Cain His Brother (42 page)

Genevieve smiled briefly, but there was an honesty in it.

“We shall manage. Once they grant that Angus is dead, we shall be able to appoint someone to manage the business and proceed with decisions. I daresay it will be difficult for a little while, but that will not matter.”

She met Hester's eyes with candor. “I have certainly been colder and hungrier before. The children do not find it easy to understand, but I shall explain it to them as well as I can.”

“Will it be Mr. Niven you ask to manage the business?” It was really none of her affair, but Hester inquired because she hoped it was.

Genevieve colored very faintly, but there was no awkwardness in her answer.

Without excusing herself, or explaining the necessity, she went over to the sink and started to peel potatoes. They were old, black in spots, and with too many eyes. There were also carrots and turnips on the bench.

“Yes. I have known him for a long time, and he is the most honorable of men,” she answered frankly. “I think Angus would have approved.”

“I'm glad.” Hester tried to smile, to soften what she had to say next, even though Genevieve had her back to her where she sat at the scrubbed wooden table.

Genevieve turned around, the knife in her hand. “What is it? What else can have happened?”

“Nothing. It is simply that it is not yet over. We do not know the truth, not all of it…”

“We never will,” Genevieve said bleakly, glancing at the kettle on the range, then resuming her peeling. “But even with Caleb alive, I don't think we would have. All I hoped for was to have the authorities accept that Angus was dead. I could have borne it if Caleb had not been proved guilty, unjust though that would be.”

“What was Angus like?” Hester said with sudden urgency. “How could he still care for Caleb, when Caleb hated him so much? Why did he keep going back to the East End? What childhood debt of honor, or guilt, kept him bound to someone who loathed him so passionately that he finally killed him?”

Genevieve stood rigid for several seconds, then put down her knife and moved to the large black cooking range. The kettle was beginning to steam.

She took a black-and-white china teapot out of the cupboard, rinsed it with boiling water, then spooned tea out of the caddy and poured the rest of the water from the kettle and let it steep. She brought out cups and then milk from the larder.

“I don't know,” she said at last. “I really don't. There were times when I thought he hated Caleb just as much, and I begged him never to see him again.” She sat down in the chair opposite and began to pour the tea. “At other times he was sorry for him, and yes, perhaps almost a little guilty.

Although he had no cause to be. Caleb could have had as much, had he chosen. It was not as if there were an inheritance and Angus had it at Caleb's expense.”

“There was nothing from their parents?”

Genevieve shook her head.

“If there was, it was so little, it was used long ago. Do you care for milk? Certainly Angus began his business by joining a firm, as any young man might do.” She passed the cup over. “Caleb could have done the same, except that he was so reckless, and so lazy in his studies, that he had not equipped himself to be of use. But again, that was his choice.” She was staring at Hester now. “Sometimes I think Angus was sorry for Caleb, and there were times when I knew he was afraid of him.”

Hester took the tea and thanked her. It was hot and fresh, and she was glad of it.

“It took a great deal of courage for Angus to return to Limehouse and find Caleb,” Genevieve went on. “After he had been badly hurt and he was, more than once. He was always tired, and depressed, and I begged him not to return.

It is not as if Caleb cared for him, or was even grateful for the help Angus gave him. It made me so angry… and then that distressed him. He said he could not help it. Caleb was his brother, his twin, and he was bound by a tie which he could not break. When I realized how it hurt him, I ceased to speak of it.”

She looked down again, ignoring her tea, her eyes brimming with tears.

“If you had known Angus, you would understand. There was a goodness in him, an honor unlike anyone else I have known. The only other man as gentle, and with anything like the same inward love of what is good, is Mr. Niven. I think that is why they were friends, and why I feel I can turn to him now.

Angus would have understood that.”

There was nothing further to pursue, except facts, and Hester was not even sure what use they would be. Nevertheless she asked Genevieve precisely in which street she had grown up, where and when she had first met Caleb, how she had met Angus, and all she could remember of that early relationship.

“I barely knew Caleb!” she said bitterly. “I swear to you that is the truth. He was a violent man, even for Limehouse. He frightened me. I think he frightened everyone. He was so like Angus in build and feature, and yet so unlike him in nature that no one could mistake one for the other. The way he walked, the way he stood, his voice, everything was wild and…

I don't know how to describe it.” She frowned, struggling with recollection. “As if he were always angry, as if there were something inside him so full of rage it was held in only by the frailest thread, and any provocation at all and it would explode and be free to hurt and destroy whatever stood in its path.” Hester did not interrupt her, but quietly sipped her tea and watched Genevieve's face.

