Cain His Brother (38 page)

There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room.

Caleb let out a short cry of derision, almost like a bark.

“No,” Selina said, shaking her head from side to side, as if to be rid of something that caught at her. “No, I don't know nuffin' like that, an' you got no right to say as 'e did!”

“I'm not saying it, Miss Herries,” Goode assured her. “I am doing my utmost to persuade these gentlemen here”-he waved his hand in the general direction of the jury-”that there is no proof whatever even that Angus is dead-no absolute proof at all-let alone that they can hold his brother responsible for it! There are a dozen other possibilities as to where Angus Stonefield may be-and why!”

Rathbone stood up.

The judge sighed. “Mr. Goode, this is not the time to address the jury, either directly or indirectly, as you well know. If you have any further questions for this witness, please put them to her. If not, then allow Mr.

Rathbone to redirect, if he so chooses.”

“Of course.” Goode bowed with formal, if rather ostentatious courtesy, and returned to his seat. “Mr. Rathbone.”

Rathbone faced Selina. He smiled. “You just confirmed to my learned friend that Caleb had often met with Angus before, and you were aware of this. You also said that on the occasion we are specifically referring to, the last day on which Angus Stonefield was ever seen, that Caleb was not in a temper any different from usual.”

“Yeah.” She had already admitted as much, and it seemed a favorable thing to acknowledge.

“Yet he sent for his brother, and his brother dropped all his matters of business, and came-to a public tavern on the Isle of Dogs-so far as you know, simply to pass over money, which since it was for your rent, he could easily have given to you. And as you say, who would willingly leave a warm office in the West End, to-”

The judge did not wait for Goode. “Mr. Rathbone, you are retracing old ground. Please, if you have a point, come to it!”

“Yes, my lord. I do have a point, indeed. Miss Herries, you are telling us that for Caleb to send for his brother, for him to come, and for Caleb to be bruised, stiff, injured, scarred, perhaps bleeding in places, but nonetheless jubilant, having won a fight, was a perfectly normal pattern of behavior for him. And you have also said no one beats Caleb Stone. That `no one' must include his unfortunate brother, who has not been seen since!

Only his bloodstained clothes have been found on the Isle of Dogs!” Selina said nothing. Her face was as white as the paper on which the court clerk wrote.

In the dock Caleb Stone started to laugh, wildly. It soared in pitch and volume until it seemed to fill the room and reverberate from the wooden paneling.

The judge banged his gavel and was ignored-it was no more than an instrument beating time to the uproar. He demanded silence, and no one even heard him. Caleb's hysterical laughter drowned out everything else. The gaolers grabbed at him, and he flung them off.

In the gallery journalists scrambled over each other to get out and grab the first hansom to race to Fleet Street and the extra editions.

Enid rose to her feet amid the clamor, looking one way, then the other. She tried to speak to Ravensbrook, but he ignored her, staring at the dock as if transfixed. He did not seem to see what was in front of him, the frenzy and the farce, only some terrible truth within him.

The judge was still banging his gavel, a sharp, thin, rhythmic sound without meaning.

Rathbone waved his hands to indicate that Selina Herries might be excused.

She swiveled around and descended the steps to the floor, her head always turned towards Caleb.

Finally the gaolers overpowered him and he was led down. Some semblance of order was restored.

Red-faced, the judge adjourned the court.

Outside in the corridor Rathbone, considerably shaken, ran into Ebenezer Goode, looking shocked and unhappy.

“Didn't think you could do it, my dear fellow,” he said with a sigh. “But from the jury's faces, I would wager now that you'll get a conviction.

Never had a client been so hellbent on his own destruction.”

Rathbone smiled, but it was a gesture of amiability, not of any pleasure.

His victory would bring a professional satisfaction, but it was curiously devoid of personal triumph. He had thought Caleb Stone totally despicable.

Now his feelings were less clear. The force of his instability, the awareness of his emotions in the room, even though he had not yet spoken, became tangled in his judgments, and he found himself awaiting his testimony with far less certainty of the outcome than Goode.

