Cain His Brother (40 page)

“No.” She was quite positive. “It may have been an accident, but if it was as he said, then why didn't he cry out when Caleb first attacked him?” “He didn't,” Rathbone said slowly. “He can't have. And according to his own account, he struggled with him for several moments, seconds perhaps, but there was obviously a struggle.”

“In which Lord Ravensbrook tried to save himself from injury,” Monk took up the thread. “And was, in principle, successful. His wounds are minor.

But Caleb was killed, by a freak mischance.” He pulled a face.

“If Caleb attacked him, why did he not cry out straightaway?” Hester asked.

“I don't know. In some desperate hope of ending the matter without the gaolers needing to know?” Rathbone suggested. “It could be damning evidence if it were revealed in court, and even if no one introduced it, Ravensbrook's injuries would allow the conclusion easily enough.”

“Irrational, in the circumstances,” Monk argued.

“People frequently are irrational,” Hester said. “But I don't think they work out a chain of thought as complicated as that in the heat of an unexpected attack. Would you, if you were leapt upon when you least thought of such a thing? Would you think of anything more than defending yourself?

If there were a weapon involved, and the attacker were younger and stronger than you, and you knew he had already killed one man, and was in danger of being hanged, so he had nothing to lose, even if he were caught, would you even think at all, or just fight for your life?”

Rathbone bit his lip. “If Caleb Stone attacked me, there'd be nothing in my mind but surviving,” he admitted. His face twisted. “But I am not his father…”

Monk shrugged, but there was a tightness of wounded enthusiasm in his eyes.

“When I was chasing him down the river, I didn't think at all. There was nothing in my mind but a blind determination to catch him. I hardly even felt my own wrenches and bruises until afterwards.”

Rathbone looked at Hester. “Are you sure he didn't cry out almost immediately, after the initial shock of the attack? It might take a moment in time to ward him off, and collect his wits.”

“He had six separate wounds,” she answered. “But they were all clean. He may well have bruises come up in the next day or two as well, and his clothes were torn a little, as if in a struggle. But Caleb had only one real wound, and that was the slash across his throat which killed him.”

“What are you saying?” Rathbone leaned forward. “That Ravensbrook was mistaken, or that in some essential of importance, he lied?”

“I think so. Yes, I think he lied,” she answered very deliberately. “I just don't know why.”

Monk sipped his port, looking from one to the other of them.

“You mean there was a considerable struggle before he called out?” Rathbone persisted. “What reason would he have? If it was not suicide, and not an accident, then are you saying that Ravensbrook murdered him? Why on earth should he? Not just to prevent him from being hanged. That's absurd.” “Then there is something we don't know,” Hester answered. “Something which would make sense of it… or if not sense, at least something understandable to one's feelings.”

“People kill for various reasons,” Rathbone said thoughtfully. “Greed, fear, hatred. If it is irrational, then it may spring simply from emotion, but if it is rational, then it will be as a result of something that has happened, and to prevent something else from happening, to prevent some loss or pain to themselves, or someone they love.”

“What could Caleb do to Ravensbrook, apart from be hanged, which could be a disgrace, but he has already disgraced himself very thoroughly.” Monk shook his head.

“Hester is right. There is something crucial that we don't know, perhaps haven't even come close to.” He turned to Rathbone. “What was going to happen next, if Caleb had lived?”

“The defense would have begun tomorrow,” Rathbone replied slowly, his concentration suddenly sharpening, his wineglass ignored. “Perhaps we need to speak with Ebenezer Goode? I thought I knew what he was going to do, but perhaps I don't.”

Monk stared at him. “What could he do? Plead insanity? The best argument he has is that it was an accident, that Caleb didn't mean to kill him, and then when he had, he panicked. Either that, or try to convince them there is not enough evidence to prove Angus is dead at all. And I don't think he will win with that.”

“Then maybe that's it.” Rathbone clenched his fists on the white tablecloth. “He was going to bring out some evidence to show Angus was not the just and honorable man we suppose. That would be worth killing him for.

To protect Angus's name, and Genevieve's. Perhaps to prevent Caleb from telling some appalling truth about him? That would be a reason.”

