Cain His Brother

chapter 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.

Jimson swore to tell the truth, then gave his name and occupation. He was so nervous he gulped and stumbled over his words.

The coroner smiled at him benignly.

"Now, Mr. Jimson, simply tell us what happened. There is no need to be so frightened, man. This is a court of inquiry, not of accusation. Now! Begin when the prisoner was put back in your custody after the trial was adjourned."

"Yes sir! M'lord!"

"`Sir' will do very well. I am not a judge."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir!" Jimson took a deep breath and swallowed hard again. " 'E were in a rare state, the prisoner, I mean. 'E were laughin' an' shoutin' an' swearin' fit ter bust. There was a rage in 'im like nothin' I ever seen afore, 'cepting it were all mixed up wi' laughter like there was some 'uge joke as only 'e knew. But 'e didn't offer us no violence, like," he added hastily. " 'E went easy inter 'is cell an' we locked 'im in."

"We?" the coroner inquired. "Can you recall which of you it was?"

"Yes sir, it were me."

"I see. Proceed."

There was almost silence around the room, only the slight sound of fabric rustling as someone shifted in a seat, and a whisper as a woman spoke to the person next to her. The journalists present wrote nothing so far. "Then Lord Ravensbrook came an' asked if 'e could see the prisoner, 'im bein' 'is only relative, like," Jimson continued. "An' seein' as 'ow things was goin' bad with 'im in the trial. Guess like 'e thought as there'd be a verdict soon, an' then 'e wouldn't be allowed ter see 'im alone anymore, 'im bein' a guilty man then, an' still an innocent one now, leastways afore the law."

"I understand." The coroner nodded. "You do not need to explain, it is quite clear, and natural."

"Thank you, sir." Jimson did not look in the slightest relieved. "Well, it all seemed right ter us, Bailey an' Alcott an' me, so we let 'im in-' "Just a moment, Mr. Jimson," the coroner interrupted. "When you let Lord Ravensbrook in, how was the prisoner? What was his demeanor, his attitude?

Was he still in this rage you described earlier? How did he greet Lord Ravensbrook?"

Jimson looked confused.

"Did you see him, Mr. Jimson?" the coroner pressed. "It is necessary that you answer truthfully. This matter concerns the death of a man in your custody."

"Yes sir." Jimson swallowed convulsively, only too desperately aware of his responsibility. "No sir, I didn't go in with 'is lordship. I... I didn't like ter, 'im bein' family like, an' knowin' from the guard as 'ad 'im in court 'ow 'ard it were goin', an' as 'e were like ter be 'anged. I let 'is lordship in, w'en 'e said as 'e preferred ter be alone-"

"Lord Ravensbrook said he wished to see the prisoner alone?"

"Yes sir, 'e did."

"I see. Then what happened?"

"Arter a few moments, 'is lordship came out an' asked fer a pen an' ink an' paper, 'cos the prisoner wanted ter write a statement o' some sort, I forget exactly what." He fidgeted with his collar. It appeared to be too tight for him. "I sent Bailey fer 'em, an' w'en 'e brought 'em back, I gave 'em ter 'is lordship, an' 'e went back inter the cell wi' 'em. Then just a few minutes arter that there were a cry, an' a bangin' on the door, an' w'en I opened it, 'is lordship staggered out, covered wi' blood, an' said as there'd bin an accident, or summink like that, an' the prisoner were dead... sir." He took a breath and plunged on. "'E looked terrible white and shocked, sir, poor gennelman. So I sent Bailey for 'elp. I think 'e got a glass o' water, but 'is lordship were too upset ter take it."

"Did you go to the cell to look at the prisoner?" the coroner demanded.

"Yes sir, 'course I did. 'E were lyin' in a pool o' blood like a lake, sir, an' 'is eyes were wide open an' starin'." He tugged at his collar again.

"'E were dead. Weren't nuffink more ter be done for 'im. I pulled the door to, didn't lock it, weren't no point. Alcott went ter report wot 'ad ' appened, an' I tried ter do what I could fer ' is lordship till 'elp come."

"Thank you, Mr. Jimson." The coroner looked for Goode.

"Where is Mr. Goode?" he asked with a frown. "I understood he was to represent the family of the dead man. Is that not so?"

Rathbone rose to his feet. "Yes sir, he is. I don't know what may have kept him. I ask the court's indulgence. I am sure he will not be long." He had better not be, he thought grimly, or we shall lose this by default! "This is not a court of advocacy, Mr. Rathbone," the coroner said irritably. "If Mr. Goode does not favor us with his presence, we shall proceed without him. Have you any questions you wish to ask this witness?"

Rathbone drew in his breath to make as long-winded a reply as he could, and was saved the necessity by the doors swinging open wide on their hinges.

