noticed women walking slowly with an arrogant set to their shoulders and swinging their hips in invitation. Skirts swayed, and now and then an ankle was visible.

They were all sorts of women: young and fresh-faced from the country; pale and sophisticated; those who had been milliners or dressmakers, or in domestic service, and lost their positions through seduction; older women, some already riddled with venereal disease.

Young gentlemen sauntered by, well-dressed, taking their pick. Others were older, even silver-haired. Every now and again two would disappear, arm- in-arm, into a doorway to some house of accommodation.

Carriages passed, hooves clattering, occupants laughing. Gaudy theater signs advertised melodrama and titillation. Monk and Drusilla passed a brazier roasting chestnuts and the wave of heat engulfed them for a moment.

"Would you like some?" he asked.

"Oh yes! Yes. I'd love some," she accepted quickly. "I haven't tasted them for ages."

He bought threepence worth, and they shared them, nibbling carefully not to burn their lips or tongues, now and then glancing at each other. The chestnuts were delicious, the more so for being a touch charred on the outside and too hot in the bitter evening.

Around them swirled laughter and a spice of danger. Some men hurried by with coat collars drawn up and hats pulled down over their brows, bent on pleasures for which they preferred to be anonymous. Others were quite open and swaggered brazenly, calling out comments.

Drusilla moved closer to Monk, her eyes bright, her face smooth and glowing with an inner excitement which gave her skin a kind of radiance and made her even lovelier. She was full of laughter, as if she were on the edge of some wonderful joke.

They passed a peep show. It rose to his mind to point out that they could not actually accomplish anything, because they had no way of learning if Genevieve had ever been here, or with whom. He had no likeness of her to show. But to say so would have spoiled their fun, and that was what actually mattered. It was conceivable that Genevieve had connived at Angus's death, but he did not believe it. Without a body, she had nothing to gain and everything to lose.

An hour later as they walked up Greek Street towards Soho Square, the subject arose, and he was obliged to answer it.

"But maybe the body will turn up?" she said, stepping up the pavement from the road. She swaggered a couple of steps, mimicking the prostitutes, and burst into laughter again. "I'm sorry!" she said happily. "But it's such fun not to care a fig for an evening, not to worry if everything is correct, who is looking at you or listening to you, if old Lady So-and-So will disapprove, and who she will repeat it to. Such freedom is terribly sweet. Thank you, William, for a unique evening!" And before he could reply, she hurried on. "Perhaps they are keeping it hidden for a reason?"

"What reason?" he asked amusedly. He was enjoying himself too much to care about the illogicality of it all. Tomorrow would be time enough to pursue the real. Tonight was his own, and Drusilla's.

"Ah!" She stopped suddenly and swung around, her eyes wide and dancing with excitement. "I have it! What if Angus turns up again, alive and well, saying he was hurt in a terrible fight with Caleb, in which he was injured, perhaps knocked on the head, and was unable to contact anyone. He was insensible, delirious. He thinks Caleb is dead..."

"But he's alive," Monk pointed out. "I've seen him, and he admitted having killed Angus. In-"

"No, no," she interrupted eagerly. "Wait! Don't keep stopping me! Of course he is-and he did! Don't you see? The Angus who turns up is really Caleb. He and Genevieve have done away with Angus, and when it is too late to tell them apart, and the body has"-she wrinkled her nose"decomposed sufficiently, all the doctors can say is that it was one of the brothers!

By that time there will be no firm flesh in the face to recognize, no uncallused hands, clean fingernails, anything like that. If she says the man who returns is Angus, who will argue with her?" Her hand tightened on his arm. "William, it's brilliant. It explains everything!"

He searched for a flaw in it, and could not see one. He did not believe it, but it was perfectly possible. The longer he thought about it, the more possible it grew.

"Doesn't it?" she demanded eagerly. "Tell me I'm a brilliant detective, William! You must take me into partnership-I'll find the theories to fit all your cases. Then you can go and find the evidence to prove them." "A wonderful idea," he said with a laugh. "Would you like dinner on it?" "Yes, Yes I would. With champagne." She looked around at the brightly lit street with its inviting windows. "Where shall we dine? Please let us make it somewhere exciting, disreputable and utterly delicious. I'm sure you must know such a place."

