Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  She could do it. She could begin as soon as Enid awoke. Monk himself could find the necessary addresses, if there were no better way of obtaining them. She could begin with ten or a dozen. There was no time to be lost.

  “You must have been to some wonderful parties,” she began with enthusiasm when Enid awoke and she puffed up her pillows and brought her a little light food. “Please tell me about them. I should love to hear.”

  “Would you?” Enid said doubtfully. “I would not have thought such things would interest you in the slightest.” She looked at Hester narrowly, amusement in her eyes.

  “People are always interesting,” Hester said truthfully. “Even people with whom one would not necessarily wish to spend great periods of time. Please tell me about the last big society party you went to. Who was there? What did they say? What did they do?”

  “Who was there?” Enid repeated thoughtfully, staring past Hester at the curtains. “Well … I remember John Pickering, because he told that awful story about the bishop, and …” She reminisced with a short smile and a dry, not unkind observation, and gradually Hester knew from her what she needed, committing every relevant fact to memory.

  The next day she found Monk at home, looking weary, irritable and frightened. She might have tried to comfort him, had she had time and not been so afraid he would somehow realize what she meant to do, and stop her.

  “Do you still have the wretched letter that woman wrote to you?” she asked hastily.

  He was standing by the fire, effectively shielding her from the warmth, although that had probably not occurred to him.

  “Why?” he asked. “I’ve read it several times. It doesn’t give any clues at all as to why it is she hates me, or who she really is, beyond the obvious.”

  “Do you have it or not?” Hester said sharply. “Please don’t argue with everything I say. There really isn’t time.”

  “You haven’t said anything else,” he pointed out.

  “And I won’t have time to, if you keep on being so persnickety. Do you have the letter?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then may I see it please?”

  “What for?” He did not move.

  “Get it!” she ordered.

  He hesitated, as if to argue further, then decided it was not worth the emotional effort. He went to the bureau drawer and took out the letter, passing it to her with a look of distaste.

  “Thank you.” She put it into her pocket, then unfolded the piece of paper on which she had written the addresses of eighteen gentlemen who would serve her purpose. “I need the London addresses of as many of these as you can find, unless they are in the country at present,” she instructed, holding it out to him. “Then it will be no use. I want at least twelve, and by tomorrow midday, if you please. It is of the utmost importance. You may leave them at my lodgings, in a sealed envelope. Don’t fail.” She turned to leave. “I am sorry I cannot remain, but I have a great deal to do. Good night.”

  “Hester!” he shouted. “What for? What on earth do you want them for? What are you doing?” He strode to the door after her, but she had her hand on the knob already.

  “I have told you, I have no time to discuss it now,” she replied briskly. “I shall explain it all later. Please do as I have asked you, and as rapidly as possible. Good night.”

  She began as soon as she reached her lodgings, where her landlady was quite surprised to see her, as she had been there so little of late. Hester spoke to her graciously, said how pleasant it was to be home again, and announced that she would spend the evening writing letters. In the unlikely event anyone should call, she was not available to receive them.

  Her landlady looked both alarmed and fascinated, but did not let down her own dignity sufficiently to ask for an explanation. It was beneath a lady, and she wanted to be thought a lady, which prevented her exhibiting anything so vulgar as curiosity.

  As soon as she had eaten, Hester began her task, doing her best to imitate Drusilla’s flowery, erratic hand.

  My dearest love,

  I am still on fire from the joy of our last meeting. Of course I do understand the necessity for secrecy, at least for the time being, but the tenderness of your eyes was enough to thrill me to my very heart …

  This was quite fun to write in such an unbridled strain. She would never in the world write like this if she were putting her own name to it, no matter what she felt. She continued.

  I long for the time when we may be alone together, so that this pretense may no longer be, when you can take me in your arms and we can give ourselves to each other with the passion which I know you feel, as I do, tearing me apart. I ache for you. My dreams are filled with the sight of you and the sound of your voice, the touch of your skin against mine, the taste of your mouth …

  Oh, dear! Had she gone too far?