Lord and Lady Ravensbrook were standing a few yards from them. She looked ashen, but determined not to give way. She was supported by her husband.

Hester must have been temporarily dismissed, perhaps to summon the car- riage.

Ravensbrook did not hesitate to interrupt.

“Goode! I must speak with you.”

Goode turned politely, and then he saw Enid. His expression altered instantly to one of amazement and concern. Apparently he had not met her, but he surmised who she was.

“My dear lady, you must still be far from recovered. Please permit me to find you some more comfortable place to wait.”

Ravensbrook recognized his own omission with a flicker of anger, and introduced them hastily. Goode bowed, not taking his eyes from Enid's face.

In the circumstances the quality of his attention was a compliment, and she smiled, in spite of herself.

“Thank you, Mr. Goode. I think I shall wait in my carriage. I am sure Miss Latterly will return in a few moments, and I shall be quite all right until then. It is very kind of you to think of it.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “We cannot permit you to stand, even until your carriage should come. I shall fetch a chair.” And so saying, he ignored Ravensbrook and Rathbone, marched some ten yards away, and returned carrying a large wooden chair, which he placed near the wall, and assisted Enid into it.

The matter dealt with, Ravensbrook turned to Goode again, ignoring Rathbone, although he could not have failed to know who he was.

“Is there any hope?” he said bluntly. His face was still stiff and blurred with shock.

Rathbone moved a step away, in courtesy, although he was not beyond earshot.

“Of finding the truth?” Goode raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it, my lord.

Certainly not of proving it. I daresay what happened to Angus will always be a matter of surmise. If you mean what will the verdict be, at present I think a conviction of some sort is not unlikely, although whether it will be murder or manslaughter I would not venture to say.” He took a deep breath. “We must first hear Caleb's story. That may now be different from earlier. He has heard evidence which may prompt him to speak more openly of the meeting with his brother.”

“You intend to call him?” Ravensbrook's body was rigid, his skin like paper. “Do you not fear he will damn himself out of his own mouth, if he has not already done so? I ask you in compassion not to. If you leave it as it is, plead a quarrel which got out of hand, on his behalf, then the jury may return manslaughter, or even less, perhaps only the conceding of a death.” Hope flickered boldly in his dark eyes. “That would surely be in the best interests of your client. He is quite apparently insane. Perhaps the only place for him is Bedlam.”

Goode considered it for several moments. “Possibly,” he conceded, pulling down his brows, his voice very quiet. “But the jury is not well disposed towards him. His own behavior has seen to that. Bedlam is not a place I would send a dog. I think I must give him the opportunity to tell the story himself. There is always far less likelihood of the jury believing it if he will not tell it himself.”

“Rathbone will destroy him!” Ravensbrook accused in a sudden flair of temper. “He will lose control of himself again if he is pressed, and he is frightened. Then he'll say anything, simply to shock.”

“I will make the judgment when I have spoken with him,” Goode promised.

“Although I am inclined to agree with you.”

“Thank God!”

“Of course it is his decision,” Goode added. “The man is being tried for his life. If he wishes to speak, then he must be allowed.”

“Cannot you, as his legal adviser, protect him from himself?” Ravensbrook demanded.

“I can advise him, that is all. I cannot deny him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.”

“I see.” Ravensbrook glanced at Rathbone's profile. “Then I think he has very little chance. Since I am his only living relative, and once he is convicted I may have no further opportunity to speak with him, I would like to see him, alone. Today, at least, he is still an innocent man.”

“Of course,” Goode agreed quickly. “Would you like me to arrange it for you?”

“I shall seek your help if it is necessary,” Ravensbrook answered. “I am obliged for your offer.” He glanced at Rathbone, then at Enid on her chair.

She looked at him in a long, curious, pleading gaze, as if there were a question she did not know how to frame.

If he understood, there was no reflection of it in his expression or in his bearing. He did not offer any further explanation.

