Cain His Brother (43 page)

“He asked me for pen and paper,” Ravensbrook said, resuming his account.

“He said he wanted to write a last testament…”

“Did he mean a will, or a statement, do you know?” the coroner inquired.

“He did not say, and I did not ask,” Ravensbrook answered. “I assumed it was some statement, perhaps a form of last words. I hoped it would be his confession or contrition, for his own soul's sake.”

In the audience Selina let out a little cry, then immediately stifled it.

Another woman gave a stifled sob, but whether of personal grief or simply the emotion of the scene, it was impossible to say.

Titus Niven put his hand on Genevieve's, discreetly, very gently, and the tightness in her shoulders eased a fraction.

“So you asked the gaoler for a pen, ink and paper,” the coroner prompted.

“Yes,” Ravensbrook agreed. The emotion in the room did not seem to touch him; perhaps his own turmoil was too great. “When they came, I returned to the cell and gave them to Caleb. He tried to use the pen, but said it was scratchy. The nib needed recutting. I took out my penknife to do it for him…”

“You did not offer him the knife?” the coroner asked, leaning forward earnestly.

Ravensbrook's mouth tightened and his brows furrowed. “No, of course not!”

“Thank you. Proceed.”

Ravensbrook stood even more rigidly. The desperate grip on his emotions, the fragility of his hold, was painfully apparent. He was a man walking through a nightmare, and not a soul in the room could be unaware of it.

This time even the coroner did not prompt him.

Ravensbrook took a deep breath and let it out in an inaudible sigh.

“Without the slightest warning, without saying a word, Caleb launched himself at me. The first I knew of it, he was at my throat, his hand clasping my wrist and attempting to seize the knife from me. We struggled-I to save my life, he to gain mastery over me, whether to kill me or to snatch the knife in an attempt to take his own life, I do not know, nor will I guess.”

There was a slight murmur of assent, a sigh of pity.

“For God's sake, where's Monk?” Goode whispered to Rathbone. “This can't be strung out beyond tomorrow!”

Rathbone did not answer. There was nothing else to say.

“I cannot tell you precisely what happened,” Ravensbrook started again. “It was all too quick. He managed to stab at me several times, half a dozen or so. We fought back and forth. It probably seemed for longer than it was.”

He turned to face the coroner, looking at him earnestly. “I have very little idea whether it was seconds or minutes. I managed to force him away from me. He slipped and my own impetus carried me forward. I tripped over his leg and we landed together. When I arose, he was lying on the floor with the knife in his throat.”

He stopped. There was total motionless silence in the room. Every face was turned towards him, emotions naked in horror and compassion.

Selina Herries looked like a ghost, suddenly thinner, sadder, the brave arrogance leached away.

“When I could gather my senses,” Ravensbrook said, taking up his account again, “and realized that I was no longer in danger from him, I leaned forward and attempted to find his pulse. He was bleeding very profusely, and I feared he was beyond help. I turned to the door and banged and called out for the gaolers. One of them opened it and let me out. The rest I believe you already know.”

“Indeed, my lord,” the coroner agreed. “I do not need to trouble you any further. May I offer you and your family my deepest sympathy in your double loss.”

“Thank you.” Ravensbrook turned to leave.

Goode rose to his feet.

The coroner made a motion with his hand to stop Ravensbrook, who looked at Goode as he would an enemy in the field of battle.

“If you must,” the coroner conceded reluctantly.

“Thank you, sir.” Goode turned to Ravensbrook, smiling courteously, showing all his teeth.

“By your own account, my lord, and by the evidence of your most unfortunate injuries…” he began. “By the way, I hope you are beginning to recover?”

“Thank you,” Ravensbrook said stiffly.

“I am very glad.” Goode inclined his head. “As I was saying, by your own account, my lord, you did not cry out for help until the struggle with Caleb had continued for some moments. Why did you not call immediately? You surely must have appreciated that you were in very considerable danger?”

Ravensbrook stared at him, his face white.

“Of course I knew that,” he said, his jaw clenched, the muscles visible even from where Rathbone sat.

