Cain His Brother (33 page)

“And as a result of his efforts in this cause, Mrs. Stonefield, did he bring you certain articles of clothing?”

Her face grew even paler and this time her voice was beyond her ability to control. She gulped, and when she spoke it was huskily.

“Yes…”

Rathbone turned to the judge. “May it please your lordship, the prosecution exhibits one and two.”

“Proceed.” The judge nodded in assent.

The clerk produced the coat and trousers Monk had brought back from the Isle of Dogs. They were just as he had presented them to the police, soiled, bloodstained and badly torn.

“Are these the clothes he brought you, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone asked, holding them up so not only she must see, but the whole room. There was a gasp of indrawn breath. He glimpsed Titus Niven, white as a sheet, his eyes blazing with anger, sitting two rows behind Enid Ravensbrook. He saw Hester wince, but knew she at least understood.

Genevieve swayed and for an instant he thought she was going to faint. He stepped forward, although with the height of the witness stand above the floor, he could not practically have assisted her.

One of the jurors groaned audibly. If the verdict had depended upon sympathy rather than fact, and Ebenezer Goode were not to speak, Rathbone could have won at that moment.

The only person in the room who seemed unmoved was Caleb. He seemed merely curious and slightly surprised.

“Would you look at these clothes, Mrs. Stonefield, and tell the court if you recognize them?” Rathbone said very gently, but so his voice carried to every last person in the room. There was not a breath or a rustle to detract from him.

She looked at them for no more than an instant.

“They are the clothes my husband was wearing the last time I saw him,” she said with her eyes on his face. “Please don't make me touch them. They are covered in his blood!”

Ebenezer Goode opened his mouth and closed it again. No one had proved it was Angus's blood, but he knew better than to argue the point now. He shot Rathbone a bright, warning glance. Battle would commence at the due time, but he had never doubted that. And Genevieve would not be spared, only treated with the caution necessary not to injure his own cause.

“Of course,” Rathbone murmured. “As long as you have no doubt they are his?”

“None.” Her voice was husky, but quite clear. “I have already read the tailor's label on the inside, when Mr. Monk first brought them to me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stonefield. I have no need to distress you further, but please remain where you are, in case my learned friend for the defense wishes to speak to you.” He smiled at her, meeting her eyes for a moment and seeing them remarkably steady, before returning to his seat.

Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet, smiling with dazzling benevolence. He approached the witness stand almost deferentially. There was a rustle of interest around the room. Only Caleb seemed not to care. He avoided looking at him.

“Mrs. Stonefield,” Goode began, his voice resonant, caressing the ear, “I am truly so sorry to have to put you through this ordeal, but you do understand that grieved as we all are for your tragedy, it is my duty, specifically mine, to see we do not compound it by blaming someone who is not truly guilty. You see that, I'm sure.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Yes, I understand,” she answered him.

“Of course you do. You are a generous woman.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, staring up at her. He was still smiling.

“I do not doubt that the relationship between your husband and his brother was a troubled one, and that they quarreled occasionally. It could hardly be otherwise, when their paths had become so very different.” He freed his hands, and gestured with them. “Your husband had everything life can afford: a beautiful and virtuous wife, five healthy children, a well-cared-for, comfortable home to return to every evening, a profitable business and the regard and esteem-indeed, the friendship-of the world, both socially and professionally.”

He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Whereas poor Caleb, for whatever reasons, has none of these things. He has no wife, and no children. He sleeps wherever he can find shelter from the cold and the rain. He eats irregularly. He owns little beyond the clothes in which he stands. He earns his living as and where he can, too often by means other men would despise.

And indeed he is rejected and despised among men, feared by some, I'll grant, as perhaps are many whose circumstances drove them to despair.” He smiled at the jury. “I shall not try to depict him as an admirable man, only as one who may justly be pitied, and perhaps one whose occasional anger and resentment of his more fortunate brother is not beyond our limit to understand.”

He had turned a little to face the crowd. Now he spun around to stare at Genevieve again.

