Cain His Brother (7 page)

“I suppose not.” Enid picked up the dishes, wrinkled her nose at the lingering odor of the gin, and began to ladle out a little gruel into about six of them. “I don't know who can eat, but we'd better try.” She regarded it unhappily. “It's very thin. Haven't we any more oatmeal?”

“It's better thin,” Hester answered. “They can't take much nourishment; it's just the liquid that's of value.”

Enid drew in her breath, then perhaps realized why they did not simply use water. She would have gagged to drink it herself, more especially knowing where it came from. In silence she took the dishes and spoons and began the slow, distressing task of helping one person after another to swallow a mouthful and try to keep it.

The night wore on slowly. The smells and sounds of illness filled the huge room. Shadows passed to and fro in the flickering candlelight as the tallow burned down. About three in the morning Kristian returned. Callandra came over to Hester. There were dark smudges of weariness under her eyes and her skirts were soiled where she had been helping someone in extreme distress.

“Go and take a few hours' sleep,” she said quietly. “Kristian and I can manage.” She said it so naturally, and yet Hester knew what it meant to her to be able to speak their names together in such a way. “We'll call you towards morning.”

“A couple of hours,” Hester insisted. “Call me about five. What about Enid?”

“I've persuaded her.” Callandra smiled faintly. “Now go on. You can't stay up indefinitely. If you don't rest you'll be no use. You've told me that often enough.”

Hester gave a rueful little shrug. There was no honesty or purpose in denial.

“Watch the boy over there on the left.” She gestured towards a figure lying crumpled, half on one side, about twenty feet away. “He's got a dislocated shoulder. I've put it back, but it slips out if he leans on it when he sits up to retch.”

“Poor little creature.” Callandra sighed. “He looks no more than ten or twelve, but it's hard to tell.”

“He said he was sixteen,” Hester replied. “But I don't suppose he can count.”

“Did it happen recently? The shoulder, I mean?”

“I asked him. He said he got across Caleb Stone and got beaten for his cheek.”

Callandra winced. “There's a woman on the far end with a knife scar on her face. She said that was Caleb Stone too. She didn't say why. He seems to be a very violent man. She sounded still afraid of him.”

“Well, I don't suppose we'll see him in here,” Hester said dryly. “Unless he gets typhoid. Nobody comes to pesthouses to collect debts, however large-or to exact revenge either.” She glanced down the dark cavern of the warehouse. “No revenge could be worse than this,” she said softly. “Go and rest,” Callandra ordered. “Or you won't be fit to work when I sleep.”

Hester obeyed gratefully. She had not dared to think how tired she was, or she could not have continued. Now at last she was free to go into the small outer room, where there was a pile of extra straw, and let herself sink into it in the darkness, away from duty, the sounds of distress and the constant awareness of other people's suffering. For a moment she could forget it all and let exhaustion and oblivion overtake her.

But the straw prickled. It had been a long time since Scutari, and she had forgotten the feeling of overwhelming helplessness in the face of such enormity of pain, and she could not so easily blank it from her mind. Her ears still strained for the sounds and her body tensed, as if in spite of everything Callandra could say, she really ought to go and do what she could to help.

That would be futile. She would become too worn out to take her turn when Callandra and Kristian needed to sleep. She must fill her mind with something else deliberately, force herself to think of some subject which would overtake even this.

It came unbidden to her mind, in spite of all her intentions to the contrary. Perhaps it was the fact that she was lying awkwardly in a small, strange room, close to the end of her strength, both physically and emotionally, but thoughts of Monk filled her, almost as if she could feel the warmth of his body beside her, smell his skin, and for once in their lives, know that there was no quarrel, no gulf, no barrier between them.

She flushed hot to remember how utterly she had given herself to him in that one consuming kiss. All her heart and mind and will had been in it, all the things she could never ever have said to him. She had not seen him since the end of the Farraline case. They had continued in the heat of that desperate conclusion, so involved in it that there had been no time to feel more than a glancing moment of awkwardness.

Now if they met again it would be different. There would be memories neither of them could ever discard or forget. Whatever he might say, whatever his manner now, she knew that for that moment when they had faced death in the closed room, he had left behind all pretense, all his precious and careful self-protection, and had admitted in touch of aching and desperate tenderness that he too knew what it was to love.

