“Will you…” She was on the edge of hope, but not allowing herself to grasp it. “I really don't care if you cannot prove it was Caleb.” The shadow of a smile touched her mouth. “I don't even know what Angus would want. Isn't that absurd? For all that they were so utterly different, and Caleb hated him, he still loved Caleb. It seemed as if he would not forget the child he had been and the good times they had spent together before they quarreled. It hurt him every time he went to Limehouse after Caleb, yet he would not give up.”

She looked away. “Sometimes it would be weeks, especially after a particularly wretched visit, but then he would relent and go back again. On those times he'd be gone even longer, as if it were necessary to make up the difference. I suppose childhood bonds are very deep.”

“Did he tell you much of his visits to Caleb?” Monk asked. “Did he give you any indication of where they met, or where they might have been? If you can think of any description at all, it might help.”

“No,” she said with a slight frown, as though it puzzled her on recollection. “He never spoke of it at all. I think perhaps it was his silence which made me wonder if it was as much guilt as love which took him.”

“Guilt?”

There was a gentle pride in her face when she replied, a very slight, unconscious lift of her chin. “Angus had made a success of everything, his profession, his family and his place in society. Caleb had nothing. He was feared and hated where Angus was loved and respected. He lived from hand to mouth, never knowing where the next meal would come from. He had no home, no family, nothing in his whole life of which to be proud.”

It was a grim picture. Suddenly, with a jolt as if he had opened a door into a different, icy world, Monk perceived the loneliness of Caleb Stone, the failure that ate at his soul every time he saw his brother, the happy, smooth, successful mirror image of what he might have been. And Angus's pity and his guilt would only make it worse.

And yet for Angus too, perhaps the memory of love and trust, the times when all things were equal for them and the divisions and griefs of the future still unknown, held a kind of sweetness that bound them together.

Why should it boil over into violence now? What had happened to change it?

He looked at Genevieve. The strain was clearly marked in her face now.

There were tiny lines in the skin around her mouth and eyes, visible even in the gaslight. Angus had been gone fifteen days. She was also using at least half her time nursing Enid Ravensbrook. No wonder she was tired and riven with fear.

“Have you someone in mind you can appoint to manage the business in Mr.

Stonefield's absence?” he asked. It was hardly relevant to him, and yet he found himself waiting for the answer, willing that she had not. It seemed so coldly practical for a woman not yet surely a widow.

“I thought Mr. Niven,” she answered frankly. “In spite of the error of judgment which brought him to his present state, he is of absolute honesty, and of unusual skill and knowledge in the business. I think he would not be so rash or so lenient in another's cause. Mr. Arbuthnot has always thought well of him, and might not be averse to continuing with us if it was in Mr.

Niven's service. Mr. Niven is also very agreeable, and I should not mind thinking of him in Angus's place, since there needs must be someone. He has no family of his own, and would not be seeking to put me, or my sons, from their place.”

It should have made no difference whatever, and yet he found himself chilled by the readiness of her reply.

“I had not realized you knew him personally,” he said.

“Of course. He and Angus had a most cordial relationship. He has dined with us on many occasions. He is one of the few people we entertain in our home.” The shadow crossed her features again. “But naturally I cannot approach him yet. It would be quite improper until I have some proof of Angus's fate that will satisfy the law.” She sat very straight and sighed, as if controlling herself with an effort.

He wondered exactly what emotion it was that lay so powerfully just beneath the surface of her composure. There was a strength in her at odds with her gentle, very womanly appearance, the aura of obedient wife and devoted mother, some depth to her far out of the ordinary. It troubled him, because he had liked what he had first believed of her; even her quiet strength was appealing. He did not want to think of it as ruthlessness.

“I will do all I can, Mrs. Stonefield,” he promised, his tone of voice unwittingly putting some distance between them. “As you suggest, I shall concentrate my efforts upon satisfying the authorities that your husband is dead, and leave the manner of his death for others to worry about. In the meantime, since it may not be an easy task, or a quick one, I advise you to consider Lord Ravensbrook's offer of a home for yourself and your family, even if it is upon temporary terms.”

She sensed his thoughts and stood up gracefully, gathering her cape around her with a quick movement, but her face registered distaste and a hardening stubbornness of resistance.

“It will be a last resort, Mr. Monk, and I am not yet come to that pass.

I think I shall call upon Mr. Niven, and test his feelings in the matter, before I return to Lady Ravensbrook. Good day to you.”

The next few hours passed with agonizing slowness for Hester. She sat by Enid's bedside watching her haggard face, which was white, sweat-soaked, with two blotches of hectic color on the cheekbones. Her hair was tangled, her body tensed, turning and shivering with pain, too sore to touch. Hester could do little but keep patting her softly with cool cloths, but still her fever rose. She was delirious, seldom wholly aware of where she was.

Genevieve returned some time in the evening and looked in for a few moments. She was not due to take her turn until morning, when Hester would go to the dressing room for a few hours' sleep.

They exchanged glances. Genevieve was flushed. Hester presumed it to be from the chill outside, until she spoke.

“I have just been to see Mr. Monk. I am afraid he does not understand my urgency to know of Angus's fate.” She stopped just inside the door, her voice low in case she should disturb Enid. “Sometimes I think the suspense is more than I can bear. Then I went to call upon Mr. Niven… Titus Niven… he used to prosper in the same business as my husband, until very lately. He was also a friend.”

Even though she had spoken so softly, Enid started and tried to sit up.

Quickly Hester eased her down again, smoothing her hair off her brow and speaking softly to her, although she was uncertain if Enid heard her or not.

Genevieve looked at Hester, her face tight with fear. The question was so plain it needed no speech. She was afraid the crisis was coming, and Enid might not survive the night.

Hester had no answer. Anything she could say would be only a guess, and a hope.

Genevieve let out her breath slowly. The ghost of a smile returned to her face, but it was only a reaching across pain in a moment's closeness; there was no happiness in it. Whatever comfort or ray of light Titus Niven had been able to give, it was gone again. Even the gentleness with which she had spoken his name seemed forgotten.

“There is no point in your remaining,” Hester told her honestly. “It might be tonight, it might not be until tomorrow. There's nothing you can do, except be ready to take over in the morning.” She tried to smile, and failed.

“I will,” Genevieve promised, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Then she turned and went out of the door, closing it behind her with barely a click.

The early evening was dark, rain battering against the windows behind the thick drawn curtains. The clock on the mantel was the only other sound except for the soft hissing of the gas, and every now and again a moan or whimper from Enid.