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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 accountancy 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 determined 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. Stonefield’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.”
