Cain His Brother

chapter 9
Four days later, the trial of Caleb Stone began in the Central Criminal Court in the Old Bailey. For the prosecution was Oliver Rathbone, for the defense Ebenezer Goode. Goode was also a Queen's Counsel of flair and skill. He had taken the case not for the fee, there was none, but for the high profile of the issue, and perhaps even more for the challenge.

Rathbone knew him slightly. They had appeared in opposition to each other before. Goode was a man in his mid-forties, tall and rather gangling, but the most remarkable things about him were his prominent, very bright, pale blue-gray eyes and his broad, startling smile. He was full of enthusiasm and had a highly eccentric sense of humor. He was also inordinately fond of cats.

The spectators' seats were not as crowded as for a trial where the accused was a member of high society, or the victim a more colorful character than Angus Stonefteld. There was no hint of sexual scandal, and apparently no money involved. And since there was no corpse, the question of murder was one of the issues yet to be proved. Those who had come were there largely to witness the duel between Rathbone and Goode to prove that very point.

They were connoisseurs of the adversarial procedure.

It was a fine, blustery day outside. Shafts of sunlight brightened the windows and shone in hazy beams across the wooden panels of the walls, the floor and the carved panoply of the judge's seat. The jurors were ready, twelve carefully chosen men of solemnity, proven worthiness, and of course the appropriate qualifications of property ownership.

Rathbone called his first witness, Genevieve Stonefield. There was only the mildest stir of anticipation as she crossed the court and climbed the steps to the witness-box. On Rathbone's advice she was wearing not black, but a mixture of dark gray and navy. It was sober, unostentatious, and extremely flattering. She looked tired and strained, but the essential passion and intelligence in her face were heightened, and as she turned at the top of the steps and looked towards the room, there was a sudden rustle of in- terest. One man drew in his breath in surprise and a woman clicked her teeth.

Rathbone smiled. Genevieve Stonefield was that sort of woman. She caused emotions, perhaps of envy, in the female members of the crowd, even if they did not quite know why. There was something in her yet to be awakened, something more elemental than in most women. He must handle it with the utmost care. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing a jury could only ever be composed of men.

She was sworn in and gave her name and address, staring solemnly at Rathbone as if there were no one else present. Not once did her eyes stray to the judge or the jury, not even to the clerk who gave her the Bible.

Rathbone rose to his feet and approached the high witness stand, but stopped some distance away so he did not have to crane his neck to see her.

He began quietly.

"Mrs. Stonefield, would you please tell the court all you can remember of events on the last day you saw your husband. Begin with your conversation at breakfast."

She took a deep breath, and her voice was almost steady when she replied.

"There was nothing remarkable in the post," she said. "A few letters from friends, an invitation-" She stopped and had to make a considerable effort to control herself. It was not visible, no tears or trembling, no groping for a handkerchief, just a long hesitation before she resumed. "It was to a musical evening, in three days' time, which he said we should accept. It was a violin recital. He was particularly fond of the violin. He found its tones emotionally very stir- ring, in a way nothing else quite touched."

"So you wrote to accept?" Rathbone interrupted. "Believing he fully intended to be there?"

"Yes." She drew in her breath. "I never excused myself. They must think me most rude! It quite went out of my head."

"If they did not understand at the time, I am quite certain they will now," he assured her. "Please continue."

"Angus received one or two household bills which he said he would attend to when he came home, then he left for his business. He said he would be home for dinner."

"Have you seen him since, Mrs. Stonefield?"

Her voice was very quiet, almost a whisper. "No."

"Have you had any communication from him whatever?"

"No."

Rathbone walked a pace to the left and shifted his weight a little. He was acutely aware of Ebenezer Goode leaning back in his chair, a slight smile on his face, his eyes bright and watchful. He was at ease, confident, but never so careless as to take anything for granted.

In the dock, Caleb Stone stood motionless. His hair was long and thick and curled wildly, adding to the reckless look of his face with its wide mouth and brilliant green eyes. His very lack of movement drew the gaze in a room where everyone else fidgeted now and then, shifting position, scratching a nose or an ear, turning to look at someone or something, whispering to a neighbor. The only person who did not even glance his way was Genevieve, as if she could not bear to see his face with its mirrorlike resemblance to the husband she had loved.

"Mrs. Stonefield," Rathbone proceeded, "has your husband ever been away from home overnight before?"

"Oh, yes, quite often. His business necessitated traveling now and then."

"Any other purpose that you are aware of?"

"Yes..." She stared at him fixedly, her body rigid in its navy and gray wool and trimming silk. "He went quite regularly to the East End of the city, to the Limehouse area, to see his brother. He was..." She seemed lost for words.

Caleb stared as if he would force her to look at him, but she did not.

Several of the jurors were more attentive.

"Fond of him?" Rathbone suggested.

Ebenezer Goode stirred in his seat. Rathbone was leading the witness, but this time he did not object.

"In a way he loved him," Genevieve said with a frown, still keeping her head turned away from the dock. "I think also he felt a kind of pity, because-' This time Ebenezer Goode did rise.

"Yes, yes." The judge waved his hand in a swift motion of dismissal. "Mrs.

Stonefield, what you think is not evidence, unless you give us the reasons for your belief. Did your husband express such a sentiment?"

She looked at him with a frown. "No, my lord. It was my impression. Why else would he keep on going to see Caleb, in spite of the way Caleb treated him, unless it was loyalty, and a sort of pity? He defended him to me, even when he was most hurt."

The judge, a small, lean man with a face so weary he looked as if he could not have slept well in years, regarded her with patient intelligence. "Do you mean his feelings were wounded, ma'am, or his person?"

"Both, my lord. But if I cannot say what I know by instinct, and because I knew my husband, but only what I can prove by evidence, then I shall say only that he was injured in his person. He had sustained bruises, abrasions, and more than once shallow knife wounds, or some other such sharp instrument."

