Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “I can well believe it, ma’am. I have heard suggestions he is a very powerful man with an excellent skill in defending himself, and considerable physical courage.”

  She stood a little straighter, her head high.

  “That’s right. No one beats Caleb Stone.”

  Her pride caught him with a knife stab of pity, and he knew, almost without letting his eyes stray to the jury, that it was also the last fragment needed to tip the thin balance of belief towards conviction.

  “Thank you, Miss Herries.” He turned to Goode. “Your witness, sir.”

  Goode rose slowly, as if he were tired, uncurling his long legs. He ambled across the open space of the floor and stopped before the witness stand, looking up at her.

  “Ah, Miss Herries. Allow me to ask you a few questions. They will not take long.” He smiled at her dazzlingly. From the look in her face she may well have found that more unnerving than Rathbone’s elegance. “Nor prove painful,” he added.

  “Yeah.”

  “Excellent. I’m most obliged.” He tucked his thumbs under the armholes of his waistcoat beneath his gown. “Did Caleb tell you why he was prepared to ask his brother for money, considering the feeling between them? Or indeed, why his brother was willing to give it?”

  “No, ’e don’t tell me things like that. I’nt my bus’ness. Angus always gave ’im money, if ’e wanted it. Guilt, I reckon.”

  “Guilt for what, Miss Herries? Was Angus responsible for Caleb’s misfortune?”

  “I dunno,” she said sharply. “Mebbe ’e was! Mebbe ’e poisoned the old man’s mind agin’ Caleb. ’E were all goody-goody. Butter wouldn’t melt in ’is mouf. ’Ow do I know what ’e felt? I jus’ know ’e came any time Caleb sent for ’im.”

  “I see. And was Angus at all apprehensive when you gave him Caleb’s message?”

  “Wot?”

  “I apologize. Did he seem to you to be worried or fearful? Was he reluctant to go?”

  “No. Well … I s’pose ’e didn’t want ter leave his bus’ness. But he never did. That ain’t ’ard t’understand—’oo’d waana leave a nice warm office uptarn ter go ter some public ’ouse on the Isle of Dogs?”

  “No one, indeed,” Goode agreed. “But beyond that natural reluctance, he was as usual?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he had often met with Caleb before?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He did not, for example, offer to give you the money, to save himself the journey to Limehouse, and in fact the necessity to see Caleb at all?”

  “No.” She did not add anything further, but there was surprise in her face, as well as antagonism.

  Goode hesitated, seemed to consider a further question, then discard it.

  Rathbone had a sudden flash of intuition as to what it was. He determined to ask it himself on reexamination. Goode had led the way for him.

  “And when you saw Caleb the day after?” Goode resumed. “He made no reference to Angus, is that right?”

  “Yeah. ’E din’t say nuffin’ at all abaht ’im.” Her face was pale; Rathbone was sure she was lying. He looked across at the jury and saw reflected in their faces exactly what he felt. No one believed her.

  “Do you know if he killed his brother, Miss Herries?” Goode’s voice cut across the silence.

  There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room.

  Caleb let out a short cry of derision, almost like a bark.

  “No,” Selina said, shaking her head from side to side, as if to be rid of something that caught at her. “No, I don’t know nuffin’ like that, an’ you got no right to say as ’e did!”

  “I’m not saying it, Miss Herries,” Goode assured her. “I am doing my utmost to persuade these gentlemen here”—he waved his hand in the general direction of the jury—“that there is no proof whatever even that Angus is dead—no absolute proof at all—let alone that they can hold his brother responsible for it! There are a dozen other possibilities as to where Angus Stonefield may be—and why!”

  Rathbone stood up.

  The judge sighed. “Mr. Goode, this is not the time to address the jury, either directly or indirectly, as you well know. If you have any further questions for this witness, please put them to her. If not, then allow Mr. Rathbone to redirect, if he so chooses.”

  “Of course.” Goode bowed with formal, if rather ostentatious courtesy, and returned to his seat. “Mr. Rathbone.”

