Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “Legally he’s innocent,” Monk said with a scowl. “Not yet proven guilty, whatever we know, you and I. We don’t count.”

  “For God’s sake, Monk, the public knows. And as soon as the court reconvenes, they’ll have him for trying to kill Ravensbrook as well.”

  “But as a suicide he’d be buried in unhallowed ground,” Monk pointed out. They were just outside the main door to the cells. “This way he’s not convicted of anything, only charged. People can believe whatever they want. He’ll go down in posterity as an innocent man.”

  “I should think if it’s a lie at all,” Rathbone argued, “it is more likely Ravensbrook doesn’t want to be accused of deliberately allowing the man to take his own life, morally at any time, legally while he’s in custody and on trial.”

  “Point,” Monk conceded.

  “Thank you,” Rathbone acknowledged. “I think it is most probable he is simply giving a mixture of what he knows in the confusion, and what he hopes happened. He is bound to be very shocked, and grieved, poor devil.”

  Monk did not reply, but knocked sharply on the door.

  They were permitted in with some reluctance. Rathbone had to insist in his capacity as an officer of the court, and Monk was permitted largely by instinct of the gaoler, who knew him from the past, and was used to obeying him.

  It was a small anteroom for the duty gaolers to wait. Ravensbrook was half collapsed on a wooden hard-backed chair. His hair and clothes were disheveled and there was blood splattered on his arms and chest, even on his face. He seemed in the deepest stages of shock, his eyes sunk in their sockets, unfocused. He was breathing through his mouth, gasping and occasionally swallowing and gulping air. His body was rigid and he trembled as if perished with cold.

  One gaoler stood holding a rolled-up handkerchief to a wound in Ravensbrook’s chest, a second held a glass of water and tried to persuade him to drink from it, but he seemed not even to hear the man.

  “Are you the doctor?” the gaoler with the handkerchief demanded, looking at Monk. In his gown and wig, Rathbone was instantly recognizable for what he was.

  “No. But there’s probably a nurse still on the premises, if you send someone to look for her immediately,” Monk replied. “Her name is Hester Latterly, and she’ll be with Lady Ravensbrook in her carriage.”

  “Nurse’ll be no use,” the gaoler said desperately. “Nobody about needs nursin’, for Gawd’s sake. Look at it!”

  “An army nurse,” Monk corrected his impression. “You might have to go a mile or more to find a doctor. And she’ll be more used to this sort of thing than most doctors around here anyway. Go and get her. Don’t stand around arguing.”

  The man went, perhaps glad to escape.

  Monk turned to look at Ravensbrook, studied his face for a moment, then abandoned the idea and spoke instead to the remaining gaoler.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Tell us precisely, and in exact order as you remember it. Start when Lord Ravensbrook arrived.”

  He did not question who Monk was, or what authority he had to be demanding explanations. The tone in Monk’s voice was sufficient, and the gaoler was overwhelmingly relieved to hand over responsibility to someone else, anyone at all.

  “ ’Is lordship came in wi’ permission from the ’ead warder for ’im ter visit wi’ the prisoner,” he responded.

  “ ’Im bein’ a relative, like, an’ the prisoner lookin’ fit ter be sent down, then like as not, topped.”

  “Where is the head warder?” Rathbone interrupted.

  “Goin’ ter speak wi’ the judge,” the gaoler replied. “Dunno wot ’appens next. Never ’ad no one killed in the middle o’ a trial afore, leastways not while I were ’ere.” He shivered. He had taken the glass of water, theoretically for Ravensbrook, and it slurped at the edges as his hand shook.

  Rathbone took it from him and set it down.

  “So you opened the cell and allowed Lord Ravensbrook in?” Monk prompted.

  “Yes, sir. An’ o’ course I locked it be’ind ’im, the prisoner bein’ charged wi’ a violent crime, like, it were necessary.”

  “Of course it was,” Monk agreed. “Then what happened?”

  “Nuffink, for ’bout five minutes or so.”

  “You waited out here?”

  “O’ course.”

  “And after five minutes?”