Rathbone could not have planned it better. Now there was not a man or woman in the whole courtroom whose attention was not held. All the jurors were sitting bolt upright and facing the witness stand. The judge's lugubrious face was sharp. In the crowd Rathbone saw Hester Latterly sitting beside Lady Ravensbrook, who was ashen-skinned and looked as if she had aged ten years in the last weeks. Monk had said she'd had typhoid fever. It had certainly taken its toll. Even so, she was a remarkable woman and nothing could rob her features of their character.

Ebenezer Goode bit his lip and rolled his eyes very slightly.

In the dock, Caleb Stone gave a short burst of laughter, and the guards on either side of him inched closer, their disgust plain.

The judge glanced at Rathbone.

"Do we understand, Mrs. Stonefield," Rathbone picked up the thread again, "that your husband returned from these trips to see his brother, with injuries, sometimes quite serious and painful, and yet he still continued to make these journeys?"

"Yes," she said steadily.

"What explanation did he offer you for this unusual behavior?" Rathbone inquired.

"That Caleb was his brother," she answered, "and he could not desert him.

Caleb had no one else. They were twins, and it was a bond which could not be broken, even by Caleb's hatred and his jealousy."

In the dock, Caleb's manacled hands, strong and slender, grasped the railing till his knuckles shone white.

Rathbone prayed she would remember precisely what they had discussed and agreed. So far it was going perfectly.

"Were you not afraid that one day the injuries might be more serious?" he asked. "Perhaps he might be crippled or maimed for life?"

Her face was pale and tense, and still she stared straight ahead of her.

"Yes-I was terrified of it. I implored him not to go again."

"But your pleas did not change his mind?"

"No. He said he could not abandon Caleb." She ignored Caleb's snort of derision, almost anguish. "He could always remember the boy he had been," she said chokingly. "And all that they had shared as children, the grief of their parents' death..." She blinked several times and her effort to maintain control was apparent.

Rathbone restrained himself from looking at the jury, but he could almost feel their sympathy like a warm tide across the room.

In the crowd, Enid Ravensbrook's haggard face was softened with pity for the distress she imagined so clearly. There was such a depth of feeling in her, Rathbone could not help the fleeting thought that perhaps she too had known such loneliness as a child.

"Yes?" he prompted Genevieve gently.

"Their sense of total loneliness," she continued. "And the dreams and fears they had shared. When they were ill or frightened, they turned to each other. There was no one else to care for them. He could not forget that, no matter what Caleb might do to him now. He was always aware that life had been good to him, and for Caleb it had not proved so fortunate."

In the dock Caleb let out a sound, half groan, half snarl. One of his gaolers touched him gently. The other sneered.

"Did he say that, Mrs. Stonefield?" Rathbone demanded. "Did he use those words, or is that your surmise?"

"No, he used those words, more than once." Her voice was clear and decisive now. It was a statement.

"You were afraid that Caleb might harm your husband seriously, out of his envy at his success, and the hatred arising from that?" Rathbone asked.

"Yes."

There was a murmur around the room, a shifting of weight. The sun had gone and the light was grayer across the wood.

"Did he not understand your feelings?" Rathbone asked.

"Oh yes," she affirmed. "He shared them. He was terrified, but Angus was a man who set duty and honor above all, even his own life. It was a matter of loyalty. He said he owed Caleb a debt for the past and he could not live with himself if he were to run away now."

One of the jurors nodded his approval and his determination deepened. He glanced up at the dock with bitter contempt.

"What was that debt, Mrs. Stonefield?" Rathbone asked. "Did he say?"

"Only a matter of Caleb having defended him on occasions when they were children," she replied. "He was not specific, but I think it was from older boys, from teasing and bullying. He did imply that there had been some boy who had been especially brutal, and Caleb had always been the one to take the brunt of it and protect Angus." The tears momentarily spilled down her face and she ignored them. "Angus never forgot that."

"I see," Rathbone said softly, smiling a little. "That is a sentiment of honor I imagine we can all understand and admire." He gave the jury a moment or two to absorb the idea. Again he did not look at them. It would be far too unsubtle. "But you believe he was frightened, all the same," he continued. "Why, Mrs. Stonefield?"

"Because before he went he would be restless and withdrawn," she answered.

"Quite unlike his usual manner. He preferred to spend time alone, often pacing the floor. He would be pale-faced, unable to eat, his hands would shake and his mouth be dry. When someone is as deeply afraid as that, Mr.

Rathbone, it is not hard to observe it, especially if it is someone you know well, and love."

"Of course," he murmured. He was acutely conscious of Caleb crouched forward over the railing, and of two jurors staring at him as if he were a wild animal, and might even leap over upon them, were he not manacled. "Was there anything else?"

"Sometimes he dreamed," she replied. "He would cry out, calling Caleb's name, and saying, `No! No!' And then he would wake up covered in perspiration, and his whole body shaking."

"Did he discuss with you what was in these dreams?"

"No. He was too distressed." She closed her eyes and her voice quivered.

"I would simply hold him in my arms until he went to sleep again, as I would a child."

There was total silence in the court. For once even Caleb had his head bent forward so his face was hidden. In the crowd there were only a few sighs of pent-up breath being let go, emotions tight.

Enid looked as if she might weep, and her hand clung to Hester's.

"I appreciate that this can only be painful for you," Rathbone resumed after a moment, allowing Genevieve time to master herself. "But there are questions I must ask. When your husband did not return, what steps did you take?"

"The following day I went into his place of business and asked Mr.

Arbuthnot, the senior clerk, if perhaps Angus had been called away on business, and somehow the message to me had been lost. He said that had not happened. He= She stopped.

"Yes, please do not tell us what Mr. Arbuthnot said." Rathbone snuled at her very slightly. "We shall ask him in due course. Tell us merely what you did yourself, as a result of his information."