Not that she deluded herself the barriers would not return. Of course they would. Rescue, and a taking up of life again, had brought back all the differences, the shadows which kept them apart. She was not the kind of woman who excited him. She was too quarrelsome, too independent, too direct. She did not even know how to flirt or to charm, to make him feel gallant and protective, let alone romantic.

And he was too often ill-tempered. He was certainly ruthless, highly critical, and his past was full of darkness and fears and ties which even he did not know, perhaps of violence he only half thought in nightmare, of cruelties he imagined but for which he had no proof-except what others told him, not in words but in the way they reacted to him, the flicker of old pain, humiliations from his keener, faster mind and his sharper tongue. She knew all the arguments, just like the prickling straw ends poking into her arms now, scratching her cheek and spearing through the thin stuff of her dress. And yet just like the sweet oblivion closing around her, the memory of his touch obliterated it all until she was so tired she could sleep.

Monk was confused by the Stonefield case. It was not that he seriously doubted what had happened to Angus Stonefield. He very much feared that Genevieve was correct and he had indeed received some kind of summons from Caleb and had gone immediately to meet him. In all probability that was why he had taken the five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence that Arbuthnot had spoken of, and for which he had left the receipt. Monk's difficulty was now to prove his death so that the authorities would grant Genevieve the legal status of widow and allow her to inherit his estate.

Then she might sell the business before it was ruined by speculation and neglect, and no doubt the advantage his rivals would take of his absence.

It would be good to talk to Callandra. It was part of their bargain that he share with her any case which was difficult or of particular interest. He was not sure if this one would catch her emotions or not, but he knew from experience that even the act of explaining it to her would clarify it in his own mind. It had happened that way more often than not. She asked pertinent questions and allowed him to escape with no generalizations or inexactitudes. Her understanding of people, especially women, was often far more acute than his. She had a perception of relationships which made him realize, with some pain and a new sense of loneliness, how little he knew of the emotions of interdependence and the closeness of daily friendship and family ties. There were so many gaps in his life, and he did not know if those things had never existed for him or if it was simply that his memory of them was gone. And if he had lived such a narrow and solitary life, was that of his own choosing? Or had some circumstance forced it upon him? What had happened to him-and more urgently by far, what had he done-in all those lost years?

Of course, he had learned fragments, flashes of recollection prompted by some present sight or sound, the glimpse of a face. Some things he had deduced. But there were still vast, empty reaches, only a glimmer of light here and there, and he did not always like what it showed. He had been cruel of tongue, harsh of judgment, but clever… always clever. But if he had not truly loved anyone, or been loved, why not? What ghosts walked in that darkness? What injuries might there be, and would he ever know?

Might they return to horrify him with guilt… or offer him a chance to repay? Might he after all discover acts of generosity and warmth, companionship he would want to recall, sweetness that was precious even in hindsight?

But no matter how hard he searched, nothing returned. There was no shred of memory there, not a face, a smell, or sound that was familiar. The only friends he knew were those of the present. The rest was a void.

Perhaps that was why when he reached Callandra's house he was absurdly disappointed to be told by the maid that she was not in.

“When will she return?” he demanded.

“I couldn't say, sir,” the maid replied gravely. “Maybe tonight, but more likely not. Maybe tomorrow, but I couldn't say so for sure.”

“That's ridiculous!” Monk snapped. “You must know! For heaven's sake, be honest with me. I'm not some social climbing lady friend she doesn't want either to see or to offend.”

The maid drew in her breath and let it out in a sigh of politeness. She knew Monk from many previous visits.

“There's an outbreak of the typhoid in Limehouse, sir. She's gone there to help with Dr. Beck, and I expect a good few others. I really couldn't say when she'll be back. No one can.”

Typhoid. Monk had no personal knowledge that he could recall, but he had heard the fear and the pity in other people's voices, and saw both in the maid's face now.

“Limehouse?” It must have been typhoid the cabby had meant, not typhus. He knew where it was, down by the river along the Reach. “Thank you.” He turned to leave. “Oh…”

“Yes sir?”

“Is there anything I could take for her, a change of clothes perhaps?”

“Well… Yes sir, if you're going that way, I'm sure it'd be appreciated. And per'aps for Miss Hester too?”