  Rathbone faced Selina. He smiled. “You just confirmed to my learned friend that Caleb had often met with Angus before, and you were aware of this. You also said that on the occasion we are specifically referring to, the last day on which Angus Stonefield was ever seen, that Caleb was not in a temper any different from usual.”

  “Yeah.” She had already admitted as much, and it seemed a favorable thing to acknowledge.

  “Yet he sent for his brother, and his brother dropped all his matters of business, and came—to a public tavern on the Isle of Dogs—so far as you know, simply to pass over money, which since it was for your rent, he could easily have given to you. And as you say, who would willingly leave a warm office in the West End, to—”

  The judge did not wait for Goode. “Mr. Rathbone, you are retracing old ground. Please, if you have a point, come to it!”

  “Yes, my lord. I do have a point, indeed. Miss Herries, you are telling us that for Caleb to send for his brother, for him to come, and for Caleb to be bruised, stiff, injured, scarred, perhaps bleeding in places, but nonetheless jubilant, having won a fight, was a perfectly normal pattern of behavior for him. And you have also said no one beats Caleb Stone. That ‘no one’ must include his unfortunate brother, who has not been seen since! Only his bloodstained clothes have been found on the Isle of Dogs!”

  Selina said nothing. Her face was as white as the paper on which the court clerk wrote.

  In the dock Caleb Stone started to laugh, wildly. It soared in pitch and volume until it seemed to fill the room and reverberate from the wooden paneling.

  The judge banged his gavel and was ignored—it was no more than an instrument beating time to the uproar. He demanded silence, and no one even heard him. Caleb’s hysterical laughter drowned out everything else. The gaolers grabbed at him, and he flung them off.

  In the gallery journalists scrambled over each other to get out and grab the first hansom to race to Fleet Street and the extra editions.

  Enid rose to her feet amid the clamor, looking one way, then the other. She tried to speak to Ravensbrook, but he ignored her, staring at the dock as if transfixed. He did not seem to see what was in front of him, the frenzy and the farce, only some terrible truth within him.

  The judge was still banging his gavel, a sharp, thin, rhythmic sound without meaning.

  Rathbone waved his hands to indicate that Selina Herries might be excused. She swiveled around and descended the steps to the floor, her head always turned towards Caleb.

  Finally the gaolers overpowered him and he was led down. Some semblance of order was restored.

  Red-faced, the judge adjourned the court.

  Outside in the corridor Rathbone, considerably shaken, ran into Ebenezer Goode, looking shocked and unhappy.

  “Didn’t think you could do it, my dear fellow,” he said with a sigh. “But from the jury’s faces, I would wager now that you’ll get a conviction. Never had a client been so hell-bent on his own destruction.”

  Rathbone smiled, but it was a gesture of amiability, not of any pleasure. His victory would bring a professional satisfaction, but it was curiously devoid of personal triumph. He had thought Caleb Stone totally despicable. Now his feelings were less clear. The force of his instability, the awareness of his emotions in the room, even though he had not yet spoken, became tangled in his judgments, and he found himself awaiting his testimony with far less certainty of the outcome than Goode.

  Lord and Lady Ravensbrook were standing a few yards from them. She looked ashen, but determined not to give way. She was supported by
her husband. Hester must have been temporarily dismissed, perhaps to summon the carriage.

  Ravensbrook did not hesitate to interrupt.

  “Goode! I must speak with you.”

  Goode turned politely, and then he saw Enid. His expression altered instantly to one of amazement and concern. Apparently he had not met her, but he surmised who she was.

  “My dear lady, you must still be far from recovered. Please permit me to find you some more comfortable place to wait.”

  Ravensbrook recognized his own omission with a flicker of anger, and introduced them hastily. Goode bowed, not taking his eyes from Enid’s face. In the circumstances the quality of his attention was a compliment, and she smiled, in spite of herself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Goode. I think I shall wait in my carriage. I am sure Miss Latterly will return in a few moments, and I shall be quite all right until then. It is very kind of you to think of it.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “We cannot permit you to stand, even until your carriage should come. I shall fetch a chair.” And so saying, he ignored Ravensbrook and Rathbone, marched some ten yards away, and returned carrying a large wooden chair, which he placed near the wall, and assisted Enid into it.