"I waited two more days, then I called upon an agent of inquiry who had been recommended, a Mr. William Monk."

"I shall be calling both Mr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Monk, my lord," Rathbone said, then turned back to Genevieve. "What did you say to Mr. Monk?"

"I told him I feared my husband had gone to see his brother, and that Caleb had murdered him." She hesitated only a moment, gripping the edge of the railing hard, straining the fabric of her navy gloves. "I instructed him to do all he could to find proof of what had occurred. He promised to do so."

"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.

"He seems to have not a shred of remorse," Oliver went on. "Even looking at his brother's widow, and knowing there are five children, and what will happen to them now=" He stopped.

"Do you doubt his guilt?" Henry asked, sipping his claret.

Oliver picked up his own glass. The firelight shone ruby in it, and the clean, slightly sharp aroma of it filled his head.

"No. He is just so vividly alive. Even when I am not looking at him, which is almost all the time, I am aware of his emotions, his rage... and his pain. And I am aware of his intelligence."

"And if you win, he will be hanged."

"Yes."

"And that offends you?"

"Yes."

"And if you lose, he will be a free man, guilty, and vindicated."

"Yes."

"I cannot help you, except to a quiet evening by the fire and another glass of claret. You already know everything I would say."

"Yes, of course I do. I suppose I simply do not want to say them to myself alone." He drank from the glass and the taste of it filled him. At least until it was time to leave, he could let the matter go.

Monk had not been in court. He would be called as a witness, so he could not attend until after he had given evidence, and he had no desire to wait around in corridors catching snippets of news.

He had no further word from Drusilla Wyndham. If she intended drawing the police into the matter of his alleged assault, she had apparently delayed her complaint. He thought it far more likely she knew the futility of such a prosecution, and would ruin him by innuendo, a slower, subtler form of torture, and far more likely to be successful. He would have to wait with the sword hanging over his head, never knowing when it would fall. He went to see Evan, only to find he had been sent to Crouch End to interview a burglary suspect and would not be back until tomorrow. There was little he could do to help Monk until he knew at least what case, if any, was involved.

Monk strode the cold pavements almost oblivious of the gusts of wind blowing in his face. A carriage passed too close to the curb, its wheels splashing through the gutters and soaking him. His trousers flapped wetly around his ankles.

What had he done to Drusilla? What had he done to any woman? He knew so little about his personal life. He had not written regularly to his sister, Beth. He knew that from the few letters of hers he had kept. He had loathed Runcorn, and been at least partially responsible for the aggressive, self- serving way in which he now behaved. Runcorn had felt Monk's contempt all his professional life. His original mild dislike of him had hardened into fear, not without cause. Monk had sensed his weaknesses, and played on them.

There was nothing in that to admire.

Granted, Runcorn was an unattractive man, narrow, selfabsorbed and a coward with no generosity of soul. But he was the poorer for having worked with Monk, not the richer.

Who else was there'? No one from the past that he knew. Perhaps he had treated Hermione well? It seemed it was she who had let him down. But if he had known her longer, if she had not so bitterly disillusioned him, would he in time have hurt her also?

That was a futile line of thought.

He crossed the road, ignoring the horse droppings which had not been swept.

What of the present, the brief span of two years since the accident? He had behaved honorably with Evan. He was perfectly sure of that. And with Callandra. Callandra was fond of him; she quite genuinely liked him. The knowledge of that was one of the most pleasant of all his possessions, and he clung to it with a fierceness which he would not have believed possible even a month ago.

But Callandra was in her fifties. A far truer mirror would be Hester. How had he treated Hester, who had stood with him against such terrors in the past, and who had been unquestioningly brave and loyal in the teeth of failure and opposition?

He had been there, unfailingly, when she was in danger. He had never for an instant doubted her honor or her innocence. He had worked night and day to save her. He had not even had to think about it: it was the only possible course he could follow. No other had entered his thoughts.

But how had he behaved towards her as a woman?

If he were honest, he had been consistently abrasive and critical, even offensive. He had done it intentionally, wanting to hurt her, because in some indefinable way-what? Why did she make him so uncomfortable? Because there was some elemental truth in her he did not want to know, some emotion within himself she touched and he could not afford to feel. She was demanding, uncomfortable, critical. She demanded of him what he was not prepared to givechange, uncertainty, pain. She had the difficulties of a man without the virtues, the ease that went with them. She required friendship.

But Drusilla was utterly different. How he regarded Hester was irrelevant to this.

He crossed the next street, dodging a dray.

He had been happy with Drusilla, enjoying her company without shadow. She was fun, lighthearted, witty, feminine. She had made no intellectual demands, no moral judgments. There was nothing in her which irritated or discomforted him. Certainly, Hester was irrelevant.

But had he hurt Hester? Was he innately selfish, cruel? And had he always been? That was not totally irrelevant... indeed, it was the entire point.

He did not admire selfishness in others. It was ugly from every aspect, a spiritual weakness which soured every other virtue. Even courage and honesty were marred by it in the end. Is that what he was? Basically a man with no generosity of soul? Everything began and ended with his own interest?

What utter and abominable isolation. It was its own punishment, more terrible than anything imposed from outside.

He must know! Why did Drusilla hate him?

There was nothing he could do until Evan returned and he knew for certain whether it was a case or not. If it was not, then the next thing was to travel to Norfolk, but he could not leave London until he had testified in the Stonefield trial.

He could join the police in their further search of the river for Angus's body. Not that there was much hope of finding it now, but it was still worth every effort. It would almost certainly close the case against Caleb, and God knew, he deserved that. If ever a man warranted hanging, it was Caleb. More importantly, it would free Genevieve from the emotional and financial prison of not knowing. When he thought of her suffering, and her courage, her loss, he was barely aware of his own dilemma, or the gray street around him.

