Free Cain His Brother by Anne Perry Page A

of cruelties he imagined but for which he had no proof-except what others told him, not in words but in the way they reacted to him, the flicker of old pain, humiliations from his keener, faster mind and his sharper tongue. She knew all the arguments, just like the prickling straw ends poking into her arms now, scratching her cheek and spearing through the thin stuff of her dress. And yet just like the sweet oblivion closing around her, the memory of his touch obliterated it all until she was so tired she could sleep.

Chapter 3
    Monk was confused by the Stonefield case. It was not that he seriously doubted what had happened to Angus Stonefield. He very much feared that Genevieve was correct and he had indeed received some kind of summons from Caleb and had gone immediately to meet him. In all probability that was why he had taken the five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence that Arbuthnot had spoken of, and for which he had left the receipt. Monk's difficulty was now to prove his death so that the authorities would grant Genevieve the legal status of widow and allow her to inherit his estate.
    Then she might sell the business before it was ruined by speculation and neglect, and no doubt the advantage his rivals would take of his absence.
    It would be good to talk to Callandra. It was part of their bargain that he share with her any case which was difficult or of particular interest. He was not sure if this one would catch her emotions or not, but he knew from experience that even the act of explaining it to her would clarify it in his own mind. It had happened that way more often than not. She asked pertinent questions and allowed him to escape with no generalizations or inexactitudes. Her understanding of people, especially women, was often far more acute than his. She had a perception of relationships which made him realize, with some pain and a new sense of loneliness, how little he knew of the emotions of interdependence and the closeness of daily friendship and family ties. There were so many gaps in his life, and he did not know if those things had never existed for him or if it was simply that his memory of them was gone. And if he had lived such a narrow and solitary life, was that of his own choosing? Or had some circumstance forced it upon him? What had happened to him-and more urgently by far, what had he done-in all those lost years?
    Of course, he had learned fragments, flashes of recollection prompted by some present sight or sound, the glimpse of a face. Some things he had deduced. But there were still vast, empty reaches, only a glimmer of light here and there, and he did not always like what it showed. He had been cruel of tongue, harsh of judgment, but clever… always clever. But if he had not truly loved anyone, or been loved, why not? What ghosts walked in that darkness? What injuries might there be, and would he ever know?
    Might they return to horrify him with guilt… or offer him a chance to repay? Might he after all discover acts of generosity and warmth, companionship he would want to recall, sweetness that was precious even in hindsight?
    But no matter how hard he searched, nothing returned. There was no shred of memory there, not a face, a smell, or sound that was familiar. The only friends he knew were those of the present. The rest was a void.
    Perhaps that was why when he reached Callandra's house he was absurdly disappointed to be told by the maid that she was not in.
    “When will she return?” he demanded.
    “I couldn't say, sir,” the maid replied gravely. “Maybe tonight, but more likely not. Maybe tomorrow, but I couldn't say so for sure.”
    “That's ridiculous!” Monk snapped. “You must know! For heaven's sake, be honest with me. I'm not some social climbing lady friend she doesn't want either to see or to offend.”
    The maid drew in her breath and let it out in a sigh of politeness. She knew Monk from many previous visits.
    “There's an outbreak of the typhoid in Limehouse,