Ebenezer Goode swept in, coattails flying, arms full of papers, and strode up to the front. He bestowed a dazzling smile upon the coroner, apologized profusely and took his seat, managing to disturb everyone within a ten-foot radius.

"Are you ready, Mr. Goode?" the coroner asked with heavy sarcasm. "May we proceed?"

"Of course!" Goode said, still with the same smile. "Very civil of you to have waited for me."

"We did not wait for you!" the coroner snapped. "Do you have questions for this witness, sir?"

"Yes indeed, thank you." Goode rose to his feet, upset his papers and picked them up, then proceeded to ask a lot of questions which merely reaffirmed what Jimson had already said. No one learned anything new, but it wasted considerable time, which was Goode's purpose. And Rathbone's. The coroner kept his temper with difficulty.

Bailey, the second gaoler, was called next, and the coroner elicited from him confirmation of everything Jimson had said, but briefly. There were no contradictions to explore.

It took all Goode's ingenuity to think of sufficient questions to stretch it out a further half hour, and Rathbone found it hard to add anything at all. He redescribed Caleb's words, his gestures, his tone of voice, his behavior earlier during the trial. He even asked Bailey what he thought Ca- leb felt and expected of the outcome, until the coroner stopped him and told him he was asking the witness to speculate beyond his ability to know.

"But sir, Mr. Bailey is an expert witness on the mood and expectations of prisoners charged with capital crimes," Rathbone protested. "It is his daily occupation. Surely he, of all men, may know whether a prisoner has hope of being acquitted or not? It is of the utmost importance in learning the truth that we know whether Caleb Stone was in despair, or still nurtured some hope of life."

"Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone," the coroner conceded. "But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know.

It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced."

"Yes sir," Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o'clock.

The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.

"Have you heard from Monk?" Goode demanded when he and Rathbone were seated in an excellent tavern nearby and enjoying a meal of roast beef and vegetables, ale, apple and blackberry pie, ripe Stilton cheese, and biscuits. "Has he learned anything?"

"No, I haven't," Rathbone said grimly. "I know he went to Chilverley, but I haven't heard a thing after that."

Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.

"And what about the nurse, what's her name? Latterly?" he asked. "Did she learn anything of use? I see her in court. Shouldn't she be in the East End? We could have put off calling her today. She might have given us something!"

"She's already learned all she can," Rathbone said defensively. "She said there's nothing there we don't already know."

"What about Caleb, damn it!" Goode said angrily. "If this isn't an accident, then either it's suicide-and we've already decided that is unlikely-or it's murder. In the interests of human decency, never mind abstract concepts like truth, we need to know."

"Then we'll have to go further back than Caleb's life in Limehouse,"

Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. "It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!" Goode sighed. "And God knows what we'll learn then!" "Or what we'll be able to prove," Rathbone added, finishing his ale.

The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured.

His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.

There was a murmur of both awe and sympathy even before the coroner spoke.

Rathbone glanced at the crowd. Enid looked at her husband, and her eyes were shadowed with unhappiness and pity. Almost absently her hand strayed to Genevieve beside her.

"Lord Ravensbrook," the coroner began, "will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone's death? You do not need to repeat anything before you actually went into his cell, unless you wish to do so.

I have no desire to harrow your feelings more than is my duty and cannot be avoided."

"Thank you," Ravensbrook acknowledged without turning his head. He stared at the wall opposite him, and spoke as if in a trance. He seemed to be reliving the events in his mind, more real to him than the paneled room, the mild face of the coroner, or the crowd listening to his every word. All eyes were upon his face, which was racked with emotions, and yet curiously immobile, as if it were all held inside him with unyielding self-control.

"The gaoler opened the door and stood back for me to go in," he began in a level, careful voice. "I had sought permission to speak to Caleb alone. I knew it might very well be the last time I had such an opportunity. The trial was not going in his favor." His hesitation was barely perceptible. "I... I had certain things I wanted to say to him which were of a personal nature. Probably it was foolish of me, but I hoped that for Angus's widow's sake, he might tell me what had happened between Angus and himself, and she could know that Angus was...

at peace, if you will." The coroner nodded. There was a sigh around the room.

Genevieve caught her breath in a gasp, but made no other sound. She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to see.

Rathbone glanced at Goode and saw a flicker of question in his eyes. "Of course it was futile," Ravensbrook resumed. "Nothing I could say had any effect upon him, or softened the anger inside him."

"Was he in a rage when you first went in, Lord Ravensbrook?" the coroner asked, his eyes wide and gentle. "The gaoler seems not to know."

"He was... sullen," Ravensbrook replied, frowning slightly. If he were aware of Selina Herries staring at him as if she would imprint his features in her mind, he gave no sign of it at all. "I asked him, for Genevieve's sake, to tell me what had happened in that last meeting," he continued.