It was a clear, cold afternoon when he stood in the small boat setting off from the Shadwell Dock Stairs and started downstream with the wind in his face. They took the north bank. Another boat was searching the south. It was a long, bitter day, filled with the smell of tide and sewage, the endlessly moving filthy water, the sound of lapping and slurping as the wake of the larger ships washed against the shingle or the pier stakes and stairs, and cargo boats, and barges bound for the east coast, passenger ships for France and Holland, clippers for every part in the Empire and the world.

They went in and out of every dock, every yard and stair, poked every pile of wood or canvas, every hulk, every shadowed stretch of water, lifted every drifting piece of flotsam. They scoured carefully through the pier stakes where long ago those convicted of piracy on the high seas were tied until the morning tide drowned them.

Monk was frozen. His feet and trousers were wet from where he had jumped ashore onto the shingle. His body ached, his knuckles were skinned, as were his palms from the wet ropes, and he was hungry.

As dusk drew over a clear sky, the air began to prickle the skin with cold and on shore the rime of moisture on the cobbles was turning to ice. The tide was rising again. They were beyond Woolwich and the Royal Arsenal, down as far as the end of Gallion's Reach. Ahead of them was Barking Reach.

"Nothing," the sergeant said with a shake of his head. "We're wasting our time. If 'e went in at all, Vs long gone now. Poor devil." He waved his arm, rocking the boat slightly. "Right, men. Might as well go 'ome. Gawd knows, it's going ter freeze as 'ard as the 'obs o' 'ell tonight. Pass 'round that tot o' rum. It's far enough 'ome, dammit."

"We'll find 'im somew'ere," one of the others said laconically. "Sea gives up its dead, sooner or later."

"Mebbe," the sergeant agreed. "But not tonight, lads."

They turned in a wide circle and leaned their weight into the oars, too tired to bother talking. The shore was only a greater density in the night, lit by yellow lamps, carriage lights moving slowly. Sounds were faint across the water, a rattle of wheels, a shout, the creak of spars in midstream.

It was a good hour later when they bumped into the mass in the water and the man in the bow called out. It took them another twenty minutes, working by lamplight, awkward with the small boat tipping and the sodden heaviness of it, to haul the body into the bottom and examine it.

Monk felt his stomach knot, and then churn with revulsion and he thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

It was the remains of a man in his late thirties or early forties, as much as one could tell. He had been dead for some time, in Monk's judgment well over a week. His features were badly decomposed by the river and its natural inhabitants. What was left of his clothes were beyond recognition except that they must once have been a shirt and some form of trousers, but of what quality or color it was impossible to say.

"Well?" the sergeant asked, looking at Monk. "This 'im?" There was a dry smile on his mouth, and hopelessness in his eyes. "Geez! Poor devil. No 'uman bein' should come ter this."

Monk steeled himself and looked at the body more closely. He was surprised his stomach had settled again although he was shuddering with cold. He must have done such things before, perhaps often. The man was tall, strongly built. His hair was thick and dark. There was nothing to disprove it was Angus Stonefield.

"I don't know. It could be," he said with a sense of sadness which all but overwhelmed him, as if up to that moment he had in some way still believed Angus might have been alive.

The sergeant sighed. "I suppose we'll 'ave ter ask the wife, although Gawd 'isself knows 'ow yer could expec' any woman ter look at that... the more so if it's 'im."

"Take him to the morgue," Monk said quietly, loathing what he was doing even as he heard his own voice. Suddenly it seemed easy to hang Caleb. The anger was not enough even for that. "I'll bring her. It has to be done.

There may be some mark on the body where the clothes have protected it, something she can recognize... or which makes it possible."

The sergeant searched his face in the moon of the lamplight, then nodded slowly. "Right y'are, sir. We'll do that. C'mon now, boys, put yer back inter them oars. D'yer wanter be stuck 'ere in the middle o' the damn' river till yer freezes solid?"

"Yes, Mr. Monk?" Genevieve looked at him, her face creased with anxiety, fear already at the back of her eyes. He had been admitted to the parlor.

She was not using the larger, more formal rooms, probably to save the cost of heating them. She looked exhausted. He knew she had been in the courtroom all day, and in the witness-box a great deal of it, testifying in an attempt to prove her husband's death. Watching Caleb, so physically like him, must have been the worst ordeal of her life. And now he was possibly going to add to it the final horror.

Yet it could not be avoided. No one else could do this. If his face were undamaged, recognizable, perhaps Ravensbrook or Mr. Arbuthnot could have spared her. As it was, only she could know the intimacies of his body which were left.

Monk was not often at a loss for words, but even though he had thought of this since their grim find in the river, he still did not know how best to tell her.

"What is it, Mr. Monk?" Her eyes did not leave his face. "Have you found Angus? Is that what you cannot bring yourself to tell me?"

"I don't know." It was ridiculous that she should be helping him, when he should somehow be easing it for her. It was her grief, her loss, not his.

"We have found a body, but it will require someone who knows him well to identify it."

"I don't understand..." She swayed a little bit. "What are you trying to say?" She swallowed. "Is it Angus, or not? You have seen Caleb. I can see a multitude of differences between them, but to you they will be so alike you must know if it is Angus or not!" There was a rising panic in her voice and her eyes. "Please! This... this uncertainty is worse than knowing would be." She stood with her hands knotted in front of her, her body so tight she was shaking.

"If I knew, Mrs. Stonefield, I would not subject you to this!" he said desperately. "If even Lord Ravensbrook could have told, I would have asked him. But the river has done its damage to the face. Only where the clothes have protected it is it unharmed. That is why you alone can tell." She drew in her breath with a gasp, tried to speak, and made no sound at all.

He ached to be able to touch her, in some manner lend her physical strength. But it would have been an impossible intrusion.