  But the aim of this was to be as excruciatingly embarrassing as possible. The man who received this must regard Drusilla Wyndham with an abhorrence verging on terror.

  She proceeded.

  I know all the things you dare not say. I do not misunderstand your occasional coldness towards me when we chance to meet in public. I burn inside, my heart melts to be able to tell the world that we are lovers, albeit yet to dare the final act, but I shall wait, knowing it will not be forever, and that soon, soon my darling, you will cut the ties that bind you to your wife now, and we shall be free to be together for ever.

  Your one true love,

  Drusilla

  There now! If that did not make the man squirm, then he was a rake and a cad and possessed of no decency at all!

  Naturally she had chosen only married men, or those about to be.

  She reread what she had written. Perhaps it was a bit extreme? What Drusilla had done was appalling, but such a letter might damage her irreparably, several almost certainly would, which would make Hester morally no better than Drusilla herself. And she realized with a wave of misery that even Monk was not sure that he had not somehow caused her hatred.

  She tore up the letter and put the little pieces into the wastebasket, and began again.

  This one was much more moderate, inviting misinterpretation, but phrased in such a manner that it could, at a stretch of the imagination, and with a great deal of charity, be explained reasonably innocently.

  That was better. Please heaven she had not softened it too much, and it would still cause the necessary misgivings, and mistrust of anything Drusilla might say, the flickers of personal fear, the fellow feeling with another man who had had his words or his actions misconstrued by a vain and overeager woman.

  She wrote several more. By the time she put her pen down at a quarter to ten, her hand ached and her eyes were stinging.

  Two days later Lord Fontenoy opened his mail at the breakfast table. It appeared the usual collection of bills, invitations and polite letters of one sort or another. There was none which occasioned any unusual interest, and certainly no alarm … until he came to the last one.

  Lady Fontenoy, who had been reading a letter from her cousin in Wales, heard him splutter, and looked up, then with some anxiety forgot her own mail entirely.

  “My dear, are you all right? You look quite unwell. Is it distressing news?”

  “No!” he said overloudly. “No, not at all,” he amended. “It is something quite trivial.” He strove to invent a plausible lie, something to account for his pale face and shaking hands, and yet not excite her curiosity so that she expected to read the wretched thing … which of course he could refuse, but he did not wish her suspicion aroused. He had a really most agreeable domestic life, and desired intensely to keep it so. “No, my dear, it is simply a most foolish letter from someone who desires to make trouble in a quarter I had not foreseen. It’s unpleasant, but nothing to cause undue worry. I shall deal with it.” Perhaps he was reacting too strongly. He recalled the phrases used. They had initially appalled him, but on second thought, they were ambiguous, capable of less demanding intent.

  “
Are you sure?” Lady Fontenoy pressed. “You do look very pale, Walter.”

  “I swallowed my tea a little hastily,” he replied. “I fear it did not go quite the right way. Uncomfortable. Please don’t distress yourself. How is Dorothea? That is a letter from Dorothea, is it not?”

  She realized that was the end of the conversation. She accepted that he would not mention it again, but she knew perfectly well that the letter he had received had shaken his composure very thoroughly, and she was not at ease for the rest of the day.

  Sir Peter Welby was also highly upset by his morning mail. Being still a bachelor, now on the brink of a very fortunate marriage, he breakfasted alone, apart from the distant presence of his manservant.

  “Good God!” he expostulated, when he had read the alarming missive. If that should fall into the wrong hands, it could be very damagingly misconstrued. It could all become very ugly indeed, if read by someone unkindly disposed.

  “Sir?” his manservant said questioningly.