“Wait for me in the carnage,” he told her. “You will be more comfortable there. Miss Latterly will be back in a few moments.” And without anything further, he took his leave, walking rapidly towards the stairs down to the cells.

Some twenty minutes later Rathbone was outside on the entrance steps to the street, talking to Monk, who had just arrived. Ebenezer Goode came striding down, his hair flying, his face ashen. He pushed past a clerk, almost knocking the man off his feet.

“What is it?” Rathbone said with a sudden upsurge of fear. “What's happened, man? You look terrible!”

Goode seized him by the arm, half turning him around.

“He's dead! It's all over. He's dead!”

“Who's dead?” Monk demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“Caleb,” his voice was hoarse. “Caleb is dead.”

“He can't be!” Rathbone knew even as he said it that it was stupid. He was trying to deny reality, because it was ugly and he did not want to believe it.

“How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don't know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the long torture of a judicial hanging. I should be glad.” He said the words between his teeth, hard and guttural. “Why can't I Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed.

Rathbone had succeeded. The Duke of Wellington's words rang in his ears about the next most terrible thing to a battle lost being a battle won.

There was no taste of victory whatever.

“It wasn't suicide,” Goode said shakily. “Ravensbrook went in to see him, as he asked. Apparently Caleb was concemed he was going to be found guilty.

He said he wanted to write a statement. Perhaps it was a confession, or an indication of something, who knows? Ravensbrook came out for a quill and a paper for him. He took them back in. Apparently the quill was poor. He found his penknife to recut it…”

Rathbone felt sick, as if he knew the words before they came.

“Caleb suddenly lurched forward, seized the knife, and attacked Ravensbrook,” Goode said, his eyes going from Rathbone to Monk, and back again.

Rathbone was startled. It was not what he had thought after all.

“They fought,” Goode went on. “Poor Ravensbrook is cut quite badly.” “God help him,” Rathbone said quietly. “That was not the ending I wanted, but perhaps it is not the worst. Thank you, Goode. Thank you for telling me.”

Rathbone was stunned by the news. It was preposterous, even if not all the elements were tragic. He had never known such a thing to happen before, certainly not in this manner.

Monk was standing stock-still, his face dark.

“Come on,” Rathbone said gently. “It's all over.”

Monk did not move. “No it isn't. I don't understand it.”

Rathbone laughed abruptly. “Do you ever? Do any of us? If you thought he was going to tell you what he did with Angus, or why he killed him now, instead of sometime in the past years, you were dreaming. The wretched man was mad. Dear God, wasn't that evidence enough? Jealousy had driven him insane. What more is there to understand?”

“Why he attacked Ravensbrook now,” Monk replied, turning and standing to climb the steps back up. “What good would it have done him?”

“None at all!” Rathbone said impatiently, following rapidly after him.

“What good did killing Angus do him? Nothing except release his hatred.

Perhaps he felt the same way about Ravensbrook. He had nothing to lose.

Can't hang him twice.”

“But they weren't necessarily going to hang him at all!” Monk said sharply, striding through the door and into the hallway. “Goode hadn't even begun.

He's a damned clever lawyer.” They passed a group of dark-suited men talking quietly, and almost bumped into a clerk hurrying in the opposite direction.

“We know Caleb killed Angus,” Monk went on. “Or at least I do… because I heard him admit it, even boast about it. But that's not proof. He still had hope.”

“Maybe he didn't know that. I'm a damned clever lawyer too!” Rathbone said at his elbow.

“Is this what you wanted?” Monk demanded, matching Rathbone pace for pace along the corridor, coattails flying. “Can't prove he was guilty, so deceive the poor devil into committing another murder, right there in his cell, so we can hang him for that, without a quibble? Even Ebenezer Goode couldn't defend him from that!”

It was on the edge of Rathbone's tongue to give back an equally bitter response, then he looked more closely at Monk, the confusion in his face.