"But he would not. I assured him I would not repeat it to the authorities.

It was only for the family I wished to know. But he was adamant." His voice was level, but seemed tight in his throat, as though he had to force it out, and several times he licked his lips.

Rathbone glanced around the room again. Enid sat stiffbacked, leaning a trifle forward, as if she would be closer to him. Genevieve looked from the witness stand to Enid, and back. Selina Herries clenched her knuckles in front of her, and her bold face was filled with pain, but her eyes did not waver.

"He asked me for pen and paper," Ravensbrook said, resuming his account.

"He said he wanted to write a last testament..."

"Did he mean a will, or a statement, do you know?" the coroner inquired.

"He did not say, and I did not ask," Ravensbrook answered. "I assumed it was some statement, perhaps a form of last words. I hoped it would be his confession or contrition, for his own soul's sake."

In the audience Selina let out a little cry, then immediately stifled it.

Another woman gave a stifled sob, but whether of personal grief or simply the emotion of the scene, it was impossible to say.

Titus Niven put his hand on Genevieve's, discreetly, very gently, and the tightness in her shoulders eased a fraction.

"So you asked the gaoler for a pen, ink and paper," the coroner prompted.

"Yes," Ravensbrook agreed. The emotion in the room did not seem to touch him; perhaps his own turmoil was too great. "When they came, I returned to the cell and gave them to Caleb. He tried to use the pen, but said it was scratchy. The nib needed recutting. I took out my penknife to do it for him..."

"You did not offer him the knife?" the coroner asked, leaning forward earnestly.

Ravensbrook's mouth tightened and his brows furrowed. "No, of course not!"

"Thank you. Proceed."

Ravensbrook stood even more rigidly. The desperate grip on his emotions, the fragility of his hold, was painfully apparent. He was a man walking through a nightmare, and not a soul in the room could be unaware of it.

This time even the coroner did not prompt him.

Ravensbrook took a deep breath and let it out in an inaudible sigh.

"Without the slightest warning, without saying a word, Caleb launched himself at me. The first I knew of it, he was at my throat, his hand clasping my wrist and attempting to seize the knife from me. We struggled-I to save my life, he to gain mastery over me, whether to kill me or to snatch the knife in an attempt to take his own life, I do not know, nor will I guess."

There was a slight murmur of assent, a sigh of pity.

"For God's sake, where's Monk?" Goode whispered to Rathbone. "This can't be strung out beyond tomorrow!"

Rathbone did not answer. There was nothing else to say.

"I cannot tell you precisely what happened," Ravensbrook started again. "It was all too quick. He managed to stab at me several times, half a dozen or so. We fought back and forth. It probably seemed for longer than it was."

He turned to face the coroner, looking at him earnestly. "I have very little idea whether it was seconds or minutes. I managed to force him away from me. He slipped and my own impetus carried me forward. I tripped over his leg and we landed together. When I arose, he was lying on the floor with the knife in his throat."

He stopped. There was total motionless silence in the room. Every face was turned towards him, emotions naked in horror and compassion.

Selina Herries looked like a ghost, suddenly thinner, sadder, the brave arrogance leached away.

"When I could gather my senses," Ravensbrook said, taking up his account again, "and realized that I was no longer in danger from him, I leaned forward and attempted to find his pulse. He was bleeding very profusely, and I feared he was beyond help. I turned to the door and banged and called out for the gaolers. One of them opened it and let me out. The rest I believe you already know."

"Indeed, my lord," the coroner agreed. "I do not need to trouble you any further. May I offer you and your family my deepest sympathy in your double loss."

"Thank you." Ravensbrook turned to leave.

Goode rose to his feet.

The coroner made a motion with his hand to stop Ravensbrook, who looked at Goode as he would an enemy in the field of battle.

"If you must," the coroner conceded reluctantly.

"Thank you, sir." Goode turned to Ravensbrook, smiling courteously, showing all his teeth.

"By your own account, my lord, and by the evidence of your most unfortunate injuries..." he began. "By the way, I hope you are beginning to recover?"

"Thank you," Ravensbrook said stiffly.

"I am very glad." Goode inclined his head. "As I was saying, by your own account, my lord, you did not cry out for help until the struggle with Caleb had continued for some moments. Why did you not call immediately? You surely must have appreciated that you were in very considerable danger?"

Ravensbrook stared at him, his face white.

"Of course I knew that," he said, his jaw clenched, the muscles visible even from where Rathbone sat.

"And yet you did not cry out," Goode persisted. "Why not?"

Ravensbrook looked at him with loathing.

"I doubt you would understand, sir, or you would not ask. For all his sins and ingratitude, his disloyalty, Caleb Stonefield had been a son to me. I hoped I might deal with the matter without the authorities ever needing to know of it. It was the most tragic accident that it ended as it did. I could have hidden my own wounds until I was clear of the courthouse. He was, until the end, unhurt."