“Miss Hester?”

“Yes sir. Miss Hester went as well.”

“Of course.” He should have known she would be there. It was an admirable thing to do, and obvious, with her professional training. So why was he angry? And he was! He stood in the porch entrance while the maid went to fetch the articles and put them in a soft-sided bag for him to carry, and his body was stiff and his hands clenched almost to fists. She rushed into things without thought. Her own opinions were all that mattered. She never listened to anyone else or took advice. She was the most willful and arbi- trary person he knew, vacillating where she should be firm, and dogmatic where she should be flexible. He had tried to reason with her, but she only argued. He could not count the quarrels they had had over one issue or another.

The maid returned with the bag and he took it from her smartly with a brief word of thanks. A moment later he was back in the street, striding out towards the square, where he knew there would be a hansom.

In Limehouse it did not take him long to trace the warehouse on Park Street now converted into a fever hospital. He could see the fear of it in people's faces and the drop in the tone of voice as they spoke of it. He spent all the change he had on half a dozen hot meat pies.

He went in the wide door and up the shallow steps with the pies wrapped in newspaper under his arm and the softsided case in the other hand. The smells of human waste, wet wood, coal smoke and vinegar met him before he was into the main room, which must originally have been designed to accommodate bales of wool, cotton, or other similar merchandise. Now it was ill lit with tallow candles and the entire floor was covered with straw, and blankets under which he could make out the forms of at least eighty people lying in various states of exhaustion and distress.

“Yer got them buckets?”

“What?” He turned around sharply to see a woman with a tired, smut-dirtied face staring at him. She could have been any age from eighteen to forty.

Her fair hair was greasy and screwed into a knot somewhere at the back of her head. Her figure was broad-chested and broad-hipped but her shoulders sagged. It was impossible to tell whether it was from habit or weariness.

Her expression was almost blank. She had seen too much to invest emotion in anything but hope, or grief. A stranger who might or might not have buckets was not worth the effort. Disappointments were expected.

“' Ave yer got the buckets?” she repeated, her voice dropping as she knew already that the answer was negative.

“No. I came to see Lady Callandra Daviot. I'm sorry.” He let the case drop to the floor. “Do you want a hot pie?”

Her eyes widened a little.

He unrolled the newspaper and handed her one. It was still warm and the pastry was crisp. A tiny piece flaked off and fell to the floor.

She hesitated only a moment, her nostrils widening as she caught the aroma.

“Yeah. I do.” She took it and bit into it quickly before he could change his mind. She could not remember the last time she had had such a delicacy, let alone a whole one to herself.

“Is Lady Callandra here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said with her mouth full. “I'll get 'er for yer.” She did not ask his name. Anyone who brought meat pies needed no further credentials.

He smiled in spite of himself.

A moment later Callandra came down the length of the room, also tired and dirty, but a lift in her step and a quickening in her face.

“William?” she said softly when she reached him. “What is it? Why have you come here?”

“Hot pie?” he offered.

She took it with thanks, wiping her hands briefly on her apron. Her eyes searched his, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I have a difficult case,” he answered. “Have you time to listen? It won't take more than ten or fifteen minutes. You have to rest sometime. Come and sit down while you eat the pie.”

“Have you one for Kristian?” she asked, still having taken only a bite from the one he had given her. “And Hester? And Enid? And Mary, of course?” “I don't know Enid or Mary,” he answered. “But I gave one to a young woman with straight hair who expected me to have buckets.”

“Mary. Good. The poor soul has worked herself to dropping. Have you any more? If not, I'll share this one.”

“Yes, I have.” He proffered the rolled-up newspaper. “There are another four in there.”

Callandra took them with a quick smile and carried them back up the dim room to pass them to figures Monk could recognize only with difficulty. The thin, very upright one with the square shoulders and uplifted chin was Hester. He would have known her outline anywhere. No one else held her head at quite that angle. The masculine one had to be Kristian Beck, barely average height, slim-shouldered and strong. The third looked reminiscent of someone he had seen only lately, but in the poor light and the smoke from the stoves and the smell stinging his eyes, he did not know whom.

