AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He killed Angus, and I’m going to prove it,” he said viciously. “One way or another, I’ll see him swing for it. Whether you prove it with me, or swing with him, is up to you.”
She said nothing. She faced him defiantly, her head held cockily, as if she were sure of herself, one hip jutting out. But he saw her knuckles whiten, and heard the terror beneath her voice.
“You think he’s a dangerous swine,” he said grimly. “Cross me, and you’ll think he’s a model of the civilized man.”
“It’s his life,” she retorted with contempt, looking him up and down, seeing the beautifully cut coat and the polished boots. “You don’t even know what dangerous is.”
“Believe me, I have little left to lose either,” he said passionately.
She stared at him, looked into his eyes, and slowly her face changed. She saw something of the rage and despair in him, and the contempt died.
“I don’t know where he is,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t expect you to. I want to know where he met Angus, every place you know of that they went together, or might have gone. He murdered Angus. Somebody somewhere knows about it.”
“They won’t tell you!” Her chin lifted again in defiance and a kind of pride.
“Yes they will.” He laughed bitterly. “Whatever Caleb can do to them, the long wait of the last night, the eight o’clock walk in the morning to the hangman’s rope, is worse.”
She swore at him, and the hatred in her eyes reminded him of Drusilla. It robbed him of the pity he might have felt for her.
“Where did they meet?” he said again.
Silence.
“Have you seen a corpse after it’s been hanged?” He looked at her slender throat.
“At the Artichoke, along by the Blackwall Stairs. But it won’t do yer no good. They won’t tell yer nothin’. I ’ope yer rot in ’ell. I ’ope they drown yer in a cesspool and feed yer body ter the rats.”
“Is that what he did with Angus?”
“Gawd, I dunno.” But beneath the paint her face was white and there was horror in her eyes. “Nah gits aht!”
Monk went back along Manilla Street in the rain, and turned east.
The landlord of the Artichoke served him a slice of eel pie and a glass of ale, but eyed him with suspicion. Men dressed as Monk presently was did not frequent such taverns, but money was money, and he took it readily enough.
After Monk had eaten he began his questions, civilly at first, but quickly gaining an undertone of menace. He learned only one piece of information which, if true, might prove of worth, and that was given as an incidental to an insult. But that had many times been the way. An angry man betrayed more than he knew. The landlord let slip that Caleb had several friends, whether by choice or mutual advantage, and one of them, another dangerous and greedy man, had a yard off Coldharbour, hard by the Cattle Wharf. Apparently he was a good friend, one whom Caleb could trust and who would, according to the landlord, avenge any wrong done Caleb by the likes of Monk.
Fifteen minutes later found Monk west again at Coldharbour, right on the bank of the river. It was now running hard and gray, carrying ships, barges and all manner of detritus on the outgoing tide. A dead rat floated by, and half a dozen rotted timbers. The smell of sewage clogged the nostrils. A clipper, half-rigged, was making its way majestically down from the Pool of London towards the open sea and the world beyond.
It was not hard to find the yard, but it served only as a starting point. If Caleb had intended from the beginning to murder his brother, he would have chosen a private place to do it. He would certainly not have risked a witness. There were far too many people up and down the river who would be only too happy to have the power to ruin Caleb Stone.
And if the act had arisen out of a quarrel which got out of control, then he would equally have needed somewhere out of sight to think what to do with the body. Simply to tip it into the river was too much of a risk, especially if it had been daylight. It would have to be weighted and set in midstream. Better still to take it to Limehouse and bury it as a typhoid victim. And all that took time.
There would be little purpose in being direct. He yanked the collar of his coat even higher and strode past the yard. He found all manner of laborers, derelicts, the hungry, cold, idle or sick, huddled in doorways, sheltering under sacking or canvas. He questioned them all. He walked from one end of Coldharbour to the other, and then across the bridge over the Blackwall Basin towards the stairs to the sibilant water.
He moved downriver slowly, picking his way over slippery stones and wet timbers, across patches of rotting shingle, through loading and unloading yards. He passed piles of merchandise, hauls of fish, lengths of rope and canvas. He climbed up and down steps and across gangways over dark, still water into a dozen larger or smaller slipways and docks. Always the stench was there, the sound of dripping and slurping, the creak of timber and straining ropes.
By dusk he was exhausted, angry and cold to the bone, but he refused to give up. Somewhere near here Caleb had killed Angus. Someone had seen or heard them quarreling, shouting voices, a cry of fury or pain, and then Caleb carrying the body. Perhaps there had been blood or a weapon. They were the same size, the same build. If it had come to a battle they must have been fairly evenly matched, even allowing for their different lives. What Angus lacked in physical exercise and the practice of fighting, perhaps he would at least partially compensate for with better nourishment and health.
Monk ate supper in a different tavern and set out into the dark. The rain had stopped and it was even colder. A mist was rising off the river, hanging in thin wreaths across the streets and dimming the few lights. The foghorns of barges drifted across the water, disembodied and mournful. On the corner of Robinhood Lane and the East India Dock Road two men were warming themselves by a brazier of roasting chestnuts.
Monk was drawn towards it because it was a refuge from the biting cold. It was human company and a light in the enveloping darkness, the endless sound of the creeping tide and the fine beads of moisture that gathered on everything and fell with myriad tiny sounds as if the night were alive.
As he drew closer he saw that one of the men was wearing an old seaman’s jacket, too narrow across the shoulders for him, but at least waterproof. The other had on what at a glance he would have taken to be a tailored wool coat, had such a thing not been absurd in this place. And as his eyes followed the line of it down the man’s body, he saw that it hung loosely, even shapelessly. When he moved his arm to poke the brazier, it was obvious the coat was so badly torn it was open at the sides, and there was a patch beneath one shoulder much darker. It was probably wet. Poor devil. Monk was cold enough in his fine broadcloth overcoat.
“Twopence for some chestnuts,” he offered bluntly. He did not want to stand out as too obviously a stranger.