"I see," Goode replied expressionlessly.

He went on to ask all manner of further questions, sought explanations of the finest points. Rathbone did the same after him, until it was apparent he had lost all sympathy from the crowd and worn the coroner's patience threadbare. He conceded at quarter past four in the afternoon, and was called by the coroner to take the stand himself. The coroner elicited his evidence and dispatched him within twelve minutes.

Goode racked his brains, and could think of nothing further to ask him.

At twenty-nine minutes to five Monk was called, and found to be absent.

Rathbone protested that he should be located. The coroner pointed out that since Rathbone himself had been in Monk's presence every moment of the relevant time, there was nothing useful that Monk could add.

Goode rose to his feet, and was also overruled.

The coroner adjourned the sitting until the following day.

Rathbone and Goode left the court together, deep in anxiety. There was no word from Monk.

The first witness of the morning was Hester Latterly.

"Miss Latterly." The coroner smiled at her benignly. "There is no need to be nervous, my dear. Simply answer the questions to the best of your ability. If you do not know the answer, then say so."

"Yes sir." She nodded and smiled back at him innocently.

"You were leaving the courtroom after attending the trial, when you were informed by the gaoler Bailey that someone was injured and needed medical assistance, is that correct?" He was not going to allow her to ramble by telling the story in her own words. He had summarized it for her most precisely.

Rathbone swore under his breath.

"If Monk doesn't come within an hour, it is all going to be over," Goode said. "Where in God's name is he? Is there an early train from Chilverley this morning? Should I go and look for him?"

Rathbone glanced around desperately. "I'll send a clerk," he said. "Mr.

Rathbone?" the coroner said with a frown.

"I beg your pardon," Rathbone apologized grinfly.

The coroner turned to Hester. "Miss Latterly?"

"Yes?"

"Would you please answer the question?"

"I beg your pardon, sir. What was it?" Very carefully the coroner repeated himself.

"Yes sir," she replied. "I had attended the trial with Lady Ravensbrook."

She then repeated the entire procedure of her departure, Bailey's arrival, Enid's reaction, her own reaction, the instructions she had given to the coachman and her reasons for doing so, all the alternatives and why they were unacceptable, Enid's assurance that she would be perfectly able to manage and that she would indeed go home, and then her return with Bailey through the courtroom buildings and her arrival at the cells. Nothing the coroner could say-and he tried several times-would stop her. She seemed not to hear him.

Rathbone shot a sideways glance at Goode, and saw his incredulity, and the beginning of a bleak amusement.

"Yes," the coroner said grimly. "Thank you. What did you see when you arrived at the cells, Miss Latterly? Please confine yourself to what is relevant."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Please confine yourself to what is relevant, Miss Latterly."

"To what, sir?"

"To what is relevant, Miss Latterly!" the coroner said extremely loudly.

"Relevant to what, sir?"

The coroner controlled himself with some effort.

"To the matter of Caleb Stone's death, madam."

"I am afraid I don't know what is relevant," she replied without a flicker of expression in her face. "It would seem, from what I observed, that he was possessed by such a frantic hatred of his erstwhile guardian, Lord Ravensbrook, that he was prepared, at any cost whatever, even the certain sacrifice of his own life by hanging... surely a most damnable way to die, to inflict upon him some injury, even to wish his death. I am sorry.

That is a very complicated sentence. Perhaps I had better rephrase it-' "No!" the coroner shouted. Then he drew a deep breath. "That is not necessary, Miss Latterly. Your meaning is perfectly plain, even if not your reasons for believing so."

She launched into her reasons for believing so, impervious to his attempted interruptions. She seemed to be hard of hearing, verging upon outright deafness. She described in detail exactly how Lord Ravensbrook had appeared to her, describing every sign with clinical thoroughness, and drawing upon her experience of soldiers in shock in the Crimea to illustrate that her opinion was an expert one. Then she described his wounds, their appearance, her treatment of them, how she had been obliged to make use of Rathbone's shirt, and why the gaolers' shirts would not do, her apologies to Rathbone for the inconvenience and her belief that Ravensbrook would make good his loss. When she had finished that, without drawing breath, she went on to describe Ravensbrook's response to the treatment. By half past twelve she still had not reached the point where she had opened the cell door and seen the body of Caleb Stone.

The coroner adjourned the sitting for luncheon, and retired exhausted.

"Brilliant, if somewhat farcical," Goode said dourly, in the same tavern as the day before. "But unless Monk turns up with something this afternoon, it will achieve nothing. I think one of us should go to Chilverley and get him!"

"He would come if he had anything!" Rathbone said.

When the court reconvened, it was packed to standing room. No one offered an explanation as to why. Perhaps it was because it had not gone as expected, perhaps it was the hope of some revelation, possibly it was Hester's performance, and the sense of the absurd. Suddenly it had all be- come interesting.

