Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “I know that, my lord.” Rathbone stood in front of him looking down to where the judge sat in his leather chair, a small man with lines under his eyes. “All I want is to be sure that his escape was either an accident or of his own planning.”

  “I don’t understand you.” The judge frowned. “Ravensbrook said it was an accident, but if it was suicide, are you really so passionate in prosecution you want it proved?” His mouth tightened. “Why, man? You want him buried in unconsecrated ground? It is unlike you to be so vindictive. It has nothing to do with providing for the widow, or allowing her to marry again, in due time, if she so wishes.”

  “I don’t believe it was suicide,” Rathbone answered.

  “Murder?” The judge’s rather tattered eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Did you not hear what happened? Lord Ravensbrook went in to see—”

  “I know what he said,” Rathbone cut across him. “I was there within a few minutes of it. I saw Ravensbrook and saw the body. I think there is a possibility Ravensbrook murdered him.”

  “Lord Ravensbrook?” The judge was not shocked, he simply did not believe it. “Do you realize what you are saying, Rathbone? Why on earth would Lord Ravensbrook murder anyone, let alone his own ward, appalling as the man was? And before the defense, which could conceivably have made a case for an accident.”

  “That is something I intend to find out,” Rathbone said through his teeth. “I have Monk on the case now.”

  “You’ve taken leave of your senses,” the judge said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as if he needed the softness of its leather padding to cushion his bones. “The idea has no foundation whatever.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless there is something quite extraordinary which you are concealing from the court. If there is, you place yourself in considerable jeopardy.”

  “There isn’t,” Rathbone replied with feeling. “I know nothing beyond what has already been revealed, but I believe that something exists. I would like the coroner to open the inquest, and then adjourn it so we may find the evidence to prove it.”

  “And you expect me to tell him this?” The judge’s pale blue eyes were wide with incredulity. “I’m sorry, Rathbone, but even if I did, without some evidence to support you, he would think me as mad as I think you. You’ll have three days at the most.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Maybe that’s as well. Now if that is all I can do for you, allow me to prepare for my next case. Good day to you.”

  Hester also rose early, and took a hansom to Genevieve’s house. She had reason to believe she would be at home, since she was no longer required to help Enid, and there was no further business to be hoped for at the Old Bailey. In the prevailing tragic circumstances, she would hardly be either receiving social calls or making any. The business of Angus’s death would have to wait upon legal procedure.

  She was not disappointed. Genevieve looked pale and exhausted, but reasonably composed.

  “How are you?” Hester said as she was led into the kitchen, the only room in the house with any warmth. It was spacious and full of agreeable smells of baking bread and fresh linen drying on the large airing rack across the ceiling, let up and down on a rope pulley fastened to the wall. There was no one else present. Presumably the cook had been allowed to go, in the interests of the increasingly stringent economy. A housemaid had answered the door, and perhaps there could be a woman come in to do the heavy work once or twice a week. No doubt the nursery-maid would be the last to be let go. A manservant would have been too expensive even to consider.

  Genevieve smiled briefly, but there was an honesty in it.

  “We shall manage. Once they grant that Angus is dead, we shall be able to appoint someone to manage the business and proceed with decisions. I daresay it will be difficult for a little while, but that will not matter.” She met Hester’s eyes with candor. “I have certainly been colder and hungrier before. The children do not find it easy to understand, but I shall explain it to them as well as I can.”

  “Will it be Mr. Niven you ask to manage the business?” It was really none of her affair, but Hester inquired because she hoped it was.

  Genevieve colored very faintly, but there was no awkwardness in her answer. Without excusing herself, or explaining the necessity, she went over to the sink and started to peel potatoes. They were old, black in spots, and with too many eyes. There were also carrots and turnips on the bench.

  “Yes. I have known him for a long time, and he is the most honorable of men,” she answered frankly. “I think Angus would have approved.”

  “I’m glad.” Hester tried to smile, to soften what she had to say next, even though Genevieve had her back to her where she sat at the scrubbed wooden table.

