Several answers flashed through his head, most of them offensive. In the end, largely for Callandra's sake, he settled for the truth, or close to it.

“I have a case which seems to fade out two streets away,” he said, looking at her coldly. “But since the man I am trying to trace was the brother of a well-known local character, and presumably on his way to see him, I thought you might be of assistance.”

Whatever other thoughts were in her mind-and she looked both irritable and unhappy beneath the wearinessshe chose to acknowledge the interest. “Who is the local character? We haven't had much time for conversation, but we could ask.” She sat down on the chair he had vacated, not bothering to rearrange her skirts.

“Caleb Stone, or Stonefield. I don't suppose-” He stopped. He had been about to say that she would know nothing of him, but the changed expression in her face made it perfectly obvious that she did know, and that it was ill. “What?” he demanded.

“Only that he is violent,” she replied. “Callandra will already have told you that. We were discussing it last night. Who are you looking for?”

“Angus Stonefield, who is his brother.”

“Why?¯ “Because he's disappeared,” he said tartly. It was absurd to allow her to make him feel so uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if he were denying part of himself. And it was not so. He liked and admired many of her qualities, but there were others which he deplored and which were a constant source of annoyance to him. And he had always been perfectly frank about it, as indeed so had she. There were certain debts of honor between them, on both sides, but that was all. And for heaven's sake, that was all she wished also. But perhaps part of that obligation was to tell her of the dangers she faced spending her time in a pesthouse like this.

“Is he wanted for something?” she said, interrupting his thoughts. His temper broke. “Of course he's wanted,” he said. “His wife wants him, his children, his employees want him. That's an idiotic question!” The color washed up her pale cheeks as she sat hunched a little with cold, her shoulders rigid.

“I had meant was he required by the law,” she said icily. “I had temporarily forgotten that you also chase after errant husbands for their wives' sakes.”

“He is not errant,” he responded with equal venom. “The poor devil is almost certainly dead. And I would do that for anybody… his wife is out of her mind with grief and worry. She has every bit as much right to be pitied as any of your unfortunates here.” He jabbed angrily with his finger towards the great hall filled with its straw and blankets, although even as he said it, pity of afar harsher sort twisted inside him for its occupants.

Not many of them would live through it, and he knew that. He was angry with Hester, not with them.

“If her husband is dead, William, there is nothing you can do to help her except find proof of it,” Callandra interposed calmly. “Even if Caleb killed him, you may never find evidence of that. What will the police require to accept death? Do they have to see a corpse?”

“Not if we can find witnesses adequate to assume death,” he replied. “They know perfectly well that the tide may carry bodies out and they are never seen again.” He faced Callandra, ignoring Hester. The dim lights, the smells of tallow, gin, vinegar and damp stone permeating through everything, were sickening. And through it all the consciousness of illness was making him even more tense. He was not afraid in his brain. He would despise that in himself. Callandra and Hester were here day and night. But his body knew it, and all his instinct told him to go, quickly, before it could reach out and touch him. Hester's courage awoke emotions in him he did not want. They were painful, contradictory and frightening. And he loathed her for making him vulnerable.

“If we learn anything, we shall let you know,” Callandra promised, rising to her feet with something of an effort. “I am afraid Caleb Stone's reputation makes your theories more than possible. I'm sorry.”

Monk had not said all he intended. He would like to have spent longer in her company, but this was not the time. He thanked her a little stiffly, nodded to Hester but could think of nothing he wanted to say. He took his leave, feeling as if he had left something undone that would matter to him later. He had found none of the easing of his mind that he had hoped.

On leaving the warehouse, Monk steeled himself to go to the River Police at the Thames Police Station by Wapping Stairs, and ask if they had recovered any bodies in the last five days which might answer the description of Angus Stonefield.

The sergeant looked at him patiently. As always, Monk did not recognize him but had no knowledge of whether the man knew him or not. More than once he had realized he was familiar, and disliked. At first he had been at a loss as to why. Gradually he had learned his own quick brain and hard tongue had earned the fear of men less gifted, less able to defend themselves or retaliate with words. It had not been pleasant.

Now he regarded the sergeant steadily, hiding his own misgivings behind a steady, unblinking gaze.

“Description?” the sergeant said with a sigh. If he had ever seen Monk before he did not seem to remember it. Of course, Monk would have been in uniform then. That might make all the difference. Monk would not remind him.

“About my height,” he replied quietly. “Dark hair, strong features, green eyes. His clothes would be good quality, well cut, expensive cloth.” The sergeant blinked. “Relative, sir?” A quiet flicker of sympathy crossed his blunt face, and Monk realized with a start how close the description was to his own, except for the color of the eyes. And yet he did not look like the picture Enid Ravensbrook had drawn. There was a rakishness in that face which set it at odds with what both Genevieve and Arbuthnot had said of Angus Stonefield, but not of his brother Caleb. Had Enid unintentionally caught more of the spirit of Caleb? Or was Angus not the sedate man his family and employees supposed? Had he a secret other life?

The sergeant was waiting.

“No,” Monk answered. “I am inquiring on behalf of his wife. This is not something a woman should have to do.”

The sergeant winced. He had seen too many pale-faced, frightened women doing exactly that; wives, mothers, even daughters, standing as Monk was now, afraid, and yet half hoping the long agony of uncertainty was over.

“ 'Ow old?” the sergeant asked.

“Forty-one.”

The sergeant shook his head. “No sir. No one answering to that. Got two men, one not more'n twenty, the other fat wi' ginger 'air. Though 'ed be late thirties or thereabouts, poor devil.”

“Thank you.” Monk was suddenly relieved, which was absurd. He was no further forward. If Angus Stonefield was dead, he needed to find proof of it for Genevieve. If he had simply absconded, that would be a worse blow for her, leaving her both destitute and robbed even of the comfort of the past. “Thank you,” he repeated, his voice grimmer.

The sergeant frowned, at a loss to understand.

Monk did not owe him an explanation. On the other hand, he might very well need him again. A friend was more valuable than an enemy. He winced at his own stupidity in the past.

Arrogance was self-defeating. He bit his lip and smiled dourly at the sergeant. “I think the poor man is dead. To have found his body would be a relief… in a way. Of course, I would like to hope he is alive, but it is not realistic.”

“I see.” The sergeant sniffed. Monk had no doubt from the expression in his mild eyes that he did indeed understand. He had probably met many similar cases before.

“I'll come back,” Monk said briefly. “He may yet turn up.' “If yer like,” the sergeant agreed.

Monk left the East End and traveled west again to resume investigation into other possibilities. The more he thought of the face Enid Ravensbrook had drawn, the more he thought he would be remiss simply to accept Genevieve's word for Angus's probity and almost boringly respectable life. The sergeant of the River Police had thought him, for a moment, to be a relative of Monk's because of the similarity of description. What words would Monk have used of his own face? How did you convey anything of the essence of a man?