The coroner had dined well. He was in a better mood for battle and he met Hester's resumption of evidence with a stern eye and a voice which was perfectly willing and capable of shouting her down.

"Would you please tell me if Caleb Stone was dead when you looked into the cell, Miss Latterly. `Yes' or 'No' will suffice."

"Yes," she said with a smile of agreeability.

"He was dead?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

At some length she told him, explaining all the ways by which one might know that life is extinct.

"I am a physician and a lawyer, ma'am!" he shouted above her. "I am perfectly aware of the difference between life and death."

"I beg your pardon?" she said pleasantly.

He repeated what he had said.

"No." She shook her head. "I mean I am sorry for having told you what you already know, sir. Of course, I knew you must be a lawyer. I did not appreciate you were a physician also. If I have slighted you, I am very sorry."

"Not at all," he said graciously. "Thank you. I have nothing further to ask you." He looked at Rathbone and Goode meaningfully. "Your evidence has been most complete!" he added.

Nevertheless Goode rose to his feet and asked her to clarify as much as he could possibly misunderstand. He was drawing to the end of his wit and invention when an elderly gentleman in clerical garb made his way, with difficulty, to the front of the room and handed a letter to Rathbone.

Rathbone tore it open and read it, and let out an audible sigh of relief.

Goode turned to look at him, and saw the rescue in his eyes. He allowed Hester to draw to a close at last and be released with a sigh of gratitude from the coroner, and some disappointment from that part of the crowd who had known neither Caleb nor Angus, and had no emotional involvement in the outcome.

The doctor who had examined the body was called. The coroner dealt with his evidence and dispatched him in less than a quarter of an hour. Neither Goode nor Rathbone could think of anything further to ask him. He had said that the cause of death was a slashing wound from the penknife which had caught the jugular vein, and the deceased had then bled to death. It was quite consistent with him having held the weapon in his other hand, and its being forced back into his throat in a fall or during a struggle. There was nothing more to add.

Rathbone rose to his feet. Where on earth was Monk? If he did not appear in the next few minutes they would lose by default. He could not spin this out any longer. The coroner's patience was stretched to breaking. "With respect, sir, while all this is both true and relevant, it still does not tell us whether his death was accidental or not."

"In the absence of proof that it was suicide, Mr. Rathbone," the coroner said patiently, "we shall have to assume that he attacked Lord Ravensbrook in the same jealousy and hatred which apparently possessed him with regard to his brother, only in this case his weapon was turned upon himself, and he became the victim."

Rathbone took a deep breath and laid his reputation in the balance. "Or there is the third possibility, sir; that it was not Caleb who attacked Lord Ravensbrook, but that the outcome was exactly what was meant from the beginning."

There was utter silence, not even an indrawn breath of disbelief. It was as if life in the room were suspended. Enid was ashen-faced, Genevieve paralyzed.

Finally the coroner spoke.

"Mr. Rathbone, are you suggesting that Lord Ravensbrook intentionally killed Caleb Stone?"

"I am suggesting that it is a possibility, sir."

Goode closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, anguish written all over his face.

Two spots of color touched Milo Ravensbrook's cheeks, but he neither moved nor spoke.

Selina Herries bit her knuckles and stared at Rathbone. "In God's name, man, for what conceivable reason?" the coroner asked.

The door opened at the back of the court and Monk came in, drenched with rain, tousled and exhausted for lack of sleep, but accompanied by an elderly man and a stout woman in black.

Rathbone felt weak with relief. His voice trembled as he answered the coroner.

"I will call witnesses to answer that question, sir. I shall begin with the Reverend Horatio Nicolson, of Chilverley, with your permission."

The coroner hesitated. He looked around the room, saw the wide-eyed faces, the anticipation, the journalists who were still present sitting with pencil in hand, faces bright with eagerness. He could not disallow it. "I shall stop you if for one instant there is irrelevance, or any attempt at unsubstantiated attack!" he warned. "Be very careful, Mr. Rathbone, very careful indeed! I will have no one's good name taken lightly."

Rathbone bowed his head in acknowledgment and called Horatio Nicolson to the witness stand.

Slowly, with deep regret and obvious embarrassment, the Reverend Nicolson mounted the witness stand and took the oath.

Rathbone began by establishing precisely who he was so that the court might understand his importance.

"So you knew Lord Ravensbrook and his family quite well at the time Angus Stonefield came to Chilverley?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Nicolson answered, his face grave.

"Did you come to know Angus?"

"Yes. I tutored him in Latin, beginning when he was about eight, I believe. He was an excellent student, intelli gent, willing and quick to learn. A most agreeable boy, so thoughtful and well mannered." He smiled at the memory, in spite of himself.

