by Anne Perry
“Mrs. Stonefield,” Rathbone proceeded, “has your husband ever been away from home overnight before?”
“Oh, yes, quite often. His business necessitated traveling now and then.”
“Any other purpose that you are aware of?”
“Yes …” She stared at him fixedly, her body rigid in its navy and gray wool and trimming silk. “He went quite regularly to the East End of the city, to the Limehouse area, to see his brother. He was …” She seemed lost for words.
Caleb stared as if he would force her to look at him, but she did not.
Several of the jurors were more attentive.
“Fond of him?” Rathbone suggested.
Ebenezer Goode stirred in his seat. Rathbone was leading the witness, but this time he did not object.
“In a way he loved him,” Genevieve said with a frown, still keeping her head turned away from the dock. “I think also he felt a kind of pity, because—”
This time Ebenezer Goode did rise.
“Yes, yes.” The judge waved his hand in a swift motion of dismissal. “Mrs. Stonefield, what you think is not evidence, unless you give us the reasons for your belief. Did your husband express such a sentiment?”
She looked at him with a frown. “No, my lord. It was my impression. Why else would he keep on going to see Caleb, in spite of the way Caleb treated him, unless it was loyalty, and a sort of pity? He defended him to me, even when he was most hurt.”
The judge, a small, lean man with a face so weary he looked as if he could not have slept well in years, regarded her with patient intelligence.
“Do you mean his feelings were wounded, ma’am, or his person?”
“Both, my lord. But if I cannot say what I know by instinct, and because I knew my husband, but only what I can prove by evidence, then I shall say only that he was injured in his person. He had sustained bruises, abrasions, and more than once shallow knife wounds, or some other such sharp instrument.”
Rathbone could not have planned it better. Now there was not a man or woman in the whole courtroom whose attention was not held. All the jurors were sitting bolt upright and facing the witness stand. The judge’s lugubrious face was sharp. In the crowd Rathbone saw Hester Latterly sitting beside Lady Ravensbrook, who was ashen-skinned and looked as if she had aged ten years in the last weeks. Monk had said she’d had typhoid fever. It had certainly taken its toll. Even so, she was a remarkable woman and nothing could rob her features of their character.
Ebenezer Goode bit his lip and rolled his eyes very slightly.
In the dock, Caleb Stone gave a short burst of laughter, and the guards on either side of him inched closer, their disgust plain.
The judge glanced at Rathbone.
“Do we understand, Mrs. Stonefield,” Rathbone picked up the thread again, “that your husband returned from these trips to see his brother, with injuries, sometimes quite serious and painful, and yet he still continued to make these journeys?”
“Yes,” she said steadily.
“What explanation did he offer you for this unusual behavior?” Rathbone inquired.
“That Caleb was his brother,” she answered, “and he could not desert him. Caleb had no one else. They were twins, and it was a bond which could not be broken, even by Caleb’s hatred and his jealousy.”
In the dock, Caleb’s manacled hands, strong and slender, grasped the railing till his knuckles shone white.
Rathbone prayed she would remember precisely what they had discussed and agreed. So far it was going perfectly.
“Were you not afraid that one day the injuries might be more serious?” he asked. “Perhaps he might be crippled or maimed for life?”
Her face was pale and tense, and still she stared straight ahead of her.
“Yes—I was terrified of it. I implored him not to go again.”
“But your pleas did not change his mind?”
“No. He said he could not abandon Caleb.” She ignored Caleb’s snort of derision, almost anguish. “He could always remember the boy he had been,” she said chokingly. “And all that they had shared as children, the grief of their parents’ death …” She blinked several times and her effort to maintain control was apparent.
Rathbone restrained himself from looking at the jury, but he could almost feel their sympathy like a warm tide across the room.
In the crowd, Enid Ravensbrook’s haggard face was softened with pity for the distress she imagined so clearly. There was such a depth of feeling in her, Rathbone could not help the fleeting thought that perhaps she too had known such loneliness as a child.
“Yes?” he prompted Genevieve gently.
“Their sense of total loneliness,” she continued. “And the dreams and fears they had shared. When they were ill or frightened, they turned to each other. There was no one else to care for them. He could not forget that, no matter what Caleb might do to him now. He was always aware that life had been good to him, and for Caleb it had not proved so fortunate.”
In the dock Caleb let out a sound, half groan, half snarl. One of his gaolers touched him gently. The other sneered.
“Did he say that, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone demanded. “Did he use those words, or is that your surmise?”
“No, he used those words, more than once.” Her voice was clear and decisive now. It was a statement.
“You were afraid that Caleb might harm your husband seriously, out of his envy at his success, and the hatred arising from that?” Rathbone asked.
“Yes.”
There was a murmur around the room, a shifting of weight. The sun had gone and the light was grayer across the wood.
“Did he not understand your feelings?” Rathbone asked.
“Oh yes,” she affirmed. “He shared them. He was terrified, but Angus was a man who set duty and honor above all, even his own life. It was a matter of loyalty. He said he owed Caleb a debt for the past and he could not live with himself if he were to run away now.”
One of the jurors nodded his approval and his determination deepened. He glanced up at the dock with bitter contempt.