  “ ’Is lordship, Lord Ravensbrook, ’e knocked on the door an’ asked ter come out. I thought it was kind o’ quick, but it in’t none o’ my business. So I let ’im aht. But ’e weren’t through.” He was still holding the rolled-up handkerchief at Ravensbrook’s chest, and the blood was seeping through his fingers. “ ’E said as the prisoner wanted ter write ’is last statement an’ ’ad I any paper and a pen an’ ink,” he went on, his voice hoarse. “Well, o’ course I don’t ’ave it in me pocket, like, but I told ’im as I could send for ’em, which I did. I’nt that right, me lord?” He looked down at Ravensbrook for confirmation, but Ravensbrook seemed almost unaware of him.

  “You sent for them. Who did you send?” Monk pressed.

  “Jimson, the other bloke on watch wi’ me. The feller wot yer sent for the nurse.”

  “And you locked the cell door?”

  “O’ course I locked it.” There was indignation in his voice.

  “And Lord Ravensbrook waited out here with you?”

  “Yeah, yeah ’e did.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  Ravensbrook neither moved on his chair nor made any sound.

  “Wot, ter me?” the gaoler said with surprise. “Wot would a lordship talk ter the likes o’ me abaht?”

  “You waited in silence?” Monk asked.

  “Yeah. Weren’t long, three or four minutes, then Jimson came back wi’ pen an’ paper an’ ink. I gave ’em ter ’is lordship, opened the cell door again, and ’e went in, an’ I locked it.”

  “And then?”

  The man screwed up his face in concentration. “I’m trying ter think as if I ’eard any think, but I can’t recall as I did. I should ’ave …”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there must ’a bin summink, mustn’t there?” he said reasonably. “ ’Cos arter a few minutes like, ’is lordship banged on the door an’ shouted fer ’elp, shouted real loud, like ’e were in terrible trouble—which o’ course ’e were.” He took a deep breath, still staring at Monk. “So me an’ Jimson, we both went to the door, immediate like. Jimson unlocked it, an’ I stood ready, not knowin’ what ter expec’.”

  “And what did you find?”

  He looked over towards the cell door about ten feet away, and still very slightly ajar.

  “ ’Is lordship staggerin’ an’ beatin’ on the doors wi’ ’is fists,” he answered, his voice strained. “An’ ’e were all covered in blood, like ’e is now.” He glanced at Ravensbrook, then away again. “The prisoner were in an ’eap on the floor, wi’ even more blood on ’im. I can’t remember wot I said, nor wot Jimson said neither. ’E ’elped ’is lordship out, an’ I went ter the prisoner.” He kept his eyes fixed on Monk’s face, as if to block out what was in his mind. “I knelt down by ’im an’ reached for ’is ’and, like, ter see if ’e were alive. I couldn’t feel nothin’. Although ter be ’onest wif yer, sir, I dunno as ’ow I weren’t shakin’ so much I wouldn’t a’ knowed anyway. But I think ’e were dead already. I never seen so much blood in me life.”

  “I see.” Monk’s eye strayed involuntarily towards the half-open cell door. He forced his attention back to the man in front of him. “And then what?”

  The gaoler looked at Ravensbrook, but Ravensbrook gave him no prompt whatsoever; in fact, from the fixed expression on his face, he might not even have heard what they said.

  “We asked ’is lordship what ’ad ’appened,” the gaoler said unhappily. “Although anyone could see as there’d bin a terrible fight, an’ some’ow the prisoner’d got the worst o’ it.”

  “And when you asked Lord Ravensbrook, what did he s
ay?”

  “ ’E said as the prisoner’d leaped on ’im and attacked ’im when ’e ’ad the penknife out ter recut the nib, and ’though ’e’d done ’is best ter fight ’im off, in the struggle, ’e’d got ’isself stabbed, an’ it were all over in a matter o’ seconds. Caught the vein in ’is throat and whoosh! Gorn.” He swallowed hard, his concentration on Monk intense. “Don’ get me wrong, sir, I wouldn’t never ’ave had it ’appen, but maybe there’s some justice in it. Don’t deserve ter get away wi’ murderin’ ’is bruvver, like. No one do. But I ’ates an ’anging. Jimson says as I’m soft, but it in’t the way for no man ter go.”