“I suppose he must have had a gentler side,” Genevieve went on, her voice lower. “That poor creature Selina seemed to have cared for him.” She bit her lip. “I don't know why I speak of her like that. I started in the same place, just three streets away. I could easily have been there now, if I had never met Angus, and he had not had the patience and the love to teach me how to better myself, to speak well enough to pass as respectable, if not as a lady.”

She smiled ruefully, and began her tea at last. “He taught me how to carry myself, how to dress, how to conduct myself with others. I would never have passed for gentry, and have entertained in my own home, but over the years I have learned more confidence, and I don't believe I ever embarrassed him in front of his colleagues. You see, he was the opposite of Caleb, he had endless patience. I cannot remember him ever losing his temper. He would have considered it wrong, that he was betraying the best in himself.” “I wish I had known him,” Hester said sincerely. He might have been a trifle pompous, perhaps he lacked humor or imagination, but he must have been a man of immense kindness and an inner integrity which was both rare and beautiful. “Thank you for telling me so much.” She rose to take her leave.

“I am sorry to have had to ask you. It must have given you pain.” “And pleasure.” Genevieve rose also. “I like to talk about him. It is very sad when people cease to mention someone when he is dead. It is almost like denying he ever lived. I am glad you wanted to know.”

Monk already knew from Genevieve where Angus had grown up, and even before Ebenezer Goode had left his home, Monk was in a hansom bound for the railway station and the first train to the Berkshire village of Chilverley. It was a tedious journey, necessitating a number of changes and delays, moving from cozy waiting room with fire, to icy, wind-raked platforms, then chilly trains. It was quarter to eleven when he finally stepped off at Chilverley in a bright, hard wind.

“Chilverley Hall?” the stationmaster said obligingly. “Yes sir. About three miles north from here. That way.” He pointed half behind him. “Know Colonel Patterson, do you? You look like a military man, if I may say so.” Monk was astonished. Had it not been so contrary to his own interests, he would have let his temper have full rein.

“Colonel Patterson?” he said grimly. “This is Chilverley?”

“Yes sir, Chilverley, Berkshire.” He looked at Monk anxiously. “Who were you looking for, sir?”

“The family home of Lord Ravensbrook.”

“Oh, bless you, sir. It is the family home of the Ravensbrooks, but he don't live here no more. Sold it. Moved up to live in London, so they say.”

“I'm surprised it wasn't entailed,” Monk said irrelevantly.

“Daresay it might have been.” The stationmaster wagged his head. “But Lord Milo were the last o' the line. No reason why he shouldn't sell, if he wanted. Must have got a tidy sum for it.” He touched his cap respectfully as two gentlemen, one in a Norfolk jacket, the other in a greatcoat, went by and through the gate to the road.

“No brothers, or even cousins?” Monk had no reason to ask, it simply occurred to him.

The stationmaster turned back to him.

“No sir. Had one brother, younger than him, but he was killed, poor soul.

Accident it was, in Italy, or some such place.” He shook his head.

“Drowned, they say. Pity, that was. He were a very charming gentleman, if a bit wild. Very handsome, and a bit free with the ladies, and with his money. Still, a sad end for one so young.”

“How old was he?” Again it hardly mattered.

“No more than thirty-one or thirty-two,” the stationmaster answered. “It's all a long time ago now, well over quarter of a century, nearer thirty-five years.”

“Would you know if any of the old servants are still at the house?” “Oh no, sir. All left when his lordship did. Colonel Patterson brought his own household with him.”

“Is there no one I could find who lived in the house then?” Monk pressed.

“What about outside staff? Even a gardener, gamekeeper, coachman? Is it still the same vicar as it was then?”

The stationmaster nodded. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nicolson is still the vicar.

Vicarage is opposite the church, just beyond that second stand of elms.” He pointed. “Can't miss it. Just follow the road 'round. About two miles from here, sir.”

“Thank you. I'm obliged to you for your time and your courtesy.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, Monk strode out in the direction the stationmaster had indicated.

The wind sighed through the bare branches of the elms and a cloud of rooks soared up into the air, disturbed by some predatory cat. Their black, tangled nests were low in the forks, towards the trunks. It had been a hard winter.

The vicar was an elderly man, but spry and bright-eyed. He greeted Monk over the hedge from where he had been looking hopefully at the green lawn and first spears of bulbs showing through.

Monk gave the briefest of explanations as to his purpose.

The vicar regarded him with a lively interest.