"Would you like me to have someone come with you?" he asked. "Have you a maid? Or shall we collect Mr. Niven on the way? I imagine you would not care for Lord Ravensbrook?" It was a question, but he knew her answer from the stiffening of her neck.

"No... no thank you. I think I prefer to be alone, except for you. If you will be so kind? I have seen dead bodies before, but not of my own husband nor... damaged... as you say."

"Of course." He offered his arm immediately. "Are you ready to come now, or would you prefer to take a sip of brandy first?"

"I do not take spirits, thank you. I shall have my maid bring my cloak, then I shall come. It is better done quickly."

They rode in silence. There was nothing of relevance to say, and anything irrelevant now would have been both painful and absurd. They clattered through the darkness past the shimmering street lamps reflected on the mist and smoke and the swaying lights of other coaches and carriages passing.

There was no sound but the clatter of hooves on stone and the swish of wheels and occasional splatter of water as they struck a particularly bad gutter.

They reached the morgue and pulled up with a jolt. Monk climbed out and helped her alight. They crossed the pavement and went up the steps. A single constable was waiting for them, pale-faced and unhappy. He led them inside.

The place smelled clean and stale, with an indefinable odor that was a mask for something else, the washed and deeply decaying flesh of the dead. The attendant took them to a small room where a body lay on a wooden table, covered with a sheet. It was customary to remove the sheet and show only the face. In this instance it was the one part of the man most disfigured. Someone had taken the forethought to cover the head sepaarately. The attendant unfolded the cloth from the neck down, showing the shoulders, upper arms, chest and abdomen.

Genevieve stood absolutely still, as if she could not move from the spot.

Monk was afraid that if she did she would collapse, and yet from where she was she could not see sufficiently well to know more than that it was the upper torso of a well-built man. Unless there were some major abnormality in Angus, she would have to come closer to know if this were him or not.

He took her arm.

"Mrs. Stonefield?" he said gently. "Your distress is natural, even a revulsion, but we do not know if this is your husband or not. Without your help, we will never know. Please... use all your courage, and look."

She took a step forward, still with her eyes closed, then another step, and a third. Monk restrained her. She was close enough.

They stood together in the silence, not a sound from outside penetrated the room. There was no motion of breath. Even the lamps seemed to burn without a hiss, as if the air swallowed them.

Genevieve opened her eyes and looked down at the naked chest in front of her.

"No," she whispered, and the tears spilled over her eyes in both relief and despair. "It is not my husband. Please put back the cover over the poor man. I do not know who he is."

"It is not Angus?" Monk insisted. "You are quite sure?"

"Yes." She turned away from the body. "There are no scars on him. Angus had a unique pattern of scars on the side of his chest where he was hurt, a stab wound, once when he was with Caleb. I know exactly where it is. I stitched it myself. It is not there in that man."

Monk guided her towards the doorway out. "I'm sorry to have brought you here," he said bitterly. "I would have spared you this, could I have known." He nodded to the morgue attendant and the constable followed them out.

"I know you would, Mr. Monk," she answered with a little cough. She put her hand over her face and swayed. He steadied her and the constable came quickly to the other side. He guided her to the entrance and the sharp night air.

"Thank you." Monk looked at the constable. "I'll see Mrs. Stonefield home."

"Yes sir. Good night sir. Ma'am."

When the trial of Caleb Stone recommenced the following day, Rathbone was aware of the preceding night's events. He regretted profoundly both Genevieve's ordeal and the fact that it had not been Angus's body. He was also moved by it. She could so easily have claimed him. It was extremely unlikely anyone would have challenged her, and the poor man, whoever he was, would almost certainly not be identified by anyone else.

"Surely the temptation crossed her mind?" he said to Monk as they walked in the rain up the steps into the Central Criminal Court. "She could hardly have been prosecuted for such an error, even if it were ever proved. It could have answered all her immediate needs."

"And ours," Monk agreed grimly, following Rathbone in through the massive doors and shaking his umbrella before he folded it. "But no. She looked just once and pronounced it not him. She had no doubts. What she thought about in the journey there, or for the few moments before she looked at him, we shall probably never know. If she was tempted, she had overcome it by then."

"Remarkable woman," Rathbone said quietly, taking off his hat. "I wish I could feel more certain of an outcome for her."

"Little hope?" Monk asked.

"Not as it is," Rathbone replied. "But I shall do my best. We are certainly not beaten yet."

The first witness of the day was Monk himself. He testified of his search for Angus, which had taken him eventually to finding Angus's clothes on the beggar in the East India Dock Road, and his exchange of his own in order to obtain them.

Then he told of his pursuit of Caleb, with the police, and the arrest in the marshes. Rathbone did not mention their earlier encounter, since all that Caleb had said was inadmissible, being hearsay, and unwitnessed.

Archie McLeish had been out of earshot beyond the other makeshift door.

When Rathbone had finished, Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet. He looked at Monk carefully, meeting his gaze. He recognized a professional. His eyes gleamed and his lips parted in a wolfish smile, brilliant, all teeth, but he was far too wily to attack where he could not win.

"Do you know where Angus Stonefield is now, Mr. Monk?" he asked very gently, as if they had struck up a casual conversation in some tavern over a pint of ale.

"No," Monk replied.

"Do you know, for certain, Mr. Monk, irrefutably, whether he is alive or dead?"

No.

Goode's smile grew, if possible, even broader.

"No," he agreed. "Neither do any of us! Thank you, that is all."

Rathbone rose and called Lord Ravensbrook. There was a stir of interest, but only slight. The case was slipping away, and Rathbone knew it.

Ravensbrook took the stand with outward calm, but his body was rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead. He might have faced a firing squad with the same tight, unhappy courage. Enid was there in the crowd again, with Hester beside her, but he did not appear even to be aware of her, much less to seek her.

When he had been sworn, Rathbone approached him and began.