"My wife was especially fond of him. She worried about him. He was quite often ill, you know, and at times seemed very withdrawn." His voice dropped a little. "There was a sadness in him, especially when he was very young.

Most rational, I suppose, having lost both his parents at such an early age."

"Did he continue to be such an excellent student, Mr. Nicolson?" Rathbone asked.

Nicolson's face pinched with grief.

"No. I am afraid he became very erratic. At times he was excellent, his old self. And then there would be occasions when I would hardly see him for several weeks."

"Do you know the reason for this?"

Nicolson drew in a deep breath and let it out in a silent sigh. "I asked, naturally. Lord Ravensbrook confided in me that he had become most recalcitrant at times, hard to discipline, and on occasion even openly rebellious."

There was a faint rustling in the room. No one was yet interested.

Nicolson's head lifted. "Although I must say in his defense that Lord Ravensbrook was a hard man to please." He spoke as if he had not seen Ravensbrook in the room, nor did his eyes move towards where he sat, stiff and pale. "He was handsome, charming and talented himself," Nicolson continued. "And he expected those in his own family to come up to his standards. If they did not, he was harsh in his criticism."

"But Angus was not, strictly speaking, his own family," Rathbone pointed out. "Except distantly. Was he not the child of a cousin?"

Nicolson's face tightened, touched with a deep pity. "No sir, he was the illegitimate son of his younger brother, Phineas Ravensbrook. Stonefield was the young woman's name, which was all he was legally entitled to. But he was Ravensbrook by blood."

Rathbone heard the murmur of surprise around the room, the indrawn breath.

The coroner leaned forward, as if about to interrupt, then changed his mind.

"Why did Lord Ravensbrook not adopt him?" Rathbone asked. "Especially since he had lost his wife and had no children of his own."

"Lord Ravensbrook and his brother were not close, sir." Nicolson shook his head, a great weight of sadness in his voice, and in the gentle lines of his face. "There was tension between them, a deep-lying rivalry that could take no joy in the other's happiness or success. Milo, the present Lord Ravensbrook, was the elder. He was clever, charming and talented, but I think his ambition was even larger than his abilities, considerable as they were."

Memory lit his face. "Phineas was quite different. He had such vitality, such laughter and imagination. Everyone loved Phineas. And he seemed to have no ambition at all, except to enjoy himself..."

The coroner leaned across his table.

"Mr. Rathbone! Is this of any relevance to Caleb Stonefield's death? It seems to be very old history, and of a very personal nature. Can you justify it in this court?"

"Yes sir, it is at the very core of it," Rathbone said with feeling momentary to passion. Something of the rage and the emergency in him must have been there in his voice and the angles of his body. Every eye was on him, and the coroner hesitated only a moment before permitting him to proceed.

Rathbone nodded to Nicolson.

"I am afraid he got away with much that perhaps he should not," Nicolson said quietly, but his voice carried even to the back of the room in the silence. "He could smile at people, and they forgot their anger. They forgave him far too much for his own good, or for Milo's. The sense of injustice, you see? As if all the pleasures and pains of life could be weighed against each other-only God can do that... at the end, when it is all known."

He sighed. "Perhaps that is why he was so harsh with poor Angus, to try to prevent him following in his father's footsteps. Such charm can be a terrible curse, undoing all that would be good in a man. It is not right that we should laugh our way out of justice. It teaches us all the wrong lessons."

"Was Lord Ravensbrook so very harsh, Mr. Nicolson?"

"In my opinion, yes sir."

"In what way?"

The coroner's face pinched, but he did not interrupt.

In the room there was a scrape of fabric on fabric, the squeak of a boot.

Milo Ravensbrook fidgeted and moved as if to speak, but did not.

Nicolson looked wretched, but he did not hesitate to reply in a soft, steady voice.

"He seemed at times impossible to please. He would humiliate the boy for mistakes, for foolishness which was merely born of ignorance, or uncertainty, lack of confidence. And of course the more a child is embarrassed, the more mistakes he makes. It is a terrible thing to feel worthless, sir, to feel you owe a debt of gratitude, and instead of paying it, you have to let down those you most wish to please." He pressed on with difficulty through his obvious emotion. "As a small boy I saw Angus many times struggling to keep from weeping, and then the shame he felt when he could no longer help it, and was then chastened for that too. And he was bitterly ashamed of being beaten, which he was frequently. It terrified him, and then he felt himself a coward because of it."

In the crowd a woman stifled a sob.

Selina Herries had not wept for Caleb's death. It was still too new a shock for her, her feelings towards the man too mixed between pride, contempt, and fear of him. Now her feelings for the child he must have been were simple. She let the tears run down her face without shame or hindrance.

