Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [30]
“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 a far 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,