“Yes sir, of course I can. What a fine morning, isn't it? Won't be long before the daffodils come through. Love a good show of daffodils. Come into the parlor, my dear fellow. Got a decent fire going. Get the chill out of yourself.”

He came to the gate and opened it for Monk to walk through. Then he led him up a chipped stone path to the door, which was heavily bowered with honeysuckle, now a dark tangle of stems not yet showing green.

“In fact, would you like a spot of luncheon?” he invited, showing Monk the way inside, where it was immediately warm. “Hate to eat alone. Uncivilized.

Good conversation best for a meal, don't you think?” He went through the overcrowded hall and opened the door into a bright, chintzcurtained room.

“Wife died five years ago. Have to grasp at all the company I can. Know everyone here. Have done for years. Can't surprise each other anymore. Gets tedious in the winter. Don't mind in the summer, enough to do in the garden. What did you say your name was?”

“William Monk, Mr. Nicolson.”

“Ah, well, Mr. Monk, would you care for some luncheon, while you tell me your business here in Chilverley?”

Monk was delighted to accept. He was cold and hungry, and it would be far easier to stretch out a conversation over the table than sitting in even the most agreeable parlor.

“Good, good. Now please make yourself comfortable while I inform the cook!”

The Reverend Nicolson was so obviously happy to have company that Monk allowed at least half the meal to pass before he broached the subject of his journey. He swallowed the last of the cold mutton, pickles and vegetables and set his knife and fork down.

The maid appeared with hot, flaky apple pie and a jug of cream and set them on the table with evident satisfaction, taking away the empty plates. Then the vicar began his tale and Monk listened with amazement, anger, and growing compassion.

The coroner’s inquest into the death of Caleb Stone opened two days later. The public benches were packed. It was an extraordinary incident, and people were curious to learn how such a thing had happened.

Lord Ravensbrook was obliged to attend and give evidence; indeed, he was the only immediate witness. Also to be called were the three gaolers, all sitting rigidly upright, embarrassed and profoundly frightened. Jimson was convinced they were all innocent, Bailey, that they were all to blame, and would be punished appropriately. The third gaoler, who had gone to report the matter, refused to have an opinion at all.

Hester was to be called, by Rathbone, if not by the coroner. There was also the doctor who had examined the body officially.

Enid Ravensbrook sat beside her husband, still pale-faced and gaunt, but steady-eyed, and less physically ill than the week before. Next to her was Genevieve Stonefield, and beside her, calm and resolute, Titus Niven.

Selina Herries sat alone, head high, face white and set, eyes hollow with shock. Rathbone looked at her, and felt an unaccountable grief for her.

They had nothing whatever in common, no culture, no cause, no beliefs, barely even a common language. And yet the sight of her filled him with a sense of the universality of bereavement. He knew what it was to lose that which had been dear, in whatever manner, however mixed or confused the emotion.

Ebenezer Goode was not yet there. It was he who was officially to represent the interests of Caleb Stone. Rathbone had persuaded Genevieve to allow him to represent her, as sister-in-law of the deceased, and therefore the closest relative. Ravensbrook had been only his childhood guardian, and had never apparently adopted either boy, and Selina was not Caleb's wife. The coroner was a large, genial man with a ready smile, but more of agreeability than humor, as was appropriate to his calling. He opened proceedings with formality, then called the first witness, the gaoler Jimson. The room was simple, not like the high court in the Old Bailey.

There were no steps to climb to a stand, no carved and ornamental bench or thronelike chair for the coroner as for the judge. Jimson stood behind a simple rail which did little more than mark the position for him, and the coroner sat behind a fine oak table.

Jimson swore to tell the truth, then gave his name and occupation. He was so nervous he gulped and stumbled over his words.

The coroner smiled at him benignly.

“Now, Mr. Jimson, simply tell us what happened. There is no need to be so frightened, man. This is a court of inquiry, not of accusation. Now! Begin when the prisoner was put back in your custody after the trial was adjourned.”

“Yes sir! M'lord!”

“ `Sir' will do very well. I am not a judge.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir!” Jimson took a deep breath and swallowed hard again. “ 'E were in a rare state, the prisoner, I mean. 'E were laughin' an' shoutin' an' swearin' fit ter bust. There was a rage in 'im like nothin' I ever seen afore, 'cepting it were all mixed up wi' laughter like there was some 'uge joke as only 'e knew. But 'e didn't offer us no violence, like,” he added hastily. “ 'E went easy inter 'is cell an' we locked 'im in.”

“We?” the coroner inquired. “Can you recall which of you it was?”

