Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  “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 nature—proud, 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 refinement 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 grimly. “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 with
out 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.