Enid Ravensbrook's face was ash-gray and set in lines of intolerable pain, as if some long-feared tragedy had at last struck her. She looked sideways at her husband, but her expression was unreadable. Not once did he turn to her. Perhaps he did not dare to see what was in her eyes.

Genevieve Stonefield was beyond weeping, but she clasped Titus Niven's hand as if she might drown if she let it go.

"Mr. Nicolson..." Rathbone prompted.

Nicolson blinked. "My heart ached for him, and I was moved to speak to Lord Ravensbrook on his behalf, but I fear I did no good. My interference only provoked him to be even stricter. He thought Angus had complained to me, and he regarded that as both cowardice and a personal disloyalty." "I see."

To Rathbone it was a picture of such pain he was lost for more powerful or appropriate words. What must have lain beneath the surface of Angus's honorable and upright character? Could he ever have forgiven Ravensbrook for those years of misery?

The coroner had not interrupted, nor had his eyes once strayed to the clock, but now, deeply unhappy, he was compelled to speak.

"Mr. Rathbone, this past distress is most harrowing, but it is still, so far, irrelevant to the death of Caleb Stonefield. I am sure you must be aware of that. Mr. Nicolson's evidence has addressed itself solely to Angus."

"That is because he never met Caleb," Rathbone replied. "If I may be permitted to call my last witness, sir, she will explain it all."

"I hope she can, Mr. Rathbone, otherwise you appear to have harrowed our emotions and wasted our time to no purpose."

"It is to a purpose, I assure you. I call Miss Abigail Ratchett."

Abigail Ratchett was a very stout woman with unnaturally black hair, considering that she must have been at least seventy-five. But apart from being hard of hearing, she was self-assured and quite in command of her wits. Every eye in the room was upon her.

"You are a nurse, Miss Ratchett?" Rathbone began, speaking clearly and rather above his usual pitch and volume.

"Yes sir, and midwife. At least I used to be."

The coroner's face tightened.

Goode groaned.

Rathbone ignored them both.

"Were you in attendance when Miss Alice Stonefield was delivered of her two sons, in October of 1829, the father being one Phineas Ravensbrook?"

Rathbone glanced at Ravensbrook. He looked like a death's-head.

"I were in attendance, yes sir," Miss Ratchett replied. "But it were just a normal birth like any other, no twins, sir, just the one child. Boy..

. beautiful he were. Healthy child. Called him Angus, she did."

One could have heard a tin tack drop in the court.

"What?" Rathbone demanded.

The coroner leaned forward, peering at her.

"Madam, you are aware of what you are saying? There are people in this courtroom who knew both Angus and Caleb!"

"There were one baby, sir," Miss Ratchett repeated. "I were there. Miss Alice had one baby. I were with her for all the time she nursed him. Knew him right until his poor mother were killed. Year after Phineas Ravensbrook died in some foreign place. It were after that as his uncle took him, poor little mite. Only five, he were, an' terrible took with his grief. Father never 'ad no time for 'im. Never owned 'im, he didn't, nor loved 'is mother neither." Her face betrayed her feelings for Phineas Ravensbrook.

"What you say makes no sense, madam!" the coroner cried desperately. "If there was only one child, where did Caleb come from? Who was he? And who killed Angus?"

"I don't know nothing about that," Miss Ratchett answered levelly. "I just know there were one baby. But I do know as children have a powerful imagination! I looked af ter a little girl once as 'ad a friend, all imaginary, and whenever she done something wrong, she said as how it were Mary what done it, not her. She was good, Mary was bad."

"An ordinary excuse any child might make," the coroner said. "I have children myself, madam. I have heard many such stories."

The Reverend Nicolson rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon, sir." He addressed the coroner respectfully, but he would not be denied. "But is it not possible that in his unhappiness, and his feeling of rejection, obligation and loneliness, that the boy created an alternative self which would take the blame for his failures, and which would also be free to hate his uncle as he wished to, as he did in his heart?"

He raised his voice above the mounting noise in the room, the groans and murmurs of horror, pity, rage or disbelief.

"Might it not begin as an escape within the imagination of an unhappy child's hurt and humiliation?" he asked. "And then grow into a genuine madness wherein he became two quite separate people, one who did everything to please, and earned the resultant rewards, and another who was free to feel, without guilt, all the anger and hatred for his rejection, because he was the son of a father who would not own him, and an uncle for whom he was never good enough, a reflection of the brother he envied, and upon whom he could no longer be revenged, except through the child?"

The coroner banged on his desk for silence. "Order!" he commanded. "That is a monstrous scene you paint, sir. May God forgive you for it. I should not be surprised if the Ravensbrook family cannot." He looked at where Milo Ravensbrook sat rigid, white-faced but for the scarlet daubs on his cheeks.

But it was Enid Ravensbrook's expression, the rage and the pity in her, which made the coroner draw in his breath, and from which Rathbone knew that Nicolson was not so far wrong.