“What was that debt, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone asked. “Did he say?”
“Only a matter of Caleb having defended him on occasions when they were children,” she replied. “He was not specific, but I think it was from older boys, from teasing and bullying. He did imply that there had been some boy who had been especially brutal, and Caleb had always been the one to take the brunt of it and protect Angus.” The tears momentarily spilled down her face and she ignored them. “Angus never forgot that.”
“I see,” Rathbone said softly, smiling a little. “That is a sentiment of honor I imagine we can all understand and admire.” He gave the jury a moment or two to absorb the idea. Again he did not look at them. It would be far too unsubtle. “But you believe he was frightened, all the same,” he continued. “Why, Mrs. Stonefield?”
“Because before he went he would be restless and withdrawn,” she answered. “Quite unlike his usual manner. He preferred to spend time alone, often pacing the floor. He would be pale-faced, unable to eat, his hands would shake and his mouth be dry. When someone is as deeply afraid as that, Mr. Rathbone, it is not hard to observe it, especially if it is someone you know well, and love.”
“Of course,” he murmured. He was acutely conscious of Caleb crouched forward over the railing, and of two jurors staring at him as if he were a wild animal, and might even leap over upon them, were he not manacled. “Was there anything else?”
“Sometimes he dreamed,” she replied. “He would cry out, calling Caleb’s name, and saying, ‘No! No!’ And then he would wake up covered in perspiration, and his whole body shaking.”
“Did he discuss with you what was in these dreams?”
“No. He was too distressed.” She closed her eyes and her voice quivered. “I would simply hold him in my arms until he went to sleep again, as I would a child.”
There was total silence in the court. For once even Caleb
had his head bent forward so his face was hidden. In the crowd there were only a few sighs of pent-up breath being let go, emotions tight.
Enid looked as if she might weep, and her hand clung to Hester’s.
“I appreciate that this can only be painful for you,” Rathbone resumed after a moment, allowing Genevieve time to master herself. “But there are questions I must ask. When your husband did not return, what steps did you take?”
“The following day I went into his place of business and asked Mr. Arbuthnot, the senior clerk, if perhaps Angus had been called away on business, and somehow the message to me had been lost. He said that had not happened. He—” She stopped.
“Yes, please do not tell us what Mr. Arbuthnot said.” Rathbone smiled at her very slightly. “We shall ask him in due course. Tell us merely what you did yourself, as a result of his information.”
“I waited two more days, then I called upon an agent of inquiry who had been recommended, a Mr. William Monk.”
“I shall be calling both Mr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Monk, my lord,” Rathbone said, then turned back to Genevieve. “What did you say to Mr. Monk?”
“I told him I feared my husband had gone to see his brother, and that Caleb had murdered him.” She hesitated only a moment, gripping the edge of the railing hard, straining the fabric of her navy gloves. “I instructed him to do all he could to find proof of what had occurred. He promised to do so.”
“And as a result of his efforts in this cause, Mrs. Stonefield, did he bring you certain articles of clothing?”
Her face grew even paler and this time her voice was beyond her ability to control. She gulped, and when she spoke it was huskily.
“Yes …”
Rathbone turned to the judge. “May it please your lordship, the prosecution exhibits one and two.”
“Proceed.” The judge nodded in assent.
The clerk produced the coat and trousers Monk had brought back from the Isle of Dogs. They were just as he had presented them to the police, soiled, bloodstained and badly torn.
“Are these the clothes he brought you, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone asked, holding them up so not only she must see, but the whole room. There was a gasp of indrawn breath. He glimpsed Titus Niven, white as a sheet, his eyes blazing with anger, sitting two rows behind Enid Ravensbrook. He saw Hester wince, but knew she at least understood.
Genevieve swayed and for an instant he thought she was going to faint. He stepped forward, although with the height of the witness stand above the floor, he could not practically have assisted her.
One of the jurors groaned audibly. If the verdict had depended upon sympathy rather than fact, and Ebenezer Goode were not to speak, Rathbone could have won at that moment.
The only person in the room who seemed unmoved was Caleb. He seemed merely curious and slightly surprised.
“Would you look at these clothes, Mrs. Stonefield, and tell the court if you recognize them?” Rathbone said very gently, but so his voice carried to every last person in the room. There was not a breath or a rustle to detract from him.
She looked at them for no more than an instant.
“They are the clothes my husband was wearing the last time I saw him,” she said with her eyes on his face. “Please don’t make me touch them. They are covered in his blood!”
Ebenezer Goode opened his mouth and closed it again. No one had proved it was Angus’s blood, but he knew better than to argue the point now. He shot Rathbone a bright, warning glance. Battle would commence at the due time, but he had never doubted that. And Genevieve would not be spared, only treated with the caution necessary not to injure his own cause.
“Of course,” Rathbone murmured. “As long as you have no doubt they are his?”
“None.” Her voice was husky, but quite clear. “I have already read the tailor’s label on the inside, when Mr. Monk first brought them to me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stonefield. I have no need to distress you further, but please remain where you are, in case my learned friend for the defense wishes to speak to you.” He smiled at her, meeting her eyes for a moment and seeing them remarkably steady, before returning to his seat.
Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet, smiling with dazzling benevolence. He approached the witness stand almost deferentially. There was a rustle of interest around the room. Only Caleb seemed not to care. He avoided looking at him.
“Mrs. Stonefield,” Goode began, his voice resonant, caressing the ear, “I am truly so sorry to have to put you through this ordeal, but you do understand that grieved as we all are for your tragedy, it is my duty, specifically mine, to see we do not compound it by blaming someone who is not truly guilty. You see that, I’m sure.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes, I understand,” she answered him.
“Of course you do. You are a generous woman.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, staring up at her. He was still smiling. “I do not doubt that the relationship between your husband and his brother was a troubled one, and that they quarreled occasionally. It could hardly be otherwise, when their paths had become so very different.” He freed his hands, and gestured with them. “Your husband had everything life can afford: a beautiful and virtuous wife, five healthy children, a well-cared-for, comfortable home to return to every evening, a profitable business and the regard and esteem—indeed, the friendship—of the world, both socially and professionally.”
He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Whereas poor Caleb, for whatever reasons, has none of these things. He has no wife, and no children. He sleeps wherever he can find shelter from the cold and the rain. He eats irregularly. He owns little beyond the clothes in which he stands. He earns his living as and where he can, too often by means other men would despise. And indeed he is rejected and despised among men, feared by some, I’ll grant, as perhaps are many whose circumstances drove them to despair.” He smiled at the jury. “I shall not try to depict him as an admirable man, only as one who may justly be pitied, and perhaps one whose occasional anger and resentment of his more fortunate brother is not beyond our limit to understand.”
He had turned a little to face the crowd. Now he spun around to stare at Genevieve again.
“But Mrs. Stonefield, you say that in these visits of your husband’s to the East End, perhaps to Limehouse, or the Isle of Dogs, that he returned home battered and bruised, and sometimes even injured! You did say that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She was puzzled, guarded.
“As if he had been in a fight, perhaps quite a serious one? That was what I understood you to mean. Was I correct?”
“Yes.” Her glance strayed almost to Caleb, then jerked away again.
“Did he say, specifically, that it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs. Stonefield?” Goode pressed. “Please think carefully, and be precise.”
She swallowed, turned to Rathbone, who deliberately looked away. He must not be seen to have any communication with her. She must be alone, utterly alone, if her evidence were to carry its fullest might.
“Mrs. Stonefield?” Goode was impatient.
“It was Caleb he went to see!” she protested.
“Of course it was. I had not considered other possibilities,” Goode conceded, thereby making sure the jury were aware that there were other possibilities. “We do not even need to consider them, at least for the time being. But did he say it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs. Stonefield? That is the crux. Is it not possible that Caleb was in some struggle, and your husband, as a loyal brother, went to his assistance? Come, ma’am, is that impossible?”
“No—not—not impossible, I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But …”
“But what?” He was immeasurably polite. “But Angus was not a brawler?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a man to get into a scrap? Not as you know him, I’m sure, but have you ever seen him in a public house in the Isle of Dogs? Sometimes it takes a very peaceable man, or even a coward, to avoid a fight there. Is Caleb a fighter, ma’am? Could he have
instigated these brawls, or have been the focus of them?”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Really, my lord, how can the witness possibly know such a thing? As my learned friend has pointed out, she was never there!”
Goode smiled at Rathbone with exaggerated courtesy, and not without humor.
“Alas, hoist with my own petard. I concede.” He turned back to Genevieve. “I withdraw the question, ma’am. It was absurd. May I ask, from what your husband said to you, is it possible that he was injured in a fight, or a series of scraps, in Caleb’s company, or even on his way to or from visiting him, but not actually by Caleb? Or is that impossible?”
“It is possible,” she conceded, but everything in her face and the stance of her body denied it.
“And the regrettable blood upon these clothes,” Goode said, his face twisted with distress, “which I willingly accept are his. May I be optimistic, even filled with hope, that it is not in fact his blood at all, but that of some other poor soul, and that he shed them simply because they became spoiled in this manner?”
“Then where is he?” she leaned forward over the railing, her face pleading. “Where is Angus?”
“Alas, I have no idea.” Goode’s expression was one of genuine sorrow, even apology. “But when they were found he was not in them, harmed or unharmed, ma’am. I agree, it does not look fortunate for him, but there is no need to despair, and certainly no proof of any tragedy. Let us keep courage and hope.” He inclined his head slightly, and with something of a flourish returned to his seat.
The judge looked at Rathbone. There was the merest hint of weary humor in his eyes. “Mr. Rathbone, is there anything further you can usefully ask of your witness before I adjourn the court for luncheon?”
“Thank you, no, my lord. I believe she has told her story plainly enough for all to understand.” There was nothing he could do but make her repeat what she had already said. It was a matter of judgment as to what would swing the jury one way or the other. He believed restraint was the better part. He had studied their faces, their reactions to Genevieve. He should not overdo it. Let them form their own opinions of her, paint her as they wished to see her. Her spirit to defend the interests of her children might be misperceived and mar the image.