  The matter dealt with, Ravensbrook turned to Goode again, ignoring Rathbone, although he could not have failed to know who he was.

  “Is there any hope?” he said bluntly. His face was still stiff and blurred with shock.

  Rathbone moved a step away, in courtesy, although he was not beyond earshot.

  “Of finding the truth?” Goode raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it, my lord. Certainly not of proving it. I daresay what happened to Angus will always be a matter of surmise. If you mean what will the verdict be, at present I think a conviction of some sort is not unlikely, although whether it will be murder or manslaughter I would not venture to say.” He took a deep breath. “We must first hear Caleb’s story. That may now be different from earlier. He has heard evidence which may prompt him to speak more openly of the meeting with his brother.”

  “You intend to call him?” Ravensbrook’s body was rigid, his skin like paper. “Do you not fear he will damn himself out of his own mouth, if he has not already done so? I ask you in compassion not to. If you leave it as it is, plead a quarrel which got out of hand, on his behalf, then the jury may return manslaughter, or even less, perhaps only the conceding of a death.” Hope flickered boldly in his dark eyes. “That would surely be in the best interests of your client. He is quite apparently insane. Perhaps the only place for him is Bedlam.”

  Goode considered it for several moments. “Possibly,” he conceded, pulling down his brows, his voice very quiet. “But the jury is not well disposed towards him. His own behavior has seen to that. Bedlam is not a place I would send a dog. I think I must give him the opportunity to tell the story himself. There is always far less likelihood of the jury believing it if he will not tell it himself.”

  “Rathbone will destroy him!” Ravensbrook accused in a sudden flair of temper. “He will lose control of himself again if he is pressed, and he is frightened. Then he’ll say anything, simply to shock.”

  “I will make the judgment when I have spoken with him,” Goode promised. “Although I am inclined to agree with you.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Of course it is his decision,” Goode added. “The man is being tried for his life. If he wishes to speak, then he must be allowed.”

  “Cannot you, as his legal adviser, protect him from himself?” Ravensbrook demanded.

  “I can advise him, that is all. I cannot deny him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.”

  “I see.” Ravensbrook glanced at Rathbone’s profile. “Then I think he has very little chance. Since I am his only living relative, and once he is convicted I may have no further opportunity to speak with him, I would like to see him, alone. Today, at least, he is still an innocent man.”

  “Of course,” Goode agreed quickly. “Would you like me to arrange it for you?”

  “I shall seek your help if it is necessary,” Ravensbrook answered. “I am obliged for your offer.” He glanced at Rathbone, then at Enid on her chair.

  She looked at him in a long, curious, pleading gaze, as if there were a question she did not know how to frame.

  If he understood, there was no reflection of it in his expression or in his bearing. He did not offer any further explanation.

  “Wait for me in the carriage,” he told her. “You will be more comfortable there. Miss Latterly will be back in a few moments.” And without anything further, he took his leave, walking rapidly towards the stairs down to the cells.

  Some twenty minutes later Rathbone was outside on the entrance steps to the street, talking to Monk, who had just arrived. Ebenezer Goode came striding down, his hair flying, his face ashen. He pushed past a clerk, almost knocking the man off his feet.

  “What is it?” Rathbone said with a sudden upsurge of fear. “What’s happened, man? You look terrible!”

  Goode seized him by the arm, half turning him around.

  “He’s dead! It’s all over. He’s dead!”

  “Who’s dead?” Monk demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  “Caleb,” his voice was hoarse. “Caleb is dead.”

  “He can’t be!” Rathbone knew even as he said it that it was stupid. He was trying to deny reality, because it was ugly and he did not want to believe it.