  His reaction was to tear it up, into many pieces, and those as small as possible, then put it all on the breakfast room fire. He remembered the woman quite clearly. He had danced with her, several times. She was very comely and had an air about her which was highly attractive. She had wit and, he had thought, intelligence. But she must be out of her senses to have perceived his very slight flirtation as anything more, and supposed that he had even the remotest intent to pursue the relationship, now of all times!

  If she really did mean what she seemed to, then he must convince her he had no such thought in mind, nor ever had had.

  But then perhaps she had merely expressed herself unfortunately? Better not to mention it at all—to anyone. Let it blow over. He must be a great deal more careful in the future. Handsome women of a certain age were the very devil.

  The Honourable John Blenkinsop read his mail with total disbelief. He refolded the letter hastily and was in the act of replacing it in its envelope when his wife, who had no mail this morning, interrupted his train of thought. She had news of her own to discuss, which she had heard the previous evening, only she had retired before he had returned from his club and thus had had no opportunity to pass it on.

  “Did you know, John, the most dreadful thing happened in North Audley Street the other day.” She leaned forward over the toast and marmalade. “Poor Drusilla Wyndham, such a lovely creature, was assaulted in a hansom. Can you imagine anything so perfectly dreadful? She had asked some man’s assistance in a matter, and the man, a very ordinary person, by all accounts, mistook her civility for encouragement and attempted to force his attentions on her! John, are you listening to me?”

  “Force his attentions?” he repeated confusedly. “You mean kiss her?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “He even went so far as to tear her gown open at the bosom. The whole thing must have been a nightmare for her, poor creature. She only escaped him by hurling herself out of the hansom, as it was moving, mind you, and fell into the road. How she was not injured, I cannot think.”

  The letter burned in his hand.

  “I wouldn’t put too much weight to it, my dear …” he began.

  “What?” She was aghast. “How can you say such a thing? What on earth do you mean? The man behaved unpardonably!”

  “Possibly, my dear, but some women do imagine things to be quite—”

  “Imagine?” She was nonplussed. “The man put his hands on her, John! He tore her gown! How can she have imagined that?”

  “Well … perhaps he merely brushed against her, the motions of the cab, and all that …” He thought of his own brush with Drusilla, and the absurd interpretation it seemed she had put upon that. His sympathy was entirely with this fellow, whoever he was. He broke out in a sweat thinking how easily he could have been in his place. “Rather a hysterical woman, my dear,” he added. “Don’t like to distress you, but I wouldn’t accept all she says, if I were you. Single women in their thirties and all that. Given to fancies of a rather heated nature. It can happen. Misunderstood a civility for something much more. Easy enough.”

  She frowned. “Do you really think so, John? I find it hard to believe.”

  “Of course you do, my dear.” He forced a smile, although it felt painted onto his face. “Because you are a woman, and properly married with a home of your own, and all that goes with it. You would never imagine such things. But not all women are as you, you must appreciate that. Be advised, Mariah. A good friend of mine, whose name I will not mention to avoid his embarrassment, has had a similar experience with a young woman, and he was as innocent as the day, I assure you. But in the heat of her … her imagination, she totally misread him, and accused him of … well … it is not fit for you to hear.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” She was totally taken aback. “Well, I never. I really had not thought …”

  “It does you credit.” He rose and left the table. “But I urge you to dismiss the matter altogether, and on no account be drawn into discussion of it. Now you must excuse me, my dear. Please do not let me disturb you.” And as he passed the fire he dropped the letter into it and hesitated long enough to see the flames consume it, to his infinite relief. It would not be spoken of again.

  9

  FOUR DAYS LATER the trial of Caleb Stone began in the Central Criminal Court in the Old Bailey. For the prosecution was Oliver Rathbone, for the defense Ebenezer Goode. Goode was also a Queen’s Counsel of flair and skill. He had taken the case not for the fee, there was none, but for the high profile of the issue, and perhaps even more for the challenge. Rathbone knew him slightly. They had appeared in opposition to each other before. Goode was a man in his mid-forties, tall and rather gangling, but the most remarkable things about him were his prominent, very bright, pale blue-gray eyes and his broad, startling smile. He was full of enthusiasm and had a highly eccentric sense of humor. He was also inordinately fond of cats.