He probably had, before his accident. Now he could only guess. He must not take her where she could be bored, or where anything would happen which would embarrass or disgust her. And of course he could hardly expect Callandra to pay the bill for this. For a start, she would disapprove. She would consider it a betrayal of Hester, no matter how absurd that was. And it was absurd. His relationship with Hester was not one of choice but of circumstances which had thrown them together. There was no romance in it, only a kind of cooperation in certain areas-almost a business relationship, one might say.

Drusilla was waiting, her face full of expectancy.

"Of course," he agreed, not daring to expose his ignorance. "A little further along." With any luck, he would see something within the next two or three hundred yards. It was an excellent area for cafes, taverns and coffeehouses.

"Wonderful," she said happily, turning to walk forward again. "You know, I am really hungry. How unladylike of me to admit it. That's another thing about this evening I enjoy so much. I can be hungry! I can even drink what I please. Perhaps I shan't have champagne. Perhaps I shall have stout. Or porter."

They had an excellent meal at a tavern where the landlord told mildly bawdy jokes and laughed uproariously, and one of the regular customers lampooned various politicians and members of the royal family. The atmosphere was homely and warm and a multitude of odors, almost all of them pleasant, wrapped them round in an island from all the day-to-day reality of their separate worlds.

Afterwards they walked nearly to the end of the street back to Soho Square before picking up a hansom to take her home, and from there he could take it on to Fitzroy Street himself.

He realized with surprise he had no idea where she lived, and he was interested when she gave the driver an address on the edge of Mayfair. They sat close together in the alternating darkness and light as they bowled along Oxford Street westwards, then turned left down North Audley Street.

He could not remember having felt more perfectly at ease in anyone's company, and yet never for an instant bored or irritated. He looked forward intensely to the next time he should see her. He must think of other things to do which would entertain her when the business of Angus Stonefield was concluded.

They were passing a large house where some kind of party was coming to an end. The street was full of carriages and they were obliged to slow their pace. There were lights everywhere, torches and carriage lamps, the blaze of chandeliers from the open doors. At least a dozen people stood around on the footpath, and five or six more in the street. Liveried footmen assisted a woman to get her massive skirts into her carriage. Grooms held horses' heads, coachmen steadied the reins.

Suddenly Drusilla lurched forward. Her face had changed utterly. There was a blind hatred in her which made her almost unrecognizable. Her hands went to the bosom of her gown and with a convulsive movement she tore it open, ripping the fabric, exposing her pale flesh and gashing it with her fingernails till it smeared blood. She screamed, again and again, piercingly, as if in mortal terror. She beat her fists against his chest, forcing her way past him, then plunged headlong into the street, landing in a heap in the road. Immediately she clambered to her feet, still screaming, and ran towards the astonished footman, now trying to control a startled horse, which was taking fright at the commotion.

Monk was too stunned even to comprehend what was happening. It was not until another footman tried to climb into the hansom, his face contorted with outrage, shouting, "Blackguard! Beast!" that Monk electrified into life. He lifted his foot and sent the man sprawling backwards, then yelled at the cabby to drive!

The cab lurched forward, the driver perhaps more frightened than obedient, hurling Monk hard back against the seat. It was a moment before he regained his balance, and they were going at a very smart pace southwards.

"Fitzroy Street!" he shouted at the driver. "As fast as you can! Do you hear me?"

The driver shouted something back, and a moment later they turned. Monk's mind was numb. It was inconceivable. It was as if he had suddenly taken leave of his wits and plunged into some total insanity. One moment they had been the closest of companions, happy and at ease; the next she had changed as if she had ripped off a mask and exposed something hideous, a creature filled with hatred and consumed by it, deranged, prepared to risk injury by falling out of a moving carriage.

And the accusation she had made against him could ruin him. Only as he reached Fitzroy Street and the cab stopped did he realize the implications of what she had done. It was there in the cabby's face, the horror, and the contempt.

He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, and saw the uselessness of it. He thrust his hand into his pocket and paid the man, then strode across the footpath, up the steps and in the front door. He was cold to the bone.