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The man in the coat held out his hand wordlessly.
Monk put twopence in it.
The man picked out a dozen chestnuts expertly and left them in the ashes at the side to cool. His coat was of beautiful cut. The lapels set perfectly, the rim of the collar had been stitched by a tailor who knew his job. And Monk was a connoisseur of such things. The coat had been made for a man of Monk’s height and breadth of shoulder.
Angus Stonefield?
He looked down at the man’s trousers. In the light of the brazier’s glow it was hard to see, but he judged they matched.
A wild idea came into his mind. It was a desperate throw. “I’ll swap clothes with you for a guinea!?
?
“What?” The man stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard. On the face of it, it was ridiculous. Monk had not changed since he left Ravensbrook House. His coat had cost him several pounds. He could not afford to replace it. But then if Drusilla went ahead with her intentions, he could end up no better off than this wretched man anyway. At least he would have the satisfaction of having caught Caleb Stone first. That would be one case of justice served!
“My coat for your jacket and trousers,” he repeated.
The man weighed up his chances. “An’ yer ’at,” he bargained.
“The coat or nothing!” Monk snapped.
“What’ll I do wi’ no trouser?” the man demanded. “In’t decent!”
“My jacket and trousers for yours, and I’ll keep the coat,” Monk offered. “And the hat.” It was a better deal anyway. He had other suits.
“Le’s see.” The man was not going to take goods blindly.
Monk opened his coat so the man could judge his suit.
“Done!” he said instantly. “Yer daft, yer are, but a deal’s a deal.”
Solemnly, in the fog-shrouded darkness beside the brazier, they exchanged clothes, Monk holding very firmly to his coat, just in case the man had any ideas of theft.
“Daft,” the man repeated again as he pulled Monk’s warm jacket around him. It was too big, but it was a great deal better than the ripped one he had parted with.
Monk replaced his coat, nodded to the other man, who had watched the whole procedure with incredulity as if it had been some kind of drunken illusion, then he turned and walked away back along the East India Dock Road, to somewhere where he could find a hansom and go home.
Monk woke the following morning with his head reeling and his body feeling stiff and chilled, but also with a sense of anticipation, as if some long-sought success had finally been achieved. Then as he got out of bed and sneezed, he remembered Drusilla, and the joy drained out of him as if he had slit a vein.
He washed, shaved and dressed before bothering to look at the clothes he had acquired the previous night. His landlady brought breakfast and he ate it without tasting it. Five minutes afterwards he could not even remember what it had been.
Finally he picked up the clothes, jacket first, and examined it in the cold daylight near the window. It was made of a fine woolen cloth with a distinctive weave, beautifully cut in a conservative manner, with no concessions to fashion, simply quality. The tailor’s name was stitched in the seam. More importantly as evidence, the sides were ripped as if someone had slashed it with a knife. There was a bloodstain about four inches across and some ten inches down on the left shoulder, roughly over where a man’s heart would be, except it was at the back. There was also a small tear in the right elbow, no more than an inch long, and a scraping on the right forearm where several threads had been caught and pulled. Whoever had been wearing it had been involved in a serious fight, possibly even a fatal one.
And as he had observed the night before, the trousers matched the jacket. One knee was torn out, threads were pulled on both legs and there were stains of mud. The waist at the back was heavily soaked in blood.
He had only one choice. He must show them to Genevieve Stonefield. Without her identification of them, they were useless as evidence. The thought of subjecting her to such an ordeal was repellant, but there was no alternative. He could not protect her from it. And if anyone found the body, he would not be able to protect her from that either.
No one should face such an ordeal alone. There should be someone to offer her support, at least to care for her physically. There could be no comfort that would temper the cruelty of the truth.
But who? Hester was too busy with the typhoid outbreak, similarly Callandra. Enid Ravensbrook was still far too ill. Lord Ravensbrook she did not care for, or perhaps she was simply afraid of him. Arbuthnot was an employee, and one whom she would in due course have to instruct in what remained of the business.
There was only Titus Niven. Monk had suspected ill of him at one time, but he knew nothing to his discredit. The man was gentle, discreet, and too familiar with pain himself to treat it unkindly. Titus Niven it must be. And if he were party to Angus’s death, then the fine irony of this was only one more element to compound the tragedy.
Monk wrapped the clothes in a bundle, put them in a soft-sided traveling bag and set out.
Niven was at home and received him with courtesy, but did not conceal his surprise. He was dressed in the same elegantly cut but slightly shabby clothes, and there was no fire in the grate. The room was bitterly cold. He looked embarrassed, but did not apologize for the temperature. He offered hot coffee, which Monk knew he could ill afford—either the coffee itself or the gas to heat it.
“Thank you, but I have only lately finished breakfast,” Monk declined. “Besides, I have come on some business which would rob the pleasure of any refreshment at all. I would be most obliged if you could help me to break it to Mrs. Stonefield with as much gentleness as possible, and to be with her to offer any comfort you may.”