  “How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don’t know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the long torture of a judicial hanging. I should be glad.” He said the words between his teeth, hard and guttural. “Why can’t I be?”

  Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed. Rathbone had succeeded. The Duke of Wellington’s words rang in his ears about the next most terrible thing to a battle lost being a battle won. There was no taste of victory whatever.

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Goode said shakily. “Ravensbrook went in to see him, as he asked. Apparently Caleb was concerned he was going to be found guilty. He said he wanted to write a statement. Perhaps it was a confession, or an indication of something, who knows? Ravensbrook came out for a quill and a paper for him. He took them back in. Apparently the quill was poor. He found his penknife to recut it …”

  Rathbone felt sick, as if he knew the words before they came.

  “Caleb suddenly lurched forward, seized the knife, and attacked Ravensbrook,” Goode said, his eyes going from Rathbone to Monk, and back again.

  Rathbone was startled. It was not what he had thought after all.

  “They fought,” Goode went on. “Poor Ravensbrook is cut quite badly.”

  “God help him,” Rathbone said quietly. “That was not the ending I wanted, but perhaps it is not the worst. Thank you, Goode. Thank you for telling me.”

  11

  RATHBONE WAS STUNNED by the news. It was preposterous, even if not all the elements were tragic. He had never known such a thing to happen before, certainly not in this manner.

  Monk was standing stock-still, his face dark.

  “Come on,” Rathbone said gently. “It’s all over.”

  Monk did not move. “No it isn’t. I don’t understand it.”

  Rathbone laughed abruptly. “Do you ever? Do any of us? If you thought he was going to tell you what he did with Angus, or why he killed him now, instead of sometime in the past years, you were dreaming. The wretched man was mad. Dear God, wasn’t that evidence enough? Jealousy had driven him insane. What more is there to understand?”

  “Why he attacked Ravensbrook now,” Monk replied, turning and standing to climb the steps back up. “What good would it have done him?”

  “None at all!” Rathbone said impatiently, following rapidly afte
r him. “What good did killing Angus do him? Nothing except release his hatred. Perhaps he felt the same way about Ravensbrook. He had nothing to lose. Can’t hang him twice.”

  “But they weren’t necessarily going to hang him at all!” Monk said sharply, striding through the door and into the hallway. “Goode hadn’t even begun. He’s a damned clever lawyer.” They passed a group of dark-suited men talking quietly, and almost bumped into a clerk hurrying in the opposite direction. “We know Caleb killed Angus,” Monk went on. “Or at least I do … because I heard him admit it, even boast about it. But that’s not proof. He still had hope.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know that. I’m a damned clever lawyer too!” Rathbone said at his elbow.

  “Is this what you wanted?” Monk demanded, matching Rathbone pace for pace along the corridor, coattails flying. “Can’t prove he was guilty, so deceive the poor devil into committing another murder, right there in his cell, so we can hang him for that, without a quibble? Even Ebenezer Goode couldn’t defend him from that!”

  It was on the edge of Rathbone’s tongue to give back an equally bitter response, then he looked more closely at Monk, the confusion in his face. It was not all anger. There was doubt and pain in it as well.

  “What?” he demanded, swinging to a stop.

  “Are you deaf? I said—” Monk began.

  “I heard what you said!” Rathbone snapped. “It was sufficiently stupid—I shall ignore it. I am trying to fathom what you meant. Something puzzles you, something more than simply the questions we were asking before, and now we shall almost certainly never answer.”

  “Ravensbrook said Caleb attacked him.” Monk began walking again. “And he fought him off. In the struggle Caleb was killed … accidentally.”

  “I heard it,” Rathbone agreed, going down the steps towards the cells. “Why? What are you thinking? That it was actually suicide, and Ravensbrook is covering it up? Why?” They were obliged to walk in single file for some distance, then at the bottom Monk caught up again. “It makes no sense,” Rathbone went on. “What reason could he have? The wretched man is dead, and guilty by implication, if not proof. What would he be saving him? Or anyone?”