  Genevieve turned around, the knife in her hand. “What is it? What else can have happened?”

  “Nothing. It is simply that it is not yet over. We do not know the truth, not all of it.…”

  “We never will,” Genevieve said bleakly, glancing at the kettle on the range, then resuming her peeling. “But even with Caleb alive, I don’t think we would have. All I hoped for was to have the authorities accept that Angus was dead. I could have borne it if Caleb had not been proved guilty, unjust though that would be.”

  “What was Angus like?” Hester said with sudden urgency. “How could he still care for Caleb, when Caleb hated him so much? Why did he keep going back to the East End? What childhood debt of honor, or guilt, kept him bound to someone who loathed him so passionately that he finally killed him?”

  Genevieve stood rigid for several seconds, then put down her knife and moved to the large black cooking range. The kettle was beginning to steam. She took a black-and-white china teapot out of the cupboard, rinsed it with boiling water, then spooned tea out of the caddy and poured the rest of the water from the kettle and let it steep. She brought out cups and then milk from the larder.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I really don’t. There were times when I thought he hated Caleb just as much, and I begged him never to see him again.” She sat down in the chair opposite and began to pour the tea. “At other times he was sorry for him, and yes, perhaps almost a little guilty. Although he had no cause to be. Caleb could have had as much, had he chosen. It was not as if there were an inheritance and Angus had it at Caleb’s expense.”

  “There was nothing from their parents?”

  Genevieve shook her head.

  “If there was, it was so little, it was used long ago. Do you care for milk? Certainly Angus began his business by joining a firm, as any young man might do.” She passed the cup over. “Caleb could have done the same, except that he was so reckless, and so lazy in his studies, that he had not equipped himself to be of use. But again, that was his choice.” She was staring at Hester now. “Sometimes I think Angus was sorry for Caleb, and there were times when I knew he was afraid of him.”

  Hester took the tea and thanked her. It was hot and fresh, and she was glad of it.

  “It took a great deal of courage for Angus to return to Limehouse and find Caleb,” Genevieve went on. “After he had been badly hurt—and he was, more than once. He was always tired, and depressed, and I begged him not to return. It is not as if Caleb cared for him, or was even grateful for the help Angus gave him. It made me so angry … and then that distressed him. He said he could not help it. Caleb was his brother, his twin, and he was bound by a tie which he could not break. When I realized how it hurt him, I ceased to speak of it.”

  She looked down again, ignoring her tea, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “If you had known Angus, you would understand. There was a goodness in him, an honor unlike anyone else I have known. The only other man as gentle, and with anything like the same inward love of what is good, is Mr. Niven. I think that is why they were friends, and why I feel I can turn to him now. Angus would have understood that.”

  There was nothing further to pursue, except facts, and Hester was not even sure what use they would be. Nevertheless
she asked Genevieve precisely in which street she had grown up, where and when she had first met Caleb, how she had met Angus, and all she could remember of that early relationship.

  “I barely knew Caleb!” she said bitterly. “I swear to you that is the truth. He was a violent man, even for Limehouse. He frightened me. I think he frightened everyone. He was so like Angus in build and feature, and yet so unlike him in nature that no one could mistake one for the other. The way he walked, the way he stood, his voice, everything was wild and … I don’t know how to describe it.” She frowned, struggling with recollection. “As if he were always angry, as if there were something inside him so full of rage it was held in only by the frailest thread, and any provocation at all and it would explode and be free to hurt and destroy whatever stood in its path.”

  Hester did not interrupt her, but quietly sipped her tea and watched Genevieve’s face.

  “I suppose he must have had a gentler side,” Genevieve went on, her voice lower. “That poor creature Selina seemed to have cared for him.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know why I speak of her like that. I started in the same place, just three streets away. I could easily have been there now, if I had never met Angus, and he had not had the patience and the love to teach me how to better myself, to speak well enough to pass as respectable, if not as a lady.”