"My lord, you have known both brothers since their birth, have you not?"

"Not since birth," Ravensbrook corrected. "Since their parents died. They were then a little over five years old."

"I beg your pardon." Rathbone rephrased the question. "You have known of them. They are related to you, are they not?"

"Yes." Ravensbrook swallowed hard. Even from where Rathbone stood, he could see his throat tighten and the difficulty with which he answered. For a man of his natureproud, intensely private, drilled to keep his feelings under control and seldom to express them in words, even when appropriate-this must be an experience close to torture.

"When they were left orphans..." Rathbone continued, loathing having to do this, but compelled. Without this background there was no case. Perhaps even with it there was none. Was he putting this man through such a refine- ment of public pain for nothing? "You took them into your home and cared for them as if they were your own, is that not so?"

"Yes," Ravensbrook said grimly. His eyes did not move from Rathbone's face, as though he were trying to blot out the rest of the room and convince himself they were alone, two men having an acutely personal conversation in the privacy of some club. "It seemed the obvious thing to do."

"To a benevolent man," Rathbone agreed. "So from the age of five years, Angus and Caleb Stonefield lived in your home and were raised as your sons?"

"Yes."

"Were you married at that time, my lord?"

"I was a widower. My first wife died very young." There was barely a flicker of expression on his face, just a shadow of grief, then it was gone again. It was not done to display one's vulnerability before others. "I married my present wife several years after that. Angus and Caleb had already grown to adulthood and left home." Still he did not look towards Enid, as if to do so would somehow draw her into his tangle of pain, or leave him more exposed.

"So you were all the family they knew?" Rathbone persisted.

Ebenezer Goode moved restlessly in his seat.

Caleb stretched his hand away from the gaoler beside him, and his manacles clanked against the railing.

The judge leaned forward. "Is this leading somewhere, Mr. Rathbone? So far your questions have seemed to elicit only the obvious."

"Yes, my lord. I am about to ask Lord Ravensbrook about the relationship between the two brothers, as he observed it from childhood. I am merely seeking to establish that he is an expert in this field."

"You have done so. Please proceed."

Rathbone bowed, and turned back to Ravensbrook.

"When you first knew them, my lord, were they fond of each other?"

Ravensbrook hesitated only a moment. His face held a curious look of puzzlement and distaste, as if he found it distressing to answer the question.

"Yes, they were extremely... close. At that time there was no division between them."

"When did you first notice a division?"

Ravensbrook did not reply. His face reflected a pain and a distaste which was hardly surprising. To remember that time when Angus and Caleb had loved one another was a peculiarly bitter contrast with the present. The sympathy for him was palpable in the room.

"My lord," Rathbone pressed, "when did you first notice the beginnings of a division between the two brothers? We need to know, and you are the only one who can tell us."

"Of course," Ravensbrook said grin-fly. "It was almost three years after their arrival. Angus was always a... a quiet child, studious, obedient.

Caleb appeared to resent it. He was far less easy to discipline. He would take correction very poorly. He had an unfortunate temper."

In the dock, Caleb jerked his head up, and the movement caught the eye of several of the jurors. They looked at him with a new interest.

"Was this division between them on both sides?" Rathbone inquired. Again Ravensbrook hesitated for so long Rathbone was obliged to repeat the question.

"It did not appear so," Ravensbrook answered at last. "Certainly as time passed, Angus became more... diligent in his studies, more of an agreeable companion-"

Caleb let out a snort which was almost a cry. There was rage in it, but an undertone of pain as well, and Rathbone suddenly felt the weight of rejection in it, even all those years after, the confusion and realization of the less favored son. He thought of his own father, and the bond between them. He could not recall ever feeling it threatened. Jealousy was unknown to him.

"And Caleb was not?" he prompted.

Ravensbrook's jaw tightened and his face was very pale.

"No," he said flatly. "He was rebellious, argumentative, a perverse child."

"Did you love him?" It was not a question he had intended to ask. It served no purpose to his case. He spoke without forethought, only a sudden overwhelming emotion, which was inexcusable, totally unprofessional. "Of course," Ravensbrook answered, his dark eyebrows raised very slightly. "One does not withdraw one's loyalty or regard from a member of one's family simply because they are of a difficult nature. One hopes that with care they will grow out of it."

"And did Caleb grow out of it?"

Ravensbrook did not reply.

"Did he grow out of the envy of his brother?" Rathbone persisted. "Did they regain their earlier closeness?"

Ravensbrook's face was tight, bitterly inward, as if he exercised an iron control.

"It did not appear so to me."

In the dock Caleb let out a short bark of derisive laughter and the judge swiveled around to glare at him, breath drawn in to reprove him if he should make another sound.

Among the jurors a man frowned, another shook his head and pursed his lips.

Ebenezer Goode stiffened. It was the first negative sign to his case, although he must surely have known that Caleb's manner, the very expression on his face, was the greatest single factor against him. There was no evidence, at least so far; it was a matter of emotion and belief, a question of interpretation.

Rathbone pursued the line of inquiry.

"Lord Ravensbrook, will you draw for the court the pattern of the relationship between these two brothers as they grew up in your house. Were they educated similarly, for example?"

A bitter smile touched Ravensbrook's chiseled mouth, then vanished instantly.

"Exactly the same," he replied. "There was one tutor who taught one set of lessons. It was only their response which was different. In every regard I treated them equally, as did all the rest of the staff."

"Everyone?" Rathbone affected surprise. "Surely there would have been those who had favorites? As you say, the boys became increasingly dissimilar."

Caleb leaned forward in the dock, his face eager, listening intently.

Ravensbrook must have been aware of it, but he stood without the slightest movement. He could have been carved in bone. He was a man wading through a nightmare, and it showed in every line and angle of his body.

Enid's eyes seemed never to leave his face.

"Lord Ravensbrook!" Rathbone felt he needed to attract his attention before there was any purpose in repeating his question.