“Yes sir, it were me.”

“I see. Proceed.”

There was almost silence around the room, only the slight sound of fabric rustling as someone shifted in a seat, and a whisper as a woman spoke to the person next to her. The journalists present wrote nothing so far. “Then Lord Ravensbrook came an' asked if 'e could see the prisoner, 'im bein' 'is only relative, like,” Jimson continued. “An' seein' as 'ow things was goin' bad with 'im in the trial. Guess like 'e thought as there'd be a verdict soon, an' then 'e wouldn't be allowed ter see 'im alone anymore, 'im bein' a guilty man then, an' still an innocent one now, leastways afore the law.”

“I understand.” The coroner nodded. “You do not need to explain, it is quite clear, and natural.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jimson did not look in the slightest relieved. “Well, it all seemed right ter us, Bailey an' Alcott an' me, so we let 'im in-' “Just a moment, Mr. Jimson,” the coroner interrupted. “When you let Lord Ravensbrook in, how was the prisoner? What was his demeanor, his attitude?

Was he still in this rage you described earlier? How did he greet Lord Ravensbrook?”

Jimson looked confused.

“Did you see him, Mr. Jimson?” the coroner pressed. “It is necessary that you answer truthfully. This matter concerns the death of a man in your custody.”

“Yes sir.” Jimson swallowed convulsively, only too desperately aware of his responsibility. “No sir, I didn't go in with 'is lordship. I… I didn't like ter, 'im bein' family like, an' knowin' from the guard as 'ad 'im in court 'ow 'ard it were goin', an' as 'e were like ter be 'anged. I let 'is lordship in, w'en 'e said as 'e preferred ter be alone-”

“Lord Ravensbrook said he wished to see the prisoner alone?”

“Yes sir, 'e did.”

“I see. Then what happened?”

“Arter a few moments, 'is lordship came out an' asked fer a pen an' ink an' paper, 'cos the prisoner wanted ter write a statement o' some sort, I forget exactly what.” He fidgeted with his collar. It appeared to be too tight for him. “I sent Bailey fer 'em, an' w'en 'e brought 'em back, I gave 'em ter 'is lordship, an' 'e went back inter the cell wi' 'em. Then just a few minutes arter that there were a cry, an' a bangin' on the door, an' w'en I opened it, 'is lordship staggered out, covered wi' blood, an' said as there'd bin an accident, or summink like that, an' the prisoner were dead… sir.” He took a breath and plunged on. “'E looked terrible white and shocked, sir, poor gennelman. So I sent Bailey for 'elp. I think 'e got a glass o' water, but 'is lordship were too upset ter take it.”

“Did you go to the cell to look at the prisoner?” the coroner demanded.

“Yes sir, 'course I did. 'E were lyin' in a pool o' blood like a lake, sir, an' 'is eyes were wide open an' starin'.” He tugged at his collar again.

“'E were dead. Weren't nuffink more ter be done for 'im. I pulled the door to, didn't lock it, weren't no point. Alcott went ter report wot 'ad ' appened, an' I tried ter do what I could fer ' is lordship till 'elp come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jimson.” The coroner looked for Goode.

“Where is Mr. Goode?” he asked with a frown. “I understood he was to represent the family of the dead man. Is that not so?”

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Yes sir, he is. I don't know what may have kept him. I ask the court's indulgence. I am sure he will not be long.” He had better not be, he thought grimly, or we shall lose this by default! “This is not a court of advocacy, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner said irritably. “If Mr. Goode does not favor us with his presence, we shall proceed without him. Have you any questions you wish to ask this witness?”

Rathbone drew in his breath to make as long-winded a reply as he could, and was saved the necessity by the doors swinging open wide on their hinges.

Ebenezer Goode swept in, coattails flying, arms full of papers, and strode up to the front. He bestowed a dazzling smile upon the coroner, apologized profusely and took his seat, managing to disturb everyone within a ten-foot radius.

“Are you ready, Mr. Goode?” the coroner asked with heavy sarcasm. “May we proceed?”

“Of course!” Goode said, still with the same smile. “Very civil of you to have waited for me.”

“We did not wait for you!” the coroner snapped. “Do you have questions for this witness, sir?”

“Yes indeed, thank you.” Goode rose to his feet, upset his papers and picked them up, then proceeded to ask a lot of questions which merely reaffirmed what Jimson had already said. No one learned anything new, but it wasted considerable time, which was Goode's purpose. And Rathbone's. The coroner kept his temper with difficulty.

