Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

“It’s past,” Evan said quietly. “You can’t undo it. I wish I knew how to stop her now, but I don’t.”

  “I didn’t recognize her,” Monk said sincerely, as if it meant something. “I spent hours with her, and nothing returned in my memory at all.”

  Evan started to walk again and Monk kept up with him.

  “Nothing!” Monk said desperately.

  “It’s not so surprising.” Evan looked straight ahead of them. “She’s changed her name, and it was several years ago. Fashions are different now. I daresay she altered her appearance somewhat. Women can. It was a very trivial offense, to our eyes, but it was a scandal at the time. Sallis was trusted, and the romance came out too. Both girls’ reputations were ruined.”

  All sorts of thoughts boiled up inside Monk, excuses that died before they were formed, self-disgust, remorse, confusion. None of it found easy words, and perhaps they were better unsaid anyway.

  “I see.” He kept pace with Evan, their footsteps making a single sound on the pavement. “Thank you.”

  They crossed Guildford Street and turned down Lamb’s Conduit Street. Monk had no idea where they were going, he was simply following, but he was glad it was not Mecklenburg Square. He had too many nightmares already.

  * * *

  That evening Drusilla Wyndham, as she was now known, attended a musical soiree at the home of a lady of fashion. She had dressed with great care, to set off her considerable beauty, and she fully expected to create an effect. She swept in, head high, skin glowing with the inner triumph which burned in her mind, the knowledge that the cup of revenge was at her lips, the first taste on her tongue.

  And she did create an effect, but it was far from the one she had intended. A gentleman who had always shown her gallantry looked at her with alarm, and then turned his back as if he had suddenly seen someone else he must speak with immediately.

  She did not take it seriously, until Sir Percy Gainsborough also effected not to have seen her, when he quite plainly had done.

  The Honourable Gerald Hapsgood positively spilled his champagne in his urgency to avoid her, apologized in alarm to the lady next to him, and then in most unbecoming haste, trod on the edge of her gown and only saved his balance by catching hold of Lady Burgoyne.

  The Duchess of Granby gave her a stare which would have frozen cream.

  Altogether it was a most unpleasant evening, and she went home early, confused and very put out, not having said a word of what she had meant to.

  Rathbone entered the courtroom of the Old Bailey for the third day of the trial with little more confidence than he had had in the beginning, but his resolution undiminished. He had hoped the police might find Angus’s body, since they had turned their full efforts towards it, but he had always known it was an outside chance. There were so many other possibilities, and Caleb’s defiance of Monk in the Greenwich marshes should have warned him. He had said they would never find Angus.

  Looking at Caleb as he stood in the dock while the judge entered and took his place at the bench, and the last whispering ceased, Rathbone saw the jeering triumph in him again, the violence so close beneath the surface. Every angle of his body suggested arrogance.

  “Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Rathbone?” the judge inquired. Was that a faint shred of pity in his face, as if he believed Rathbone could not win? He was a small man with a lean, weary face, full of lines that had once been pugnacious, but were now too tired for the effort.

  “Yes, may it please the court, my lord,” Rathbone responded. “I call Albert Swain.”

  “Albert Swain!” the usher repeated loudly. “Call Albert Swain!”

  Swain, large, awkward and mumbling so badly he had to repeat almost everything, told how he had seen Caleb on the day of Angus’s disappearance, bruised, his clothes badly torn and stained. Yes, he thought it was blood. Yes, his face was bruised and swollen and his cheek gashed. What other wounds were there? He could not say. He had not looked.

  Did Caleb appear to limp, or carry himself as if some limb were paining him?

  He did not remember.

  Try harder, Rathbone urged.

  Yes, Caleb had limped.

  Upon which leg?

  Swain had no idea. He thought it had been the left. Or the right.

  Rathbone thanked him.

  Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet, toyed with the idea of demolishing the man, and decided it would be impolite. Cruelty seldom paid, and it was against his nature.

  And, surprisingly, having made his statement, the witness could not be shifted from it. He had most definitely seen Caleb Stone looking as if he had been in a fight, and that was no mistake. He would not be pushed further. He would not retreat. He drew no conclusions. He was perfectly certain it was the right day. He had earned two shillings, and redeemed his blanket from the pawnbrokers. That was not an event to forget.

  He was rewarded by a nod from the judge and a sad pursing of the lips from the foreman of the jury.

  “Ah, indeed,” Goode conceded. “Thank you, Mr. Swain. That is all.”

  Rathbone called his final witness, Selina Herries. She came very much against her will and stood in the witness stand clutching the railing, stiff-backed, her head and neck rigid. She was dressed in drab clothes, a plain stuff dress of respectable cut, modest at neck and sleeve, and she had a shawl wrapped around her so that one could only guess at her waist. Her bonnet hid a great deal of her hair. Nevertheless, her face was fully visible, and nothing could detract from the strength and the spirit in the high cheekbones, the bold eyes and generous mouth. In spite of the fact that she was afraid, and desperately unwilling, she stared straight at Rathbone and awaited whatever he should say.

  In her seat on the public benches Genevieve turned slowly, reluctantly, and gazed at her. In some faint way this was her mirror image. This was the woman who loved the man who had killed Angus. Their lives were opposite. Genevieve was a widow, but Selina stood on the brink of bereavement too, and perhaps a worse one.

  Rathbone, looking from one to the other, could see an uncrossable gulf between them, and yet a spark of the same courage and defiance gave both faces the same fierce warmth.