  “Thank you.” Monk did not volunteer an opinion, but a certain sense of his agreement was in his silence, and the absence of censure in his voice.

  At last Monk turned to Ravensbrook and spoke clearly and with emphasis.

  “Lord Ravensbrook, will you please tell us exactly what happened? It is most important, sir.”

  Ravensbrook looked up very slowly, focusing on Monk with difficulty, like a man wakening from a deep sleep.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Monk repeated his words.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He drew in his breath and let it out silently. “I’m sorry.” For several more seconds he said nothing, until Rathbone was about to prompt him. Then at last he spoke. “He was in a very strange mood,” he said slowly, speaking as if his lips were stiff, his tongue unwilling to obey him. His voice was curiously flat. Rathbone had seen it before in people suffering shock. “At first he seemed pleased to see me,” Ravensbrook went on. “Almost relieved. We spoke about trivialities for a few minutes. I asked him if he needed anything, if there was anything I could do for him.” He swallowed, and Rathbone could see his throat tighten.

  “Straightaway he said that there was.” Ravensbrook was speaking to Monk, ignoring Rathbone. “He wanted to write a statement. I thought perhaps he was going to make a clean breast of it, some kind of confession, for Genevieve’s sake. Tell her where Angus’s body was.” He was not looking directly at Monk, but at some distance of the mind, some region of thought or hope.

  “And was that what he wanted?” Rathbone asked, although he held no belief that it could have been. It was only a last, wild chance that he might have said something. But what could it matter, except that Genevieve would have some clearer idea. And was that good or bad? Perhaps ignorance was more merciful.

  Ravensbrook looked at him for the first time.

  “No …” he said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think he even intended to write anything. But I believed him. I came out and asked for the materials, which were brought me. I took them back in. He grasped the pen from me, put it in the inkwell, which I had placed on the table, then made an attempt to write. I think he forced it. Then he looked up at me and said the nib was blunt and had divided, would I recut it.” He moved his shoulders very slightly, not quite a shrug. “Of course I agreed. He gave it to me. I wiped it clean so I could see what I was doing, and then I took out my knife, opened it …”

  No one in the room moved. The gaoler seemed mesmerized. There was no sound of the outer world, the courthouse beyond the heavy, iron door.

  Ravensbrook looked back at Monk again, his eyes dark and full of nightmare. Then, almost as if closing curtains within his mind, he looked just beyond him. His voice was a little high-pitched, as if he could not open his throat. “The next moment I felt a ringing blow, and I was forced back against the wall, and Caleb was on top of me.” He took a deep breath. “We struggled for several moments. I did all I could to free myself, but he had an extraordinary strength. He seemed determined to kill me, and it was all I could do to force the knife away from my throat. I made a tremendous effort, I suppose seeing the nearness of death in the blade. I don’t know exactly how it occurred. He jerked back, slipped, and missed his footing somehow, and fell, pulling me on top of him.”

  Rathbone tried to visualize it, the fear, the violence, the confusion. It was not difficult.

  “When I freed myself and managed to rise to my feet,” Ravensbrook went on, “he was lying there with the knife in his throat and blood pouring from the wound. There was nothing I could do. God help him. At least he is at some sort of peace now. He’ll be spared the …” He took another long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “The judicial … process.”

  Rathbone glanced at Monk, and saw the same look of distress in his face, and also the knowledge that there was no retreat or evasion possible.

  “Thank you,” Monk acknowledged Ravensbrook, then with Rathbone behind him, walked over and pushed the cell door wider and went inside. Caleb Stone was lying on the floor in a sheet of blood. It lay in a scarlet tide around his head and shoulders. The penknife, a beautiful silver engraved thing, was lying upside down against his neck, as if it had fallen out of the wound with its own weight. There was no question that he was dead. The beautiful green eyes were open, and quite blind. There was in his face a look of resignation, as if he had at last let go of something which was both a possession and a torture, and the ease of it had surprised him.

  Monk looked for something to tell him some fact beyond that which Ravensbrook or the gaoler had said, and saw nothing. There were no contradictions, no suggestions of anything additional, anything unexplained by the account of a simple, stupid piece of violence. The only question was had he been impulsive, in a sudden overwhelming rage, perhaps like the rage that had killed Angus, or had it been a deliberately planned way of committing suicide before the hangman could take his life in the slow, exquisite mind-torture of conviction, sentence and hanging?