“But Mrs. Stonefield, you say that in these visits of your husband's to the East End, perhaps to Limehouse, or the Isle of Dogs, that he returned home battered and bruised, and sometimes even injured! You did say that, didn't you?”

“Yes.” She was puzzled, guarded.

“As if he had been in a fight, perhaps quite a serious one? That was what I understood you to mean. Was I correct?”

“Yes.” Her glance strayed almost to Caleb, then jerked away again.

“Did he say, specifically, that it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs.

Stonefield?” Goode pressed. “Please think carefully, and be precise.” She swallowed, turned to Rathbone, who deliberately looked away. He must not be seen to have any communication with her. She must be alone, utterly alone, if her evidence were to carry its fullest might.

“Mrs. Stonefield?” Goode was impatient.

“It was Caleb he went to see!” she protested.

“Of course it was. I had not considered other possibilities,” Goode conceded, thereby making sure the jury were aware that there were other possibilities. “We do not even need to consider them, at least for the time being. But did he say it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs. Stonefield?

That is the crux. Is it not possible that Caleb was in some struggle, and your husband, as a loyal brother, went to his assistance? Come, ma'am, is that impossible?”

“No-not-not impossible, I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But… “But what?” He was immeasurably polite. “But Angus was not a brawler?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a man to get into a scrap? Not as you know him, I'm sure, but have you ever seen him in a public house in the Isle of Dogs?

Sometimes it takes a very peaceable man, or even a coward, to avoid a fight there. Is Caleb a fighter, ma'am? Could he have instigated these brawls, or have been the focus of them?”

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Really, my lord, how can the witness possibly know such a thing? As my learned friend has pointed out, she was never there!”

Goode smiled at Rathbone with exaggerated courtesy, and not without humor.

“Alas, hoist with my own petard. I concede.” He turned back to Genevieve.

“I withdraw the question, ma'am. It was absurd. May I ask, from what your husband said to you, is it possible that he was injured in a fight, or a series of scraps, in Caleb's company, or even on his way to or from visiting him, but not actually by Caleb? Or is that impossible?” “It is possible,” she conceded, but everything in her face and the stance of her body denied it.

“And the regrettable blood upon these clothes,” Goode said, his face twisted with distress, “which I willingly accept are his. May I be optimistic, even filled with hope, that it is not in fact his blood at all, but that of some other poor soul, and that he shed them simply because they became spoiled in this manner?”

“Then where is he?” she leaned forward over the railing, her face pleading.

“Where is Angus?”

“Alas, I have no idea.” Goode's expression was one of genuine sorrow, even apology. “But when they were found he was not in them, harmed or unharmed, ma'am. I agree, it does not look fortunate for him, but there is no need to despair, and certainly no proof of any tragedy. Let us keep courage and hope.” He inclined his head slightly, and with something of a flourish returned to his seat.

The judge looked at Rathbone. There was the merest hint of weary humor in his eyes. “Mr. Rathbone, is there anything further you can usefully ask of your witness before I adjourn the court for luncheon?”

“Thank you, no, my lord. I believe she has told her story plainly enough for all to understand.” There was nothing he could do but make her repeat what she had already said. It was a matter of judgment as to what would swing the jury one way or the other. He believed restraint was the better part. He had studied their faces, their reactions to Genevieve. He should not overdo it. Let them form their own opinions of her, paint her as they wished to see her. Her spirit to defend the interests of her children might be misperceived and mar the image.

The court rose. Caleb was taken down, the crowd spilled out to purchase whatever refreshment it wished, and Rathbone, Goode and the judge partook of an excellent meal, all separately, at a nearby tavern. They returned early in the afternoon.

“Proceed with your next witness, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge directed. “Let us get to some meat in this matter.”

Rathbone spent the rest of the day calling the Stonefield servants to corroborate what Genevieve had said regarding Angus's absences frotn home, which were considerable, although only when returning from seeing Caleb was he ever injured. On two of these occasions the wounds had necessitated considerable treatment. He had refused to call a doctor, in spite of the apparent seriousness, and Mrs. Stonefield had attended to him herself. She had some skill in that area.