  She smiled ruefully, and began her tea at last. “He taught me how to carry myself, how to dress, how to conduct myself with others. I would never have passed for gentry, and have entertained in my own home, but over the years I have learned more confidence, and I don’t believe I ever embarrassed him in front of his colleagues. You see, he was the opposite of Caleb, he had endless patience. I cannot remember him ever losing his temper. He would have considered it wrong, that he was betraying the best in himself.”

  “I wish I had known him,” Hester said sincerely. He might have been a trifle pompous, perhaps he lacked humor or imagination, but he must have been a man of immense kindness and an inner integrity which was both rare and beautiful. “Thank you for telling me so much.” She rose to take her leave. “I am sorry to have had to ask you. It must have given you pain.”

  “And pleasure.” Genevieve rose also. “I like to talk about him. It is very sad when people cease to mention someone when he is dead. It is almost like denying he ever lived. I am glad you wanted to know.”

  Monk already knew from Genevieve where Angus had grown up, and even before Ebenezer Goode had left his home, Monk was in a hansom bound for the railway station and the first train to the Berkshire village of Chilverley. It was a tedious journey, necessitating a number of changes and delays, moving from cozy waiting room with fire, to icy, wind-raked platforms, then chilly trains. It was quarter to eleven when he finally stepped off at Chilverley in a bright, hard wind.

  “Chilverley Hall?” the stationmaster said obligingly. “Yes sir. About three miles north from here. That way.” He pointed half behind him. “Know Colonel Patterson, do you? You look like a military man, if I may say so.”

  Monk was astonished. Had it not been so contrary to his own interests, he would have let his temper have full rein.

  “Colonel Patterson?” he said grimly. “This is Chilverley?”

  “Yes sir, Chilverley, Berkshire.” He looked at Monk anxiously. “Who were you looking for, sir?”

  “The family home of Lord Ravensbrook.”

  “Oh, bless you, sir. It is the family home of the Ravensbrooks, but he don’t live here no more. Sold it. Moved up to live in London, so they say.”

  “I’m surprised it wasn’t entailed,” Monk said irrelevantly.

  “Daresay it might have been.” The stationmaster wagged his head. “But Lord Milo were the last o’ the line. No reason why he shouldn’t sell, if he wanted. Must have got a tidy sum for it.” He touched his cap respectfully as two gentlemen, one in a Norfolk jacket, the other in a greatcoat, went by and through the gate to the road.

  “No brothers, or even cousins?” Monk had no reason to ask, it simply occurred to him.

  The stationmaster turned back to him.

  “No sir. Had one brother, younger than him, but he was killed, poor soul. Accident it was, in Italy, or some such place.” He shook his head. “Drowned, they say. Pity, that was. He were a very charming gentleman, if a bit wild. Very handsome, and a bit free with the ladies, and with his money. Still, a sad end for one so young.”

  “How old was he?” Again it hardly mattered.

  “No more than thirty-one or thirty-two,” the stationmaster answered. “It’s all a long time ago now, well over quarter of a century, nearer thirty-five years.”

  “Would you know if any of the old servants are still at the house?”

  “Oh no, sir. All left when his lordship did. Colonel Patterson brought his own household with him.”

  “Is there no one I could find who lived in the house then?” Monk pressed. “What about outside staff? Even a gardener, gamekeeper, coachman? Is it still the same vicar as it was then?”

  The stationmaster nodded. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nicolson is still the vicar. Vicarage is opposite the church, just beyond that second stand of elms.” He pointed. “Can’t miss it. Just follow the road ’round. About two miles from here, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’m obliged to you for your time and your courtesy.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, Monk strode out in the direction the stationmaster had indicated.

  The wind sighed through the bare branches of the elms and a cloud of rooks soared up into the air, disturbed by some predatory cat. Their black, tangled nests were low in the forks, towards the trunks. It had been a hard winter.