Ravensbrook looked at him slowly.

"Lord Ravensbrook, you have told us how unlike these two boys became.

Surely others who know them must have felt differently towards them? Angus had every virtue: honesty, humility, gratitude, generosity; while Caleb was aggressive, lazy and ungrateful. If that is so, can people truly have regarded them with equal affection?"

"Perhaps I was speaking more for myself than for others," Ravensbrook conceded grudgingly, his face stiff. "I did my best not to permit it, but it may have existed in the village. I had no control over that."

"The village?" Rathbone had omitted to ask Ravensbrook where the brothers had spent their childhood. He should have realized it would not have been in London.

"My country home in Berkshire," Ravensbrook explained, his face suddenly white. "It was a better atmosphere for them than the city. Learned to ride, hunt, fish." He took a deep breath. "Manly pursuits. Learned a bit about the land, and a man's responsibilities towards his fellows."

There was a murmur of assent from one or two people in the room. Enid looked puzzled, Caleb bitter.

"A very privileged childhood, by the sound of it." Rathbone smiled. "I gave them all I could," Ravensbrook said without expression, except perhaps for a certain gravity which might have been sadness, or merely an effect of the light in his impassive face, with its patrician features and dark, very level eyes under their short brows.

"You speak of a jealousy growing between them," Rathbone continued. He was battling with a witness who was all but hostile, and it was like drawing teeth. He could understand it. Having to expose his most private family life to the gaze of the public in general, and the seekers of sensation in particular, was something no decent man would wish, and to one like Milo Ravensbrook it was like facing enemy fire. But if there was to be justice it was unavoidable, not only punishment for Caleb, but a decent acknowledgment for Genevieve and her children. "Would you give the court an example of any evidences of these you can recall? Instances of behavior, resentments, quarrels..."

Ravensbrook looked somewhere over the heads of the crowd.

"I should prefer not to."

"Naturally," Rathbone commiserated. "No one wishes to recall such events, but I am afraid it is necessary if we are to discover what is the truth of this present tragedy. I am sure you wish that." He was not perfectly sure.

Perhaps Ravensbrook would rather it went unknown, and could fade from memory as a mystery. But he could not say so.

There were several minutes of silence. One of the jurors coughed and produced a large handkerchief. Another shifted his weight as though embarrassed. The judge stared at Ravensbrook. Ebenezer Goode looked first at Ravensbrook, then at Rathbone, his face expectant.

But it was Caleb who broke the tension.

"Forgotten, have you?" he called down, his lips drawn back in something close to a snarl. "Forgotten how Angus was afraid of that damn black horse of yours-but I rode it! Forgotten how angry you were-"

"Silence!" The judge banged his gavel, but Caleb ignored him, leaning forward over the railing of the dock, his beautiful, manacled hands gripping the railing. His eyes glaring. His expression was one of such blazing hatred it struck a note of fear, even though he was imprisoned by the height of the dock above the floor of the court and had warders on either side of him. There was a power and a rage in him which could be felt across the space as though it might actually touch and darken the mind.

"... because I could make it behave, and you couldn't?" Caleb finished, ignoring the judge. It was as if no one existed in the room but himself and Ravensbrook. _"Remember how you beat me because I took the peaches from the conservatory?"

Goode was on his feet, but powerless.

"That was seven years earlier," Ravensbrook replied, not looking at Caleb, but staring straight ahead of him still. "You took every peach. You deserved punishment."

The judge banged his gavel again.

"Mr. Goode, either keep your client's behavior appropriate to this court or I shall have him removed and continue the case in his absence. Make that plain to him, sir."

Caleb swung around, his face twisted with fury. "Don't talk to me through a third party, as if I weren't here, damn you! I can hear what you're saying and I can understand you. What bloody difference does it make whether I'm here or not anyway? You say what you want about me. Believe what you want. You'll believe what suits your idea of the way you want things to be!" His voice rose even more. "What does the truth matter? What do you care who killed whom, as long as your world stays the same, with the same comfortable, reassuring lies? Cover it all up! Bury it! Put a white cross over it and say a prayer to your God that he'll forgive you, then go away and forget. I'll see you all in hell, be sure of it! I'll be there and waiting for you!"

The judge looked tired and sad. "Take the prisoner down," he instructed the warders.

Caleb sank down suddenly, his head in his hands.

Ebenezer Goode rose and walked at least halfway towards the bench. "My lord, may we have a brief adjournment so I may advise my client? I believe I can persuade him to keep silence."

"There's no need," Caleb interrupted, jerking his head up. "I shan't speak again. There's nothing else to say."

The judge glanced at Rathbone.

"I am ready to proceed, my lord," Rathbone replied. He had no desire to break the mood by an adjournment.

"Another outburst and I will act," the judge warned.

"Yes, my lord." Goode returned to his seat without looking towards the dock.

Rathbone faced Lord Ravensbrook again.

"I think part of my question has already been answered, but if you could mention one or two other instances, it would give the court a fuller picture. For example, how did the two brothers fare in their academic studies?"

Ravensbrook's body was as rigid as if he were in a military parade.

"Angus was excellent at his work, especially mathematics, history and geography," he said, staring ahead of him. "He was less interested in Latin and the classics, but he studied them because I wished it. He was a most admirable boy, and abundantly repaid me all I ever did for him."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face and vanished again.

"I believe in later years he grew to appreciate the value of Latin, at least. It is such a superb discipline for the mind. He always understood the need for that. Caleb never did. He was always unruly, desiring to rebel, to overthrow, even to destroy. It was something in him I could never govern. I tried everything I knew, and everything failed."

"Did he say anything about Angus's success?" Rathbone asked.

Ravensbrook's voice was hard and low.

"To begin with he merely expressed resentment. Later his feelings grew into a positive hatred, a jealousy he seemed unable to control."