It was not all anger. There was doubt and pain in it as well.

“What?” he demanded, swinging to a stop.

“Are you deaf? I said-” Monk began.

“I heard what you said!” Rathbone snapped. “It was sufficiently stupid-I shall ignore it. I am trying to fathom what you meant. Something puzzles you, something more than simply the questions we were asking before, and now we shall almost certainly never answer.”

“Ravensbrook said Caleb attacked him.” Monk began walking again. “And he fought him off. In the struggle Caleb was killed… accidentally.” “I heard it,” Rathbone agreed, going down the steps towards the cells. “Why?

What are you thinking? That it was actually suicide, and Ravensbrook is covering it up? Why?” They were obliged to walk in single file for some distance, then at the bottom Monk caught up again. “It makes no sense,”

Rathbone went on. “What reason could he have? The wretched man is dead, and guilty by implication, if not proof. What would he be saving him? Or any- one?”

“Legally he's innocent,” Monk said with a scowl. “Not yet proven guilty, whatever we know, you and I. We don't count.”

“For God's sake, Monk, the public knows. And as soon as the court reconvenes, they'll have him for trying to kill Ravensbrook as well.”

“But as a suicide he'd be buried in unhallowed ground,” Monk pointed out.

They were just outside the main door to the cells. “This way he's not convicted of anything, only charged. People can believe whatever they want.

He'll go down in posterity as an innocent man.”

“I should think if it's a lie at all,” Rathbone argued, “it is more likely Ravensbrook doesn't want to be accused of deliberately allowing the man to take his own life, morally at any time, legally while he's in custody and on trial.”

“Point,” Monk conceded.

“Thank you,” Rathbone acknowledged. “I think it is most probable he is simply giving a mixture of what he knows in the confusion, and what he hopes happened. He is bound to be very shocked, and grieved, poor devil.”

Monk did not reply, but knocked sharply on the door.

They were permitted in with some reluctance. Rathbone had to insist in his capacity as an officer of the court, and Monk was permitted largely by instinct of the gaoler, who knew him from the past, and was used to obeying him.

It was a small anteroom for the duty gaolers to wait. Ravensbrook was half collapsed on a wooden hard-backed chair. His hair and clothes were disheveled and there was blood splattered on his arms and chest, even on his face. He seemed in the deepest stages of shock, his eyes sunk in their sockets, unfocused. He was breathing through his mouth, gasping and occasionally swallowing and gulping air. His body was rigid and he trembled as if perished with cold.

One gaoler stood holding a rolled-up handkerchief to a wound in Ravensbrook's chest, a second held a glass of water and tried to persuade him to drink from it, but he seemed not even to hear the man.

“Are you the doctor?” the gaoler with the handkerchief demanded, looking at Monk. In his gown and wig, Rathbone was instantly recognizable for what he was.

“No. But there's probably a nurse still on the premises, if you send someone to look for her immediately,” Monk replied. “Her name is Hester Latterly, and she'll be with Lady Ravensbrook in her carriage.”

“Nurse'll be no use,” the gaoler said desperately. “Nobody about needs nursin', for Gawd's sake. Look at it!”

“An army nurse,” Monk corrected his impression. “You might have to go a mile or more to find a doctor. And she'll be more used to this sort of thing than most doctors around here anyway. Go and get her. Don't stand around arguing.”

The man went, perhaps glad to escape.

Monk turned to look at Ravensbrook, studied his face for a moment, then abandoned the idea and spoke instead to the remaining gaoler.

“What happened?” he asked. “Tell us precisely, and in exact order as you remember it. Start when Lord Ravensbrook arrived.”

He did not question who Monk was, or what authority he had to be demanding explanations. The tone in Monk's voice was sufficient, and the gaoler was overwhelmingly relieved to hand over responsibility to someone else, anyone at all.

“ 'Is lordship came in wi' permission from the 'ead warder for 'im ter visit wi' the prisoner,” he responded. “ 'Im bein' a relative, like, an' the prisoner lookin' fit ter be sent down, then like as not, topped.”

