Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [53]
He was staring at her, waiting for her to conclude.
Her voice sounded thin even in her own ears. “But Genevieve is convinced Caleb has killed him. She told me that in the past Angus has come home with knife scars that no one else knows about. He would not call a doctor. He was ashamed of them. I think that is why she did not tell you. She does not wish anyone to think Angus was not able to stand up for himself, or that he was a coward. Angus …” She did not know how to phrase what she thought and make it seem sensible. She could almost hear Monk’s sarcastic dismissal even before she spoke. “Angus loved Caleb,” she went on hastily. “They were very close as children. Perhaps that bond still existed, for him, and he could never believe Caleb would hurt him. Maybe he could even have felt guilty for his own success, when Caleb had so little. That could be why he kept going back—to try to help him—for his own conscience’s sake. And pity can be a very hard thing to take. It can eat more deeply into the soul than being hated or ignored.”
He looked at her in silence for a long time. She did not look away, but stared back.
“Perhaps,” he conceded at length. For the first time his imagination could conceive of the emotions within Caleb, the explosion of rage which could end in such violence. “It could explain both why Angus did not simply leave him to rot, which is what it would seem he both wanted and deserved, and why Caleb was stupid enough to kill the one man on the earth who still cared about him. But it doesn’t help me find Angus.”
“Well, if it was Caleb who killed him, at least you have some idea where to look,” she pointed out. “You can stop wasting your time trying to find out if Angus had a secret mistress or gambling debts. He was probably just as decent as he seemed, but even if he wasn’t, you don’t need to find out, and you certainly don’t need to tell Genevieve—or Lord Ravensbrook. They are both convinced he was an extraordinarily good man. Everything they knew of him was honorable, generous, patient, loyal and innately decent. He read stories to his children, brought his wife flowers, liked to sing around the piano, and was good at flying a kite. If he is dead, isn’t that loss enough? You don’t have to find his weaknesses too, do you, simply in the name of truth?”
“I’m not doing it in the name of truth,” he said, his face screwed up with irritation and pain at the thought. “I want, in the name of truth, to find out what happened to him.”
“He went to the East End to see his twin brother, who in a fit of violence, which he is prone to, killed him! Ask the people of Limehouse—they are terrified of him!” she went on urgently. “I’ve seen two of his victims myself, a boy and a woman. Angus crossed him one time too many, and Caleb killed him—either by accident or on purpose. You have to prove it, for the sake of justice, and so Genevieve can know what happened and find some peace of heart—and know what to do next.”
“I know what I have to do,” he said curtly. “It is a great deal harder to know how. Can you be as quick to tell me that?”
She would have loved to reply succinctly and brilliantly, but nothing came to her mind, and before she had time to consider the matter for long, there was a sharp, light rap on the door.
Monk looked surprised, but he went straight over to answer it, and returned a moment later accompanied by a woman who was beautifully dressed and quite charming. Everything about her was feminine in a casual and unaffected way, from her soft, honey-colored hair, under her bonnet, to her small, gloved hands and dainty boots. Her face was beautiful. Her large hazel eyes under winged brows looked at Monk with pleasure, and at Hester with surprise.
“Am I intruding upon you with a client?” she said apologetically. “I am so sorry. I can quite easily wait.”
Somehow the suggestion was painful.