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Monk arrived at Stonefield’s offices too early, and was obliged to wait a quarter of an hour before Mr. Arbuthnot appeared walking along the pavement from the north, carrying an umbrella in his hand and looking hurried and unhappy. He was a small man with thick gray hair and a gray, immaculately trimmed mustache.
Monk introduced himself.
“Ah!” Arbuthnot said anxiously. “Yes. I suppose it was inevitable.” He took out a key from the pocket of his coat and inserted it into the outer door. He turned it with some effort.
“You believe so?” Monk said with some surprise. “You foresaw such a thing?”
Arbuthnot pushed the door open.
“Well, something has to be done,” he said sadly. “We can’t go on like this. Do come in. Allow me to close this wretched door.”
“It needs oiling,” Monk observed, realizing Arbuthnot was referring to his own inquiries as inevitable, not his employer’s disappearance.
“Yes, yes,” Arbuthnot agreed. “I keep telling Jenkins to do it, but he doesn’t listen.” He led the way into the main office, empty still, and dark before the lamps were lit, the gray light through the windows being inadequate to work by.
Monk followed him through the glass-paned doors and into his own more comfortably furnished room. With a murmur of apology Arbuthnot bent and put a match to the fire, already carefully laid in the hearth, then let out a sigh of satisfaction as the flames took hold. He lit the lamps also, then took off his coat and invited Monk to do the same.
“What can I tell you that may be of service?” he said, knitting his brows together unhappily. “I have no idea what has happened, or I should already have told the authorities, and we should not now be in this terrible position.”
Monk sat in the rather uncomfortable upright chair opposite him. “I presume you have checked the accounts, Mr. Arbuthnot, and any monies which may be kept here?”
“This is really very unpleasant, sir,” Arbuthnot said in a tight, quiet voice. “But yes, I felt obliged to do that, even though I was quite certain I should find them in perfect order.”
“And did you?” Monk pressed.
“Indeed, sir, to the farthing. Everything is accounted for and as it should be.” He did not hesitate, nor did his eyes waver. Perhaps it was his perfect steadiness which made Monk believe there was something else to add, some qualification.
“What time did Mr. Stonefield arrive that morning?” he asked. “Perhaps you would tell me everything you recall of that day, in the order it happened.”
“Yes … er, of course.” Arbuthnot shivered a little and turned aside to pick up the poker from the hearth and prod at the fire. He continued with his back to Monk. “He arrived at quarter to nine, as usual. The first delivery of post was already here. He took it into his office and read it—”
“Do you know what was in it?” Monk interrupted.
Arbuthnot finished his administrations to the fire and laid the poker back on its rest. “Orders, delivery notices, advice of shipments, an application for a position as clerk.” He sighed. “A very promising young man, but if Mr. Stonefield does not return, I doubt we should be able to keep those we have, much less employ additional staff.”
“And that was all? Are you quite sure?” Monk avoided the subject of Stonefield’s return and the dismissing of staff. There was nothing helpful he could say.
“Yes, I am,” Arbuthnot said firmly. “I asked young Barton about it, and he remembered precisely. You can ask him yourself if you wish, but there was nothing in the post to occasion Mr. Stonefield’s departure, of that I am quite certain.”
“Visitors?” Monk asked, watching Arbuthnot’s face.
“Ah …” He hesitated. “Yes.”
Monk looked at him steadily. Arbuthnot was distinctly uncomfortable, but Monk had no way of knowing whether it was embarrassment, guilt, or just the general distress of talking about someone he had liked and respected and who was in all probability now dead. And, of course, if the business had to be sold or closed down, he too would lose his livelihood.
“Who?” Monk prompted him.
Arbuthnot gazed at the floor between them.
“Mr. Niven. He’s in a similar line of trade himself. At least … he … he was.”
“And now?”
Arbuthnot took a deep breath. “I fear he is on hard times.”
“Why did he come here? I understood from your clerk when I was here yesterday that it was largely Mr. Stonefield’s superior skill which was responsible for his misfortune.”
Arbuthnot looked up quickly, his long face full of reproach. “If you think Mr. Stonefield did him out of business on purpose, sir, you are quite wrong, quite wrong indeed! It was never his intention at all. It’s just that you have to do the best you can if you want to survive yourself. And Mr. Stonefield was quicker in his judgment, and more accurate. Never exactly took chances”—he shook his head—“if you understand me? But he was very diligent in his studies of trends, and well liked in the business. People trusted him when they might not someone else.” There was a furrow of concern between his brows and he searched Monk’s face to be certain he took his meaning exactly.