"Did he ever resort to physical violence?"

Ravensbrook's face was filled with an emotion so deep he seemed to shake very slightly and his skin was pale and tight across his high, narrow cheekbones. But to Rathbone at least, it was unreadable. There could have been anger in it, frustration, knowledge of failure, guilt, or nothing other than a deep, aching grief.

"I cannot answer you of my own knowledge," Ravensbrook said almost under his breath, and yet his words carried in a silent room where not a man or woman moved. Not a boot creaked, not a skirt rustled. "If they fought, I had not seen them."

"Did either of them ever sustain injuries you could not account for otherwise?" Rathbone pursued the inevitable.

Caleb was still motionless in the dock, his head bent, face hidden as though he had accepted defeat.

"I don't recall," Ravensbrook answered. "Youths will climb trees, ride horses, drive carriages and gigs dangerously." The set of his jaw made it obvious he could be drawn no further.

"Naturally." Rathbone bowed and accepted defeat. "At what age did they leave home to go their separate ways, my lord?"

Ravensbrook winced as if he had been struck.

"Angus joined a company of dealers in the City just after his eighteenth birthday. They were acquaintances of mine, and were keen to have him."

There was pride in his tone, a slight lift to his head. "It seemed an excellent opportunity, and he grasped it eagerly. He did extremely well. It was not long before he rose within the company, and as you know, eventually founded his own business."

"And Caleb?" Rathbone said.

"Caleb left shortly before that. He simply walked out. I heard rumor that he had been seen in the village, stories of drinking, brawling."

Ravensbrook remained silent for a moment. There was not a sound in the room. "Then they ceased," he finished. "I presume that was when he went to London."

"But he did not take up any position, any calling?"

"Not that I know of."

"Did you seek to find any position for him?"

Ravensbrook winced. "I could not recommend him to anyone. It would have been dishonest. He was a violent and deceitful man, and appeared possessed of very few skills that were of any use."

In the crowd Enid Ravensbrook sat with such a pity in her face one might have thought it was that which had ravaged her rather than disease. Hester slid her arm around her and held her with a tenderness as if she might break.

"I see," Rathbone murmured. "Thank you, my lord. Did he at this time express any hatred or jealousy towards his brother, who sounds to have and to be everything he was not?"

"Yes, frequently," Ravensbrook acknowledged. "He both hated and despised his brother."

"Despised him?" Rathbone affected surprise.

Ravensbrook's face was bitter. "He thought Angus weak and dependent, lacking in either courage or individuality. He thought him a coward, and said so. I imagine it was his way of excusing his own failure, in his mind."

"Possibly." Rathbone nodded. "We are, most of us, loath to admit fault in ourselves. Thank you, my lord. That is all I have to ask you. Would you be so good as to remain for my learned friend to speak with you."

Ebenezer Goode was courteous, and at least outwardly genial. He rose to his feet and strolled into the center of the floor, his startling face full of interest.

"All this must be deeply distressing for you, Lord Ravensbrook. It would be for any man. I shall be as brief as I am able." He sighed. "You have painted a vivid picture of two brothers who began with a deep bond between them and grew apart, one favored, obedient, talented; the other rebellious, unconventional, and rightly or wrongly, feeling himself less favored. It was not surprising he should express a resentment and a jealousy." He glanced at the jury with his dazzling, wolfish smile. "Brothers do fight with each other at times. Any family man will tell you that. Yet you say that you never witnessed any of their fights?"

"That is correct." There was no expression on Ravensbrook's face.

"And the resultant injuries, whether from fights or other youthful masculine pursuits," Goode pursued, "such as climbing trees, riding horses and so on, were they serious? For example, were there ever broken bones, concussions, dangerous bleeding?"

"No, merely abrasions and some severe bruising." Ravensbrook remained expressionless, his voice flat.

"Tell me, my lord, did either brother suffer these injuries very much more severely than the other?" Goode inquired.

"No. No, as far as I can remember, they were fairly equally matched."

Goode shrugged. "And nothing was serious, nothing that you would consider a wounding, never intent to maim or permanently to damage?"

"No."

"In other words, much as you or I may well have sustained in our youth?"

"Yes, if you will," Ravensbrook agreed, his voice still without lift or interest, as though the entire subject were tedious.

"So in your knowledge, this regrettable jealousy never resulted in anything more than words?" Goode pressed.

"Not in my knowledge."

Goode gave the court his wide, gleaming smile.

"Thank you, my lord. That is all."

And so the trial progressed, and continued throughout the afternoon and the following day. Rathbone called Arbuthnot, who testified that Angus had come into the offices on the day of his disappearance, that a woman had visited him, after which he had declared that he was going to visit his brother, and expressed his intention to return, at least by the following day.

Ebenezer Goode could not shake him, and did not try.

Next followed a procession of witnesses from Limehouse and the Isle of Dogs, all adding their small pieces to the picture. It built slowly, indistinctly. It was all indicative, nothing conclusive. But the picture was dark, the setting for tragedy, and everyone in the courtroom could feel it like a coldness in the air.

Rathbone was aware at the edge of his mind of Hester sitting next to Enid Ravensbrook, of their faces as they watched the parade of frightened and troubled people one by one adding their few words, their tiny addition of color, to the story, still so full of gaps and shadows. He forced it to the edge of his awareness. Their feelings must not matter. Nor must those of Caleb, now sitting forward in the dock, staring down towards the crowd, although whose face he watched, Rathbone could not know, but his expression was still the same mixture of anger, pain and triumph.

Ebenezer Goode questioned them also, and showed just how fragmentary was their evidence. The picture remained partial, distorted, illusionary. But he could not dispel the ever-growing awareness of hatred, darkness, and the conviction that Angus Stonefield was dead, and by whatever means it was the man in the dock, with his passion of suppressed violence, who had accomplished it.