"Absolute insanity," Ravensbrook said between his teeth. "For God's sake!

Everyone here knows there were two brothers! This woman is either wicked or she has lost her wits. Her memory is fuddled with drink." He swung around.

"Genevieve! You have seen both Angus and Caleb!" He was shouting now. "Tell them this is preposterous!"

"I have seen them," Genevieve said slowly. "But never together. I have never seen them at the same time. But... it couldn't be. They were utterly different. No." She looked at Abigail Ratchett. "No, you have to be mistaken. It was over forty-one years ago. Your memory is confused. How many babies have you delivered? Hundreds?"

"It was one baby!" Abigail Ratchett said fiercely. "I'm not drunk and I'm not mad, no matter what anyone says."

Genevieve turned to Monk, desperation in her face. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard. "You said someone saw them together on the day Angus was killed! Find that man and bring him here. That will solve it!"

The coroner banged again, demanding silence, then turned to Monk. "Well?" he said sharply. "Did you find such a witness? If you did, what is all the nonsense? It seems you are totally irresponsible, sir!"

"I went back," Monk replied, his voice quiet, hard. "I found the witness, and I had him stand exactly where he had seen Angus and Caleb face each other. I stood where he said they did."

Now, suddenly, there was not a sound in the room.

"I was before a mirror, sir," Monk said with a brilliant smile. "I fought with my own reflection in a glass, and the man watching me relived a mirage."

"That proves nothing!" Ravensbrook said thickly. "You have said Caleb confessed to murdering Angus. How can a man murder himself?"

"He said he had destroyed Angus," Monk corrected. "And that I would never find the body. That was the joke. That is why he laughed. Caleb knew of Angus, and despised him. I think Angus did not know of Caleb. He could not bear to. For him it was truly another person, a dark presence beyond himself, and he was profoundly afraid of him."

"Nonsense!" Ravensbrook retaliated, his voice rising. "You cannot prove such a wild and totally scurrilous story. Caleb was insane, certainly, and he murdered his brother. Then when he knew he would be convicted, and hanged, in a last frenzy of hatred, he attacked me too, because, God forgive me, I always loved Angus better. If I am guilty of a sin, it is that, and only that!"

The voice was rising again. People were moving about.

"It can be proved." Monk lifted his voice, staring at the coroner. "The body of Caleb Stone is in the morgue." He swung around to Selina. "Madam, do you know Caleb's body well enough to tell it from Angus's?"

"Yeah, 'course I do," she said without blushing.

He looked at Genevieve. "And you, Mrs. Stonefield, could you tell your husband's body from Caleb's?"

"Yes." Her voice was no more than a whisper, her face bloodless.

"Then let us put an end to this farce," the coroner commanded. "We shall take these two ladies to the morgue." He rose, his face set, his eyes unblinking. He did not even bother with the uproar in the court or pay the slightest attention to the journalists falling over one another to get out and find messengers.

The morgue attendant pulled back the sheet and uncovered the naked body as far as the groin. The room was cold, and smelled of water and death. The candlelight was yellow and left the corners in shadow.

Selina Herries leaned on Hester's arm, her face calm, almost beautiful, all the brashness and the anger gone from it. She looked at the face with its smooth brow, the chiseled mouth, the green eyes closed, then she looked down at the broad chest, scarred and marble white. The pattern of old injuries was quite individual.

"That's Caleb," she said quietly. She touched his cold cheek with her fingers, gently, as if he could feel her. "God rest him," she whispered.

The coroner nodded and Hester went out with her. A few minutes later she returned with Genevieve. Again the morgue attendant laid back the sheet.

Genevieve stared hard at the same calm face with its closed eyes, and the same white body with its old scars.

Finally her eyes filled with tears and they spilled down her cheeks in an anguish of pity, wrenching at her with a pain she would never forget.

"Yes," she whispered so quietly that in any place but this room of death, it would not have been heard. "Yes, that is Angus. I know those scars as I know my own hand. I bandaged most of them myself. God make him whole, and give him peace at last." She turned slowly and Hester held her in her arms while she wept the grief of all the lost pain she could not heal, the child she could not reach.

"I'll conduct the prosecution of Ravensbrook for murder," Rathbone said with passion.

"You'll never prove it," Monk pointed out.

"That doesn't matter!" Rathbone clenched his jaw, his body rigid. "The charge will ruin him. It will be enough."

Monk leaned forward and picked up one of the dead hands. It was beautiful, perfect-nailed, and he knew now why Caleb had always worn gloves-to protect Angus's hands. He folded it carefully across the other. Perhaps no one else in the room could feel so deeply and with such an intimate pity for a man divided against himself, forever in fear of a dark half he did not know.

"Be at peace," he said. "What debts you cannot pay, we will."