“Where is the head warder?” Rathbone interrupted.

“Goin' ter speak wi' the judge,” the gaoler replied. “Dunno wot 'appens next. Never 'ad no one killed in the middle o' a trial afore, leastways not while I were 'ere.” He shivered. He had taken the glass of water, theoretically for Ravensbrook, and it slurped at the edges as his hand shook.

Rathbone took it from him and set it down. “So you opened the cell and allowed Lord Ravensbrook in?” Monk prompted.

“Yes, sir. An' o' course I locked it be'ind 'im, the prisoner bein' charged wi' a violent crime, like, it were necessary.”

“Of course it was,” Monk agreed. “Then what happened?”

“Nuffink, for 'bout five minutes or so.”

“You waited out here?”

“O' course.”

“And after five minutes?”

“'Is lordship, Lord Ravensbrook, 'e knocked on the door an' asked ter come out. I thought it was kind o' quick, but it in't none o' my business. So I let 'im aht. But 'e weren't through.” He was still holding the rolled-up handkerchief at Ravensbrook's chest, and the blood was seeping through his fingers. “ 'E said as the prisoner wanted ter write 'is last statement an' 'ad I any paper and a pen an' ink,” he went on, his voice hoarse. “Well, o' course I don't 'ave it in me pocket, like, but I told 'im as I could send for 'em, which I did. I'nt that right, me lord?” He looked down at Ravensbrook for confirmation, but Ravensbrook seemed almost unaware of him.

“You sent for them. Who did you send?” Monk pressed.

“Jimson, the other bloke on watch wi' me. The feller wot yer sent for the nurse.”

“And you locked the cell door?”

“O' course I locked it.” There was indignation in his voice.

“And Lord Ravensbrook waited out here with you?”

“Yeah, yeah 'e did.”

“Did he say anything?”

Ravensbrook neither moved on his chair nor made any sound.

“Wot, ter me?” the gaoler said with surprise. “Wot would a lordship talk ter the likes o' me abaht?”

“You waited in silence?” Monk asked. “Yeah. Weren't long, three or four minutes, then Jimson came back wi' pen an' paper an' ink. I gave 'em ter 'is lordship, opened the cell door again, and 'e went in, an' I locked it.”

“And then?”

The man screwed up his face in concentration. “I'm trying ter think as if I 'eard anythink, but I can't recall as I did. I should lave…”

Why.

“Well, there must 'a bin summink, mustn't there?” he said reasonably. “'Cos arter a few minutes like, 'is lordship banged on the door an' shouted fer 'elp, shouted real loud, like 'e were in terrible trouble-which o' course 'e were.” He took a deep breath, still staring at Monk. “So me an' Jimson, we both went to the door, immediate like. Jimson unlocked it, an' I stood ready, not knowin' what ter expec'.' “And what did you find?”

He looked over towards the cell door about ten feet away, and still very slightly ajar.

“'Is lordship staggerin' an' beatin' on the doors wi' 'is fists,” he answered, his voice strained. “An' 'e were all covered in blood, like 'e is now.” He glanced at Ravensbrook, then away again. “The prisoner were in an leap on the floor, wi' even more blood on 'im. I can't remember wot I said, nor wot Jimson said neither. 'E 'elped 'is lordship out, an' I went ter the prisoner.” He kept his eyes fixed on Monk's face, as if to block out what was in his mind. “I knelt down by 'im an' reached for 'is 'and, like, ter see if 'e were alive. I couldn't feel nothin'. Although ter be 'onest wif yer, sir, I dunno as 'ow I weren't shakin' so much I wouldn't a' knowed anyway. But I think 'e were dead already. I never seen so much blood in me life.”

“I see.” Monk's eye strayed involuntarily towards the half-open cell door.

He forced his attention back to the man in front of him. “And then what?”