“Do you think Lord Ravensbrook would kill Caleb to protect Genevieve?” Monk looked skeptical. “I gathered from their behavior towards each other that their relationship was cool, at best.”

“Then to protect himself?” Rathbone argued urgently, leaning farther forward. “Or protect Angus, or his memory of him. After all, he was the nearest to a son he had. One can love a son in a strange, passionate and possessive way, as if he were part of oneself. I've seen some very complex emotions between parent and child.”

“And Caleb?” Monk asked, his lips drawn back in a hard smile.

“God knows.” Rathbone sighed. “Perhaps it was to spare him the verdict and the hanging. I wouldn't wish hanging on anyone. It's an appalling way to die. It's not the actual drop, and the rope around the throat, jerking tight and breaking the neck as the trap opens, it's the deliberate hourby-hour, minute-by-minute dragging it out to the appointed hour. It's a refinement of cruelty which degrades everyone involved.”

“Then perhaps we should ask Mr. Goode?” Hester concluded. “If we want to know? But do we?”

“Yes,” Monk said without hesitation. “I want to know, even if I don't want to do anything about it.”

Rathbone's eyes widened. “Could you do that… know, and do nothing?”

Monk opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind. He shrugged, and drank the rest of his port, looking at neither Rathbone nor Hester.

Rathbone rang the bell and the butler appeared within seconds.

“I want you to take a note to Ebenezer Goode, straightaway,” Rathbone ordered. “It is vital we meet with him before court sits again tomorrow. I expect he will be at his home, but if he is not, it is worth pursuing him to wherever he is. Get your coat, and I'll have the note ready. Take a hansom.”

The butler did not move a muscle; his face remained as impassive as if Rathbone had merely asked him to bring another bottle of port.

“Yes sir. Would that be the address in Westbourne Place, sir?”

“Yes.” Rathbone stood up. “And make all haste.”

It was over an hour and a half later when Ebenezer Goode strode in, his coattails flapping behind him, a broadbrimmed hat jammed on his head and a look of glittering expectation in his eyes.

“Well?” he said as soon as he was in the door. He swept a bow to Hester, then ignored her, staring at Rathbone and Monk. “What is it that possibly matters now, that it cannot wait until tomorrow morning and allow me a decent dinner? Have you found a body?”

“Yes, and no.” Rathbone indicated an easy chair. They had retired to the withdrawing room and were relaxed in front of a brisk fire. “Do you know Miss Hester Latterly? She, of course, knows you.”

“Miss Latterly. How do you do.” Goode bowed perfunctorily. “What the devil do you mean, Rathbone? Have you found Angus Stonefield's body, or not?”

“No, we have not. But Caleb's death may not be nearly as simple as we had supposed.”

Goode froze, still halfway to the chair.

“How? In what way? Is Ravensbrook more severely injured than they said?”

Goode sank into the chair.

“No,” Hester answered him. “A few very minor cuts on his upper arms and shoulders. They will stay for a while, but none of them is serious.” Goode looked at her sharply.

“Miss Latterly is a nurse,” Monk said rather quickly. “She was in the Crimea, and has tended more wounded men than you have had cases. She was close to the court, fortunately, and came to Lord Ravensbrook's assistance.”

“I see.” A flash of interest lit Goode's expression. “Do I take it from your tone of voice, and your curious choice of words, Miss Latterly, that there is something more to your opinion than you have said?”

“It is simply this, Mr. Goode,” Monk explained. “We can think of no explanation which fits all the facts, therefore we feel that there must be some profoundly significant fact which we do not know.”

Goode's eyebrows shot up. “And you think I do?” he said incredulously. “I have no idea at all why Caleb should attack Lord Ravensbrook. He may well have hated him, because he so obviously preferred Angus, and perhaps always had done, but that is all rather obvious. By the way, what facts does that not fit?” He looked again at Hester.

“The fact that Lord Ravensbrook did not cry out until after he had sustained six very minor wounds,” she answered him. “And Caleb had sustained one fatal slash across the jugular vein and was already dead.”

He leaned forward, staring at her intently.

“Are you suggesting, ma'am, that Lord Ravensbrook was a willing actor in Caleb's death, either by suicide or by murder?' “Not quite. We do not believe it likely Caleb would have killed himself.