“And yet you did not cry out,” Goode persisted. “Why not?”

Ravensbrook looked at him with loathing.

“I doubt you would understand, sir, or you would not ask. For all his sins and ingratitude, his disloyalty, Caleb Stonefield had been a son to me. I hoped I might deal with the matter without the authorities ever needing to know of it. It was the most tragic accident that it ended as it did. I could have hidden my own wounds until I was clear of the courthouse. He was, until the end, unhurt.”

“I see,” Goode replied expressionlessly.

He went on to ask all manner of further questions, sought explanations of the finest points. Rathbone did the same after him, until it was apparent he had lost all sympathy from the crowd and worn the coroner's patience threadbare. He conceded at quarter past four in the afternoon, and was called by the coroner to take the stand himself. The coroner elicited his evidence and dispatched him within twelve minutes.

Goode racked his brains, and could think of nothing further to ask him.

At twenty-nine minutes to five Monk was called, and found to be absent.

Rathbone protested that he should be located. The coroner pointed out that since Rathbone himself had been in Monk's presence every moment of the relevant time, there was nothing useful that Monk could add.

Goode rose to his feet, and was also overruled.

The coroner adjourned the sitting until the following day.

Rathbone and Goode left the court together, deep in anxiety. There was no word from Monk.

The first witness of the morning was Hester Latterly.

“Miss Latterly.” The coroner smiled at her benignly. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. Simply answer the questions to the best of your ability. If you do not know the answer, then say so.”

“Yes sir.” She nodded and smiled back at him innocently.

“You were leaving the courtroom after attending the trial, when you were informed by the gaoler Bailey that someone was injured and needed medical assistance, is that correct?” He was not going to allow her to ramble by telling the story in her own words. He had summarized it for her most precisely.

Rathbone swore under his breath.

“If Monk doesn't come within an hour, it is all going to be over,” Goode said. “Where in God's name is he? Is there an early train from Chilverley this morning? Should I go and look for him?”

Rathbone glanced around desperately. “I'll send a clerk,” he said. “Mr.

Rathbone?” the coroner said with a frown.

“I beg your pardon,” Rathbone apologized grinfly.

The coroner turned to Hester. “Miss Latterly?”

“Yes?”

“Would you please answer the question?”

“I beg your pardon, sir. What was it?” Very carefully the coroner repeated himself.

“Yes sir,” she replied. “I had attended the trial with Lady Ravensbrook.”

She then repeated the entire procedure of her departure, Bailey's arrival, Enid's reaction, her own reaction, the instructions she had given to the coachman and her reasons for doing so, all the alternatives and why they were unacceptable, Enid's assurance that she would be perfectly able to manage and that she would indeed go home, and then her return with Bailey through the courtroom buildings and her arrival at the cells. Nothing the coroner could say-and he tried several times-would stop her. She seemed not to hear him.

Rathbone shot a sideways glance at Goode, and saw his incredulity, and the beginning of a bleak amusement.

“Yes,” the coroner said grimly. “Thank you. What did you see when you arrived at the cells, Miss Latterly? Please confine yourself to what is relevant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please confine yourself to what is relevant, Miss Latterly.”

“To what, sir?”

“To what is relevant, Miss Latterly!” the coroner said extremely loudly.

“Relevant to what, sir?”

The coroner controlled himself with some effort.

“To the matter of Caleb Stone's death, madam.”

“I am afraid I don't know what is relevant,” she replied without a flicker of expression in her face. “It would seem, from what I observed, that he was possessed by such a frantic hatred of his erstwhile guardian, Lord Ravensbrook, that he was prepared, at any cost whatever, even the certain sacrifice of his own life by hanging… surely a most damnable way to die, to inflict upon him some injury, even to wish his death. I am sorry.

That is a very complicated sentence. Perhaps I had better rephrase it-' “No!” the coroner shouted. Then he drew a deep breath. “That is not necessary, Miss Latterly. Your meaning is perfectly plain, even if not your reasons for believing so.”