Callandra returned, eating her own pie before it got cold. She led him into a small room to the side which presumably had once been an office when the building was used for its original purpose. Now it boasted a table piled with blankets, four bottles of gin, three unopened and one half empty, several casks of vinegar, a flagon of Hungarian wine and a candle. Two very rickety chairs were also piled with blankets. Callandra cleared them off and offered him a seat.

“What's the gin for?” he asked. “Desperation?”

“It wouldn't be sitting there unopened if it were,” she replied grimly.

“Tell me about your case.”

He hesitated, uncertain how much to say about Genevieve. Perhaps he should give Callandra only facts and omit his own impressions.

“To clean things with,” she answered his question. “Alcohol is better than water, especially from the wells around here. Not the floors, of course.

The vinegar's for that. I mean plates and spoons.”

He acknowledged the explanation.

“The case…” she prompted, sitting heavily on one of the chairs, which rocked, tilted and righted itself at an angle.

He sat on the other gingerly, but it supported his weight, albeit with an alarming creak.

“A man has disappeared, a businessman, comfortably off and eminently respectable,” he began. “He seems happily married, with five children. It was his wife who came to me.”

Callandra was watching him, so far without interest.

“His wife says he has a twin brother,” Monk continued with a ghost of a smile, “who is in every way opposite. He is violent, ruthless, and lives alone, somewhere in this area.”

“Limehouse?” Callandra said in surprise. “Why here?”

“Apparently choice. He lives by his wits, and occasional gifts from Angus, the missing brother. In spite of their differences, Angus insisted on keeping in touch, although his wife says he was afraid of Caleb.”

“And it is Angus who has disappeared?”

The candle on the table flickered for a moment. It was stuck in the top of an empty bottle and the tallow ran down the side.

“Yes. His wife is deeply afraid that Caleb has murdered him. In fact, I think she is convinced of it.”

She frowned. “Did you say Caleb?” She reached out absently and righted the candle.

“Yes. Why?” he asked.

“It's an unusual name,” she replied. “Not unknown, but not common. I heard only a few hours ago of a brutal man in this area named Caleb Stone. He injured a youth and slashed the face of a woman.”

“The same man!” he said quickly, leaning forward a little. “The brother is Angus Stonefield, but Caleb may well have dropped the second half of his name. It fits with what Genevieve said of him.” He realized as he spoke how he had been hoping inside himself that it was not true, that perhaps her view of Caleb was exaggerated. Now in a sentence that was ended.

Callandra shook her head. “I am afraid if that is so, then you have not only a greater task ahead of you but perhaps an exceedingly difficult one.

Caleb Stone may be guilty, but it will be very hard to prove. There is little love lost for him around here, but fear may hold people silent. I assume you have already inquired into the more usual explanations for the brother's absence?”

“How delicately put,” he said with a sharp edge to his voice. He was not angry with her, only with the circumstances and his own helplessness. “You mean debt, theft or another woman?”

“Something like that…”

“i haven't proved them impossible, simply unlikely. I traced him the last day he was seen. He came as far as Union Road, about a mile from here.”

Before he could add anything further he caught a movement out of the comer of his eye, and turned to see Hester standing in the doorway. Even though he had already seen her dimly in the main room, it had not prepared him for meeting her face-to-face. He had thought a dozen times exactly what he was going to say, how casual he was going to be, as if nothing had changed between them since the conclusion of the trial in Edinburgh. On reflection, that was about the best time to go back to. They could hardly pretend that had not occurred. If she referred to the Farralines, that was acceptable, although the subject might be sensitive to her, and he would respect that.

She would not mention the small room in which they had been trapped, or anything that had happened between them there. That would be so indelicate as to be inexcusable. She knew it had been occasioned by what had seemed the knowledge of certain death, and not an emotion which could be carried into their succeeding lives. To refer to it would be both clumsy and painful.

But women were peculiar where emotions were concerned, especially emotions that had anything to do with love. They were unpredictable and illogical.

How did he know that? Was that some submerged memory, or simply assumption?

Not that Hester was very feminine. He would find her more appealing if she were. She had no art to charm, or the kind of subtle flattery that is only a selection and amplification of the truth. She was much too direct…

almost to the point of challenge. She had no idea when to keep her own counsel and defer to others. Intellectual women were remarkably unattractive. It was not a pleasing quality to be right all the time, most particularly in matters of logic, judgment and military history. She was at once very clever and remarkably stupid.