Why should he? His defense had not even begun.” She looked at him intently.

“Had he not some realistic chance of escaping conviction, or at least conviction of anything worse than not reporting a fatal accident? If I were defending him”-she ignored Goode's sharp start of amazement-”l should plead a fight in which Angus had accidentally been killed, perhaps fallen into the river, hit his head, and Caleb had been afraid to report it, since he could not prove what had happened, and knowing the quarrel between them, and his own reputation, expected no one would believe him. After all, there is no witness to say anything differently.”

Goode leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs.

“Would you indeed?”

“Yes,” she said decisively. “Wouldn't you?”

A sudden, dazzling smile broke across his face. “Yes, ma'am, indeed I would, especially after the weight of evidence produced by the prosecution.

I think trying to rebut it simply as not proven would be insufficient. The jury do not like Caleb Stone, and Mrs. Stonefield has aroused a considerable sympathy.”

“Was that what you intended?” Rathbone demanded. “Were you going to call Caleb tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Goode answered. “I have no one else. Why? What light can that throw upon his death?”

“None, unless we knew what he was going to say.” Monk spoke for the first time. “Plainly, was he going to say something about Angus which it would have been worth killing him to keep secret?”

“Ravensbrook?” Goode's voice rose almost to falsetto. “You think Lord Ravensbrook murdered Caleb in his cell to keep him silent?”

“Obviously you don't,” Rathbone said dryly. “So you cannot know of anything such as we suggest.”

“Or else he does not know its effect.” Monk could not let go so easily.

“Perhaps he knows what it is, but not its meaning, or what it could lead to.” He swiveled around to face Goode. “What was he going to say?” Goode bit his lip. “Well, with a normal client, I would know the answer, or I would not ask the question. But with Stone all I could do was guess.

Certainly he told me he would say it was an accident, that the hatred was mutual and he had no more destroyed Angus than Angus had wished to destroy him.” He crossed his legs and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. “You must understand he spoke elliptically and in paradoxes, and half the time he just laughed. If I thought it would have helped him, I would have pleaded the man mad.” He regarded them each in turn, his face full of pity and question. “But who wants to spend his life in Bedlam? I think I'd rather be hanged. He was at times eminently sane. He was certainly highly intelligent and obviously well educated. When he chose to, he spoke beautifully. At other times he sounded like any other ruffian from the Isle of Dogs.”

“So you don't really know what he would say?” Rathbone concluded.

“Would you? I only know what I intended to ask him.”

“What was that?” Rathbone and Monk said together.

“About his quarrel with Angus, of course, and what led up to it,” Goode replied.

“About Angus!” Monk clapped his hands on his knee. He twisted around to look at Hester. “Then we must find out what it was he was going to say, what their quarrel really was, if we want to know if it was worth killing him for. Do we?”

“I do,” Goode said instantly. “Guilty or innocent, he was my client. If he was murdered, for whatever reason, I not only want to know, I want to prove it.”

“To whom?” Rathbone asked. “The court isn't going to sit while we search for Angus Stonefield's youth.”

“It's an unnatural death,” Goode pointed out. “There'll be a coroner's inquest.”

“A formality,” Rathbone answered. “Ravensbrook will give his account. The gaolers will confirm it. The doctor will confirm the cause of death and it will be pronounced an unfortunate accident. Everyone will say `What a shame,' and think `What a relief.' The matter will be closed, and they will proceed to the next case.”

“It will take us days, perhaps weeks, to find the answer to whatever Caleb was going to say which mattered so much,” Monk said angrily. “Can't you delay it?”

“A while, perhaps.” Rathbone looked across at Goode. “What do you think?”

“We can try.” Goode's voice lifted a little. “Yes, dammit, we can certainly try!” He swung around. “Miss Latterly?”

“Yes?”

“Are you with us? Will you be as obstructive as possible as a witness to the events, as vague and as contradictory as you may? Give them cause to think, to question, to wonder and to doubt.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “But who will help Monk to trace Angus's life? He cannot do it all alone.”

“We'll all do it, until the inquest begins,” Goode said simply. “By then, surely we will have some idea of what it is we are seeking, and from whom.”