  The spectators’ seats were not as crowded as for a trial where the accused was a member of high society, or the victim a more colorful character than Angus Stonefield. There was no hint of sexual scandal, and apparently no money involved. And since there was no corpse, the question of murder was one of the issues yet to be proved. Those who had come were there largely to witness the duel between Rathbone and Goode to prove that very point. They were connoisseurs of the adversarial procedure.

  It was a fine, blustery day outside. Shafts of sunlight brightened the windows and shone in hazy beams across the wooden panels of the walls, the floor and the carved panoply of the judge’s seat. The jurors were ready, twelve carefully chosen men of solemnity, proven worthiness, and of course the appropriate qualifications of property ownership.

  Rathbone called his first witness, Genevieve Stonefield. There was only the mildest stir of anticipation as she crossed the court and climbed the steps to the witness-box. On Rathbone’s advice she was wearing not black, but a mixture of dark gray and navy. It was sober, unostentatious, and extremely flattering. She looked tired and strained, but the essential passion and intelligence in her face were heightened, and as she turned at the top of the steps and looked towards the room, there was a sudden rustle of interest. One man drew in his breath in surprise and a woman clicked her teeth.

  Rathbone smiled. Genevieve Stonefield was that sort of woman. She caused emotions, perhaps of envy, in the female members of the crowd, even if they did not quite know why. There was something in her yet to be awakened, something more elemental than in most women. He must handle it with the utmost care. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing a jury could only ever be composed of men.

  She was sworn in and gave her name and address, staring solemnly at Rathbone as if there were no one else present. Not once did her eyes stray to the judge or the jury, not even to the clerk who gave her the Bible.

  Rathbone rose to his feet and approached the high witness stand, but stopped some distance away so he did not have to crane his neck to see her. He began quietly.

  “Mrs. Ston
efield, would you please tell the court all you can remember of events on the last day you saw your husband. Begin with your conversation at breakfast.”

  She took a deep breath, and her voice was almost steady when she replied.

  “There was nothing remarkable in the post,” she said. “A few letters from friends, an invitation—” She stopped and had to make a considerable effort to control herself. It was not visible, no tears or trembling, no groping for a handkerchief, just a long hesitation before she resumed. “It was to a musical evening, in three days’ time, which he said we should accept. It was a violin recital. He was particularly fond of the violin. He found its tones emotionally very stirring, in a way nothing else quite touched.”

  “So you wrote to accept?” Rathbone interrupted. “Believing he fully intended to be there?”

  “Yes.” She drew in her breath. “I never excused myself. They must think me most rude! It quite went out of my head.”

  “If they did not understand at the time, I am quite certain they will now,” he assured her. “Please continue.”

  “Angus received one or two household bills which he said he would attend to when he came home, then he left for his business. He said he would be home for dinner.”

  “Have you seen him since, Mrs. Stonefield?”

  Her voice was very quiet, almost a whisper. “No.”

  “Have you had any communication from him whatever?”

  “No.”

  Rathbone walked a pace to the left and shifted his weight a little. He was acutely aware of Ebenezer Goode leaning back in his chair, a slight smile on his face, his eyes bright and watchful. He was at ease, confident, but never so careless as to take anything for granted.

  In the dock, Caleb Stone stood motionless. His hair was long and thick and curled wildly, adding to the reckless look of his face with its wide mouth and brilliant green eyes. His very lack of movement drew the gaze in a room where everyone else fidgeted now and then, shifting position, scratching a nose or an ear, turning to look at someone or something, whispering to a neighbor. The only person who did not even glance his way was Genevieve, as if she could not bear to see his face with its mirrorlike resemblance to the husband she had loved.