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“Yes sir?”
“My name is Monk. I have been retained by Mrs. Stonefield to inquire into Mr. Stonefield’s present whereabouts.” There was no point in evasion any longer. To ask only such questions as would leave it concealed would be a waste of time, which was short enough, and he had accomplished nothing so far. It was already seven days since Angus had last been seen.
“Come in, sir.” Niven opened the door wide and stood back to allow Monk to pass. “It is a cruel night to stand on the step.”
“Thank you.” Monk went into the house, and almost immediately was aware just how far Titus Niven had fallen. The architecture was gracious and designed for better times. It had been decorated within the last year or two and was in excellent condition. The curtains were splendid, and presumably would be the last things to be sacrificed to necessity, for the privacy they offered when drawn but even more for their warmth across the cold, rain-streaked glass. But there were no pictures on the walls, although he could see with a practiced eye where the picture hooks had been. There were no ornaments except a simple, cheap clock—to judge from the curtains, not Niven’s taste at all. The furniture was of good quality, but there was far too little of it. There were bare spaces which leaped to the eye, and the fire in the large hearth was a mere smoldering of a couple of pieces of coal, a gesture rather than a warmth.
Monk looked at Niven and saw from his face that words were unnecessary. Niven had seen that he understood. Neither comment nor excuse would serve purpose, only add weight to the pain that was real enough.
Monk stood in the center of the room. It would somehow be a presumption to sit down before he was invited, as if the man’s poverty reduced his status as host.
“I daresay you are aware,” he began, “or have deduced, that Angus Stonefield is missing. No one knows why. It is now of some urgency, for his family’s sake, that he is found. Quite naturally, Mrs. Stonefield is alarmed that he may have been taken ill, attacked, or in some other way met with harm.”
Niven looked genuinely concerned. If it was spurious, he was a master actor. But that was possible. Monk had seen such before.
“I’m sorry,” Niven said quietly. “Poor Mrs. Stonefield. I wish I were in a position to offer her help.” He shrugged and smiled. “But as you can see, I can scarcely help myself. I have not seen Angus since—oh—the eighteenth. I went to his place of business. But I daresay you know that.…”
“Yes. Mr. Arbuthnot told me. How did Mr. Stonefield seem to you then? What was his manner?”
Niven waved towards the sofa, and himself sat in one of the two remaining large chairs. “Just as usual,” he answered as soon as Monk was seated. “Quite composed, courteous, very much in command of himself and of his affairs.” He frowned and regarded Monk anxiously. “You understand, I do not mean that in any critic
al sense. I do not intend to imply he was arbitrary. Far from it. He was always most courteous. And his staff will have told you, he was a generous master and neither an unreasonable man nor given to rudeness.”
“What did you mean, Mr. Niven?”
Monk watched him closely, but he saw no embarrassment, no hint of deviousness, only a searching for words, and the same glint of humor and self-mockery.
“I meant, I suppose, that Angus ordered his life very well. He hardly ever made mistakes nor lost his ability to govern himself and much of what happened around him. He never seemed out of his depth.”
“Did you know his brother?” Monk was suddenly very curious.
“His brother?” Niven was surprised. “I didn’t know he had a brother. In the same line of business? Surely not. I would have known. Genevieve … Mrs. Stonefield …” He colored slightly and was instantly aware that he had given himself away. “Mrs. Stonefield never mentioned any relative other than his childhood guardian, Lord Ravensbrook,” he went on. “And as far as I can recollect, she spoke of him only once or twice. They seemed a family very sufficient unto themselves.” There was the faintest shadow of pain in his face, or was it envy? Monk was reminded again, sharply, how very attractive Genevieve was, how alive. She did not talk a great deal, or move vivaciously, yet there was a quality of emotion in her which made other women seem dull in comparison.
“Yes,” Monk replied, watching him closely. “He had a twin brother, Caleb, who is violent and disreputable, a waster bordering on the criminal, if not actually so.” That was something of an understatement, but he wanted to see what Niven made of it.
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” Niven said softly. “If there were such a man, the City would know of it. Angus’s reputation would be compromised by the existence of another with his name, and whose character was so unfortunate. I have been in the City for fifteen years. Word would have spread. Whoever told you this is misleading you, or you have misunderstood. And why do you say ‘had’? Is this brother supposed to be dead? In which case, why raise the fellow’s name when it can only hurt Angus?” His body tensed where he sat in the large chair beside the cold hearth. “Or do you also fear Angus may have met with some profound harm?”
“It was a slip of the tongue,” Monk confessed. “I allowed Mrs. Stonefield’s anxieties to influence me. I am afraid she is concerned that he is no longer alive, or he would have returned home, or at the very least sent some message to her of his whereabouts.”
Niven remained silent for several moments, deep in thought.
Monk waited.
“Why did you mention this brother, Mr. Monk?” Niven asked at length. “Is he a fabrication, or do you believe him to be real?”
“Oh, he is real,” Monk affirmed. “There is no doubt of that. You have not encountered him because he neither works in the City nor lives in the suburbs. He occupies himself entirely in the East End and calls himself Stone, rather than Stonefield. But Angus kept in touch with him. It seems the old loyalties died hard.”
Niven smiled. “That sounds like Angus. He could not abandon a friend, much less a brother. I assume you have been in touch with this man, and he can tell you nothing?”
“I have not found him yet,” Monk replied. “He is elusive, and I fear he may be at the heart of the problem, even perhaps responsible for it. I am investigating all other possibilities as well. Regrettable as it is, others do come to mind.”
“One is frequently surprised by people,” Niven agreed. “Nevertheless, I think you will not find that Angus had financial problems, nor will you discover that he has a mistress, or a bigamous wife somewhere else. If you had known him as I did, none of these thoughts would come to your mind.” Niven’s face was earnest in concentration. “Angus was the most honest of men, not only in deed but even in thought. I have learned much from him, Mr. Monk. His integrity was something I admired intensely, and I wished to pattern myself upon it. He was truly a man to whom true goodness was the highest aim, above wealth or status or the pleasures of his success.” He leaned towards Monk. “And he understood goodness! He did not mistake it for some new absence of outward vice. He knew it for honor, generosity, loyalty, tolerance of others and the gift of gratitude without a shred of arrogance.”
Monk was surprised, not only by what he said but by the depth of his emotion.
“You speak very well of him, Mr. Niven, considering that he is largely responsible for your present misfortune,” he said, rising to his feet.
Niven stood also, his face flushed pink.