Bailey, the second gaoler, was called next, and the coroner elicited from him confirmation of everything Jimson had said, but briefly. There were no contradictions to explore.

It took all Goode's ingenuity to think of sufficient questions to stretch it out a further half hour, and Rathbone found it hard to add anything at all. He redescribed Caleb's words, his gestures, his tone of voice, his behavior earlier during the trial. He even asked Bailey what he thought Ca- leb felt and expected of the outcome, until the coroner stopped him and told him he was asking the witness to speculate beyond his ability to know.

“But sir, Mr. Bailey is an expert witness on the mood and expectations of prisoners charged with capital crimes,” Rathbone protested. “It is his daily occupation. Surely he, of all men, may know whether a prisoner has hope of being acquitted or not? It is of the utmost importance in learning the truth that we know whether Caleb Stone was in despair, or still nurtured some hope of life.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner conceded. “But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know.

It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced.”

“Yes sir,” Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o'clock.

The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.

“Have you heard from Monk?” Goode demanded when he and Rathbone were seated in an excellent tavern nearby and enjoying a meal of roast beef and vegetables, ale, apple and blackberry pie, ripe Stilton cheese, and biscuits. “Has he learned anything?”

“No, I haven't,” Rathbone said grimly. “I know he went to Chilverley, but I haven't heard a thing after that.”

Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.

“And what about the nurse, what's her name? Latterly?” he asked. “Did she learn anything of use? I see her in court. Shouldn't she be in the East End? We could have put off calling her today. She might have given us something!”

“She's already learned all she can,” Rathbone said defensively. “She said there's nothing there we don't already know.”

“What about Caleb, damn it!” Goode said angrily. “If this isn't an accident, then either it's suicide-and we've already decided that is unlikely-or it's murder. In the interests of human decency, never mind abstract concepts like truth, we need to know.”

“Then we'll have to go further back than Caleb's life in Limehouse,”

Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. “It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!” Goode sighed. “And God knows what we'll learn then!” “Or what we'll be able to prove,” Rathbone added, finishing his ale.

The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured.

His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.

There was a murmur of both awe and sympathy even before the coroner spoke.

Rathbone glanced at the crowd. Enid looked at her husband, and her eyes were shadowed with unhappiness and pity. Almost absently her hand strayed to Genevieve beside her.

“Lord Ravensbrook,” the coroner began, “will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone's death? You do not need to repeat anything before you actually went into his cell, unless you wish to do so.

I have no desire to harrow your feelings more than is my duty and cannot be avoided.”

“Thank you,” Ravensbrook acknowledged without turning his head. He stared at the wall opposite him, and spoke as if in a trance. He seemed to be reliving the events in his mind, more real to him than the paneled room, the mild face of the coroner, or the crowd listening to his every word. All eyes were upon his face, which was racked with emotions, and yet curiously immobile, as if it were all held inside him with unyielding self-control.

“The gaoler opened the door and stood back for me to go in,” he began in a level, careful voice. “I had sought permission to speak to Caleb alone. I knew it might very well be the last time I had such an opportunity. The trial was not going in his favor.” His hesitation was barely perceptible. “I… I had certain things I wanted to say to him which were of a personal nature. Probably it was foolish of me, but I hoped that for Angus's widow's sake, he might tell me what had happened between Angus and himself, and she could know that Angus was…

at peace, if you will.” The coroner nodded. There was a sigh around the room.

Genevieve caught her breath in a gasp, but made no other sound. She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to see.

Rathbone glanced at Goode and saw a flicker of question in his eyes. “Of course it was futile,” Ravensbrook resumed. “Nothing I could say had any effect upon him, or softened the anger inside him.”

“Was he in a rage when you first went in, Lord Ravensbrook?” the coroner asked, his eyes wide and gentle. “The gaoler seems not to know.”

“He was… sullen,” Ravensbrook replied, frowning slightly. If he were aware of Selina Herries staring at him as if she would imprint his features in her mind, he gave no sign of it at all. “I asked him, for Genevieve's sake, to tell me what had happened in that last meeting,” he continued.

“But he would not. I assured him I would not repeat it to the authorities.

It was only for the family I wished to know. But he was adamant.” His voice was level, but seemed tight in his throat, as though he had to force it out, and several times he licked his lips.

Rathbone glanced around the room again. Enid sat stiffbacked, leaning a trifle forward, as if she would be closer to him. Genevieve looked from the witness stand to Enid, and back. Selina Herries clenched her knuckles in front of her, and her bold face was filled with pain, but her eyes did not waver.