The gaoler looked at Ravensbrook, but Ravensbrook gave him no prompt whatsoever; in fact, from the fixed expression on his face, he might not even have heard what they said.

“We asked 'is lordship what 'ad 'appened,” the gaoler said unhappily.

“Although anyone could see as there'd bin a terrible fight, an' some'ow the prisoner'd got the worst o' it.”

“And when you asked Lord Ravensbrook, what did he say?”

“'E said as the prisoner'd leaped on 'im and attacked 'im when 'e 'ad the penknife out ter recut the nib, and 'though 'e'd done 'is best ter fight 'im off, in the struggle, 'e'd got 'isself stabbed, an' it were all over in a matter o' seconds. Caught the vein in 'is throat and whoosh! Gom.” He swallowed hard, his concentration on Monk intense. “Don' get me wrong, sir, I wouldn't never 'ave had it 'appen, but maybe there's some justice in it.

Don't deserve ter get away wi' munlerin' 'is bruvver, like. No one do. But I 'ates an 'anging. Jimson says as I'm soft, but it in't the way for no man ter go.”

“Thank you.” Monk did not volunteer an opinion, but a certain sense of his agreement was in his silence, and the absence of censure in his voice. At last Monk turned to Ravensbrook and spoke clearly and with emphasis. “Lord Ravensbrook, will you please tell us exactly what happened? It is most important, sir.”

Ravensbrook looked up very slowly, focusing on Monk with difficulty, like a man wakening from a deep sleep.

“I beg your pardon?”

Monk repeated his words.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He drew in his breath and let it out silently. “I'm sorry.” For several more seconds he said nothing, until Rathbone was about to prompt him. Then at last he spoke. “He was in a very strange mood,” he said slowly, speaking as if his lips were stiff, his tongue unwilling to obey him. His voice was curiously flat. Rathbone had seen it before in people suffering shock. “At first he seemed pleased to see me,”

Ravensbrook went on. “Almost relieved. We spoke about trivialities for a few minutes. I asked him if he needed anything, if there was anything I could do for him.” He swallowed, and Rathbone could see his throat tighten.

“Straightaway he said that there was.” Ravensbrook was speaking to Monk, ignoring Rathbone. “He wanted to write a statement. I thought perhaps he was going to make a clean breast of it, some kind of confession, for Genevieve's sake. Tell her where Angus's body was.” He was not looking directly at Monk, but at some distance of the mind, some region of thought or hope.

“And was that what he wanted?” Rathbone asked, although he held no belief that it could have been. It was only a last, wild chance that he might have said something. But what could it matter, except that Genevieve would have some clearer idea. And was that good or bad? Perhaps ignorance was more merciful.

Ravensbrook looked at him for the first time.

“No…” he said thoughtfully. “No, I don't think he even intended to write anything. But I believed him. I came out and asked for the materials, which were brought me. I took them back in. He grasped the pen from me, put it in the inkwell, which I had placed on the table, then made an attempt to write. I think he forced it. Then he looked up at me and said the nib was blunt and had divided, would I recut it.” He moved his shoulders very slightly, not quite a shrug. “Of course I agreed. He gave it to me. I wiped it clean so I could see what I was doing, and then I took out my knife, opened it… “

No one in the room moved. The gaoler seemed mesmerized. There was no sound of the outer world, the courthouse beyond the heavy, iron door.

Ravensbrook looked back at Monk again, his eyes dark and full of nightmare.

Then, almost as if closing curtains within his mind, he looked just beyond him. His voice was a little high-pitched, as if he could not open his throat. “The next moment I felt a ringing blow, and I was forced back against the wall, and Caleb was on top of me.” He took a deep breath. “We struggled for several moments. I did all I could to free myself, but he had an extraordinary strength. He seemed determined to kill me, and it was all I could do to force the knife away from my throat. I made a tremendous effort, I suppose seeing the nearness of death in the blade. I don't know exactly how it occurred. He jerked back, slipped, and missed his footing somehow, and fell, pulling me on top of him.”