She launched into her reasons for believing so, impervious to his attempted interruptions. She seemed to be hard of hearing, verging upon outright deafness. She described in detail exactly how Lord Ravensbrook had appeared to her, describing every sign with clinical thoroughness, and drawing upon her experience of soldiers in shock in the Crimea to illustrate that her opinion was an expert one. Then she described his wounds, their appearance, her treatment of them, how she had been obliged to make use of Rathbone's shirt, and why the gaolers' shirts would not do, her apologies to Rathbone for the inconvenience and her belief that Ravensbrook would make good his loss. When she had finished that, without drawing breath, she went on to describe Ravensbrook's response to the treatment. By half past twelve she still had not reached the point where she had opened the cell door and seen the body of Caleb Stone.

The coroner adjourned the sitting for luncheon, and retired exhausted.

“Brilliant, if somewhat farcical,” Goode said dourly, in the same tavern as the day before. “But unless Monk turns up with something this afternoon, it will achieve nothing. I think one of us should go to Chilverley and get him!”

“He would come if he had anything!” Rathbone said.

When the court reconvened, it was packed to standing room. No one offered an explanation as to why. Perhaps it was because it had not gone as expected, perhaps it was the hope of some revelation, possibly it was Hester's performance, and the sense of the absurd. Suddenly it had all be- come interesting.

The coroner had dined well. He was in a better mood for battle and he met Hester's resumption of evidence with a stern eye and a voice which was perfectly willing and capable of shouting her down.

“Would you please tell me if Caleb Stone was dead when you looked into the cell, Miss Latterly. `Yes' or 'No' will suffice.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile of agreeability.

“He was dead?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

At some length she told him, explaining all the ways by which one might know that life is extinct.

“I am a physician and a lawyer, ma'am!” he shouted above her. “I am perfectly aware of the difference between life and death.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said pleasantly.

He repeated what he had said.

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean I am sorry for having told you what you already know, sir. Of course, I knew you must be a lawyer. I did not appreciate you were a physician also. If I have slighted you, I am very sorry.”

“Not at all,” he said graciously. “Thank you. I have nothing further to ask you.” He looked at Rathbone and Goode meaningfully. “Your evidence has been most complete!” he added.

Nevertheless Goode rose to his feet and asked her to clarify as much as he could possibly misunderstand. He was drawing to the end of his wit and invention when an elderly gentleman in clerical garb made his way, with difficulty, to the front of the room and handed a letter to Rathbone.

Rathbone tore it open and read it, and let out an audible sigh of relief.

Goode turned to look at him, and saw the rescue in his eyes. He allowed Hester to draw to a close at last and be released with a sigh of gratitude from the coroner, and some disappointment from that part of the crowd who had known neither Caleb nor Angus, and had no emotional involvement in the outcome.

The doctor who had examined the body was called. The coroner dealt with his evidence and dispatched him in less than a quarter of an hour. Neither Goode nor Rathbone could think of anything further to ask him. He had said that the cause of death was a slashing wound from the penknife which had caught the jugular vein, and the deceased had then bled to death. It was quite consistent with him having held the weapon in his other hand, and its being forced back into his throat in a fall or during a struggle. There was nothing more to add.

Rathbone rose to his feet. Where on earth was Monk? If he did not appear in the next few minutes they would lose by default. He could not spin this out any longer. The coroner's patience was stretched to breaking. “With respect, sir, while all this is both true and relevant, it still does not tell us whether his death was accidental or not.”

“In the absence of proof that it was suicide, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner said patiently, “we shall have to assume that he attacked Lord Ravensbrook in the same jealousy and hatred which apparently possessed him with regard to his brother, only in this case his weapon was turned upon himself, and he became the victim.”

Rathbone took a deep breath and laid his reputation in the balance. “Or there is the third possibility, sir; that it was not Caleb who attacked Lord Ravensbrook, but that the outcome was exactly what was meant from the beginning.”

There was utter silence, not even an indrawn breath of disbelief. It was as if life in the room were suspended. Enid was ashen-faced, Genevieve paralyzed.