Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [92]
He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and she busied herself clearing away.
There was a knock on the outside door and Monk rose to answer it. The blast of cold air chilled him. The daylight was damp and gray.
“Letter for you, mister,” a small boy said, smiling at him from beneath an oversized cap. “Fer Mr. Monk. That’s you, innit? I knows yer. I seen yer abaht.”
“Who gave it to you?” Monk demanded as a glance at the writing showed it unfamiliar. It was elegant, feminine, and not Hester’s, Callandra’s or Genevieve Stonefield’s.
“Lady in a carriage, guv. Dunno her name. Give me threepence ter give it yer.”
His stomach leaped. Perhaps this was some explanation? It would all make sense. It was a mistake.
“Lady with fair hair and brown eyes?” he demanded. “Fair ’air, dunno about eyes.” The boy shook his head. “Thank you.” Monk tore the letter open. It was dated that morning.
Mr William Monk,
I had never assumed you to be a gentleman of my own station, but I had imagined you to have the rudiments of decency, or I should never have consented to spend a moment’s time in your company, other than as ordinary courtesy demanded. I found your differences entertaining, no more. I am bored with the narrow confines of my own place in society, stifled by the rules and conventions. You offered a stimulating view of another level of life.
I cannot believe you so misunderstood my courtesy that you imagined I was willing to allow our acquaintance to be more. The only explanation for your behaviour lies in your disregard for the feelings of others, and your willingness to use people to achieve your own satisfactions, regardless of the cost to them.
I can never forgive you for what you have done to me, and I shall do all in my power to see that you pay to the uttermost farthing. I shall pursue this through the law, by word of mouth, and through the civil courts if need be. You shall know with every breath you take that I am your enemy, and you will rue the day you chose to use me as you have. Such betrayal will always find its punishment.
Drusilla Wyndham
He read it again. His hands were shaking. It was incredible.
But on second reading it was exactly the same.
“Y’ all right, mister?” the boy said anxiously.
“Yes,” Monk lied. “Yes, thank you.” He fished in his pocket and took out threepence. He would not have her pay more than he.
The boy took it with thanks, then changed his mind, painfully.
“She already gimme.”
“I know.” Monk breathed in, trying to steady himself. “Keep it.”
“Fank yer, guv.” And before his good fortune could vanish, the boy turned and ran down the street, his boots clattering on the cold pavement.
Monk closed the door and went back to his inner room. His landlady had gone. He sat down, the letter still in his hand, although he did not look at it anymore.
It could not possibly refer to last night, or any other time over the last week. She could only mean some acquaintance they had had in the past.
It always came back to the past, and that great void in his memory, the darkness where anything might exist.
She had used the word betrayal. That implied trust. Was he really a man to do such a thing? He had never betrayed anyone since the accident. Honor was one virtue he possessed. He had never broken his word. He would not let himself down by such an act.
Could he have changed so much? Had the blow to his head not only obliterated all the past from his mind, but also altered his nature? Was that possible?
He paced the floor back and forth, trying to think of all the things he had pieced together about himself from before the accident, the fragments that had come back to him, the flashes from his childhood in the north, glimpses of the sea, its violence and its beauty. He recalled his eagerness to learn, fleeting impressions; a face, a sense of injustice and desperation, the man who had been his mentor, and who had been deceived and ruined, and Monk had been unable to help. Nothing he could do