  He turned to Rathbone, and saw an understanding of the same question in his face.

  Before either of them could form it in words there was a noise behind them, the heavy clank of an iron bolt in a lock, and then Hester’s voice. Monk swung around and came out of the cell, almost pushing Rathbone forward into the outer room.

  “Lord Ravensbrook!” Hester glanced once at the gaoler, still holding the blood-soaked handkerchief against Ravensbrook’s chest, then moved forward and dropped to her knees. “Where are you hurt?” she said, as if he had been a child—quite soothingly, but with the voice of authority.

  He raised his head and stared at her.

  “Where are you hurt?” she repeated, putting her hand gently over the gaoler’s and moving the kerchief away very slowly. No gush of blood followed it; in fact, it seemed to have clotted and dried already. “Please, allow me to take your coat off,” she asked. “I must see if you are still bleeding.” It seemed an unnecessary comment. There was so much blood he must still be losing it at a considerable rate.

  “Should you, miss?” Jimson asked. He had returned with her and was staring at Ravensbrook dubiously. “Might make it worse. Better wait till the doctor gets ’ere. ’E’s bin sent fer.”

  “Take it off!” Hester ignored Jimson, and started to pull on Ravensbrook’s shoulders to ease the jacket away from him. He did nothing, and she moved his arm aside from where he had been holding it across his chest. “Take the other one!” she ordered Monk. “It will slip away if you hold it properly.”

  He did as he was bid, and gently she pulled the coat off, leaving it in Monk’s hands. The shirt beneath was surprisingly white and not nearly as badly stained as Monk had expected. Indeed, there were only four marks that he could see, one on the front of the left shoulder, one on the left forearm, and two on the right side of the chest. None of them were bright scarlet or puddled in blood. Only the one on the shoulder that he had been holding was still shining wet.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” Hester said dispassionately. She turned to the first gaoler. “I don’t suppose you have any bandages? No, I thought not. Have you cloths of any sort?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Right,” she nodded. “Then take off your shirt. It will have to do. I’ll use the tails.” She smiled very dryly. “And yours too, Mr. Rathbone, I think. I need a white one.” She ignored Monk, and his immacul
ate linen. Even in this contingency she was apparently aware of his finances.

  Rathbone drew in a sharp breath, and thoughts of voluminous petticoats floated into his mind, and out again. He obeyed.

  “Have you any spirits?” she asked the gaoler. “A little brandy for restorative purposes, perhaps?” She looked at Ravensbrook. “Have you a hip flask, my lord?”

  “I don’t require brandy,” he said with a very slight shake of the head. “Just do what is necessary, woman.”

  “I wasn’t going to give it to you,” she answered. “Have you any?”

  He stared at her with seeming incomprehension.

  “Yer feelin’ faint, miss?” the gaoler said with concern.

  The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “No thank you. I wanted to clean the wounds. Water will do if that’s all there is, but brandy would have been better.”

  Rathbone passed her the glass of water Ravensbrook had declined. Monk moved forward and fished in Ravensbrook’s jacket and found the flat, silver engraved flask, opened it and set it where she could reach it.

  In silence they watched her work, cleaning away the blood first with cloths from the gaoler’s coarse shirt, then with a little brandy, which must have stung when it was applied, from the involuntary oath escaping Ravensbrook, and the clenched teeth and gulp of pain.

  But even Monk could see that the wounds were not deep, more gashes and cuts than genuine stabs.

  She then bound them with bandages made from almost all of Rathbone’s fine Egyptian cotton shirt, which she tore with great abandon and considerable dexterity, and, Monk thought, not a little satisfaction. He glanced at Rathbone and saw him wince as the cloth ripped.

  “Thank you,” Ravensbrook said stiffly when she was finished. “I am obliged to you again, Miss Latterly. You are extremely efficient. Where is my wife?”

  “In your carriage, my lord,” she replied. “I daresay she will be at home by now. I took the liberty of instructing the coachman to take her. She may become ill if she sits waiting in this chill. I am sure someone will find you a hansom immediately.”