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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 Angus, 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.
