Page 59 of Cain His Brother (William Monk 6)

But how? Who could have told her? No one knew except his personal friends: Hester, Callandra, Oliver Rathbone, and of course John Evan, the young policeman who had been so loyal during that first terrible case after the accident.

Why did she hate him enough to do this? It was no sudden impulse. She had lied and connived from the beginning, sought him out, charmed him, and deliberately placed him where he could be accused and had no defense. They were alone. Her reputation was intact, it was a situation in which it was quite justifiable to be. He could imaginably have assaulted her, and she had witnesses, at least to her distress and escape.

Who would believe his account?

No one. It made no sense at all. He could hardly believe it himself.

He dressed, and forced himself to eat the breakfast his landlady brought.

“You don’t look well, Mr. Monk,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do ’ope as yer not coming down wi’ summink. ’Ot mustard poultice, me ma always used to say. Swear by it, she did. Any’ow, tell me if yer needs one, an’ I’ll make it for yer.”

“Thank you,” he said absently. “Think I’m just tired. Don’t worry.”

“Well, you mind yerself, then.” She nodded. “Gets yerself ter some funny parts, you do. Wouldn’t be surprised if yer picked up summink nasty.”

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.