  The vicar was an elderly man, but spry and bright-eyed. He greeted Monk over the hedge from where he had been looking hopefully at the green lawn and first spears of bulbs showing through.

  Monk gave the briefest of explanations as to his purpose.

  The vicar regarded him with a lively interest.

  “Yes sir, of course I can. What a fine morning, isn’t it? Won’t be long before the daffodils come through. Love a good show of daffodils. Come into the parlor, my dear fellow. Got a decent fire going. Get the chill out of yourself.”

  He came to the gate and opened it for Monk to walk through. Then he led him up a chipped stone path to the door, which was heavily bowered with honeysuckle, now a dark tangle of stems not yet showing green.

  “In fact, would you like a spot of luncheon?” he invited, showing Monk the way inside, where it was immediately warm. “Hate to eat alone. Uncivilized. Good conversation best for a meal, don’t you think?” He went through the overcrowded hall and opened the door into a bright, chintz-curtained room. “Wife died five years ago. Have to grasp at all the company I can. Know everyone here. Have done for years. Can’t surprise each other anymore. Gets tedious in the winter. Don’t mind in the summer, enough to do in the garden. What did you say your name was?”

  “William Monk, Mr. Nicolson.”

  “Ah, well, Mr. Monk, would you care for some luncheon, while you tell me your business here in Chilverley?”

  Monk was delighted to accept. He was cold and hungry, and it would be far easier to stretch out a conversation over the table than sitting in even the most agreeable parlor.

  “Good, good. Now please make yourself comfortable while I inform the cook!”

  The Reverend Nicolson was so obviously happy to have company that Monk allowed at least half the meal to pass before he broached the subject of his journey. He swallowed the last of the cold mutton, pickles and vegetables and set his knife and fork down.

  The maid appeared with hot, flaky apple pie and a jug of cream and set them on the table with evident satisfaction, taking away the empty plates.

  Then the vicar began his tale and Monk listened with amazement, anger, and growing compassion.

  13

  THE CORONER’S INQUEST into the death of Caleb Stone opened two days later. The public benches were packed. It was an extraordinary incident, and people
were curious to learn how such a thing had happened.

  Lord Ravensbrook was obliged to attend and give evidence; indeed, he was the only immediate witness. Also to be called were the three gaolers, all sitting rigidly upright, embarrassed and profoundly frightened. Jimson was convinced they were all innocent, Bailey, that they were all to blame, and would be punished appropriately. The third gaoler, who had gone to report the matter, refused to have an opinion at all.

  Hester was to be called, by Rathbone, if not by the coroner. There was also the doctor who had examined the body officially.

  Enid Ravensbrook sat beside her husband, still pale-faced and gaunt, but steady-eyed, and less physically ill than the week before. Next to her was Genevieve Stonefield, and beside her, calm and resolute, Titus Niven.

  Selina Herries sat alone, head high, face white and set, eyes hollow with shock. Rathbone looked at her, and felt an unaccountable grief for her. They had nothing whatever in common, no culture, no cause, no beliefs, barely even a common language. And yet the sight of her filled him with a sense of the universality of bereavement. He knew what it was to lose that which had been dear, in whatever manner, however mixed or confused the emotion.

  Ebenezer Goode was not yet there. It was he who was officially to represent the interests of Caleb Stone. Rathbone had persuaded Genevieve to allow him to represent her, as sister-in-law of the deceased, and therefore the closest relative. Ravensbrook had been only his childhood guardian, and had never apparently adopted either boy, and Selina was not Caleb’s wife.

  The coroner was a large, genial man with a ready smile, but more of agreeability than humor, as was appropriate to his calling. He opened proceedings with formality, then called the first witness, the gaoler Jimson. The room was simple, not like the high court in the Old Bailey. There were no steps to climb to a stand, no carved and ornamental bench or thronelike chair for the coroner as for the judge. Jimson stood behind a simple rail which did little more than mark the position for him, and the coroner sat behind a fine oak table.