Had Mr. Stonefield been long in recovering?

On one occasion he had been obliged to take to his bed for over a week. It seemed he had lost a great deal of blood.

Had he given any cause for his injury?

No. But the butler had overheard Mr. Stonefield speak of his brother, and Mrs. Stonefield had made no secret of her assumption that Caleb was the assailant.

The jurors' faces made the belief plain, and their contempt for Caleb, who ignored them almost as if they were irrelevant.

The butler was very straightforward. He offered Goode no opportunity to trip him, and Goode was far too wise to be seen to embarrass such a plain man. He was courteous and complimentary. All he could achieve was another reminder to the jury that the precise dealing of the wounds was still all surmise. Angus had never said in so many words that Caleb had stabbed him.

And he did not labor that. Every man and woman in the room believed it was Caleb; it was in their faces when they looked at the dock, and at Caleb's jeering, insolent stare back at them.

The first day of the trial closed with a conviction of the mind, but no evidence which the judge could direct as law, only massive supposition and a crowd filled with a frustration of loathing.

Rathbone left and almost immediately found a hansom. Without thinking he directed the driver to Primrose Hill. That was where his father, a quiet, studious man with a gentle manner and an alarmingly sharp perception, lived.

His father was sitting by a large log fire with his feet on the fender and a glass of red wine by his side when Oliver arrived and was shown in by the manservant. Henry Rathbone looked up with surprise and then a shadow both of pleasure and concern.

“Sit down,” he offered, indicating the chair opposite. “Wine?”

“What is it?” Oliver sat down, feeling the warmth of the fire creep over him with intense satisfaction. “I don't like that burgundy you have.”

“It's a claret,” Henry replied.

“I'll have a glass.”

Henry nodded at the manservant, who departed to bring the wine.

“You'll burn your feet,” Oliver said critically.

“Scorch the soles of my slippers, perhaps,” Henry argued. He did not ask why Oliver had come. He knew he would be told in time.

Oliver slid a little farther down in the armchair and accepted the claret from the manservant, who went out and closed the door with a quiet snick.

The ash settled in the fire and Henry reached forward and put on another log. There was no sound in the room but the flickering of the fire, no light but the flames and one gas lamp on the far wall. The wind outside was inaudible, as was the first beginning of the rain.

“I'm thinking of getting a new dog,” Henry remarked. “Old Edgemor has some retriever pups. One I like in particular.”

“Good idea,” Oliver said. He was going to have to open the subject himself.

“This trial is troubling me.”

“So I gathered.” Henry reached for his pipe and put it in his mouth, but did not bother to light it. He seldom did. “Why? What is not as you expected?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Then what is there to be distressed about?” Henry looked at him with his clear, light-blue eyes, so unlike Oliver's own, which were very dark, in spite of his fairish hair. “You are off balance. Is it your mind, or your emotions? Are you going to lose when you should win, or win when you should lose?”

Oliver smiled in spite of himself. “Lose when I should win, I think.”

“Summarize the case for me.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at Oliver absentmindedly. “And don't address me as if I were the jury! Just tell me the truth.”

Oliver gave a jerky little laugh, and listed the bare, literal facts as far as he knew them, adding his feelings only as he believed they were relevant to some interpretation and not furnished by evidence. When he had finished he stared at his father waiting for his response.

“This is another one of Monk's,” Henry observed. “Have you seen Hester again? How is she?”

Oliver found himself uncomfortable. It was not a subject he wished to contemplate, much less discuss.

“It is exceedingly difficult to get a jury to convict for murder without a body,” he said irritably. “But if ever a man did deserve to hang, it is Caleb Stone. The more I hear of Angus, the more I admire him, and the worse Caleb appears. The man is violent, destructive, sadistic, an ingrate.”

“But…” Henry raised his eyebrows, looking at Oliver with piercing gentleness.