  He could not help also looking at Caleb. Would the sight of Selina waken anything in him of regret, of understanding not only of Genevieve’s loss, but of what he too was about to pay in retribution? Was there anything of human passion or need or gentleness in the man?

  What he saw as Caleb leaned over the rail, balancing his manacles on the wood, was utter despair, that absolute absence of hope which knows defeat and makes no struggle at all.

  Then in the public benches Lord Ravensbrook moved, and Caleb caught sight of him, and the old scalding hatred returned, and with it will to fight.

  “Mr. Rathbone?” the judge prompted.

  “Yes, my lord.” He turned to the witness stand. “Miss Herries,” he began, standing in the center of the open space of the floor, his feet a little apart, “you live on Manilla Street, on the Isle of Dogs, is that so?”

  “Yes sir.” She was not going to commit herself to anything whatsoever that she did not have to.

  “Are you acquainted with the accused, Caleb Stone?”

  Her eyes did not flicker. Certainly she did not look across at Caleb.

  “Yes sir.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “ ’Bout …” She hesitated. “Six, seven years, I s’pose.” She swallowed nervously and ran her tongue over her lips.

  “Six or seven years is quite close enough.” Rathbone smiled, trying to reassure her. “Approximately how often do you see him?” Her face clouded and he hastened to help. “Every day? Or once a week, perhaps? Or once a month?”

  “ ’E comes and goes,” she said guardedly. “Sometimes ’e’s around fer two or free days, then ’e’ll be gorn again. Mebbe gorn for weeks, mebbe back sooner. I’nt reg’lar.”

  “I see. But over the years, you have come to know him well?”

  “Yer could say—”
/>   “Is he your lover, Miss Herries?”

  Her eyes slid to Caleb, then away again quickly.

  There was no readable expression in his face. A juror frowned. Someone in the crowd sniggered.

  “May I rephrase the question?” Rathbone offered. “Are you his woman?”

  Caleb grinned, his green eyes bright. It was impossible to read his thoughts, or even whether his tense, almost wolfish expression was amusement or unworded threat.

  Selina’s chin came up a fraction. She avoided meeting the glance of anyone in the crowd beyond Rathbone.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Thank you for your candor, ma’am. I think we may take it that you do know him as well as anyone may be said to?”

  “I s’pose.” She remained careful.

  There was almost silence in the room, but one or two people stirred. This was of little interest. She was acknowledging the obvious.

  Rathbone was aware of it. She was his final witness, and his last chance. But for all her fear of the court, she would not willingly betray Caleb. Not only were her emotions involved, and whatever memories she might have of moments of intimacy, but if he were to be found not guilty, then his vengeance would be terrible. Added to that, she lived on the Isle of Dogs; it was her home and they were her people. They would not look with tolerance on a woman who sold out her man, whether for gain or from fear for herself. Whatever price the law exacted for loyalty, the punishment for disloyalty must be worse. It was a matter of survival.

  “Have you met his brother Angus as well?” Rathbone asked, his eyebrows raised.

  She stared at him as she would a snake.

  “Yeah.” It was a qualified agreement, made reluctantly. There was warning in her voice that she would go little further.

  Rathbone smiled. “Mr. Arbuthnot has testified that you called at his place of business and saw him on the day of his disappearance. Is he correct?”

  Her face tightened with anger. There was no way out.

  “Yeah …”

  “Why?”

  “Wot?”

  “Why?” he repeated. “Why did you call upon Angus Stonefield?”

  “ ’Cos Caleb told me ter.”

  “What passed between you?”

  “Nuffink!”

  “I mean what did you say to him, and he to you?”

  “Oh. I don’ ’member.” It was a lie, and everyone knew it. It was there in the low mumble from the onlookers, the slight shaking of the heads of the jurors, the quick shift of the judge’s eyes from Selina to Rathbone.

  Selina saw it too, but she assumed she had beaten Rathbone.

  Rathbone pushed his hands into his pockets and looked at her blandly.

  “Then if I were to say that you gave him a message that Caleb wished to see him urgently, that day, and wished him to go immediately to the Folly House Tavern, or the Artichoke, you would not be able to recall differently?”

  “I …” Her eyes blazed with defiance, but there was no way out. She was loath to entrap herself by argument, or excuses which might rebound on her again. She had been caught once.

  “Perhaps that has stirred your memory?” Rathbone suggested, carefully ironing all the sarcasm out of his voice.

  She said nothing, but he had scored the point, and he knew it from the jury’s faces. Once she had established that she was prepared to evade, or even lie, to protect Caleb, it would prejudice anything she might say in his defense.

  “Did you see Angus Stonefield later that day, Miss Hernes?” Rathbone resumed.

  She said nothing.

  “You must answer the question, Miss Herries,” the judge warned. “If you do not, I shall hold you in contempt of court. That means that I can sentence you to prison until such time as you do answer. And of course the jury are free to take any meaning they will from your silence. Do you understand me?”

  “I saw ’im,” she said huskily, and swallowed hard. She stared straight ahead of her, her head rigid so she could not, even in the corner of her eye, see Caleb leaning over the railing of the dock, his eyes on her.

  Rathbone affected interest, as if he had no idea what she was going to say.

  Now there was total silence in the room.

  “At the Folly House Tavern,” she said sullenly.

  “What was he doing?”

  “Nuffink.”

  “Nothing?”

  “ ’E were standin’ around, waitin’ fer Caleb, I s’pose. That’s w’ere I told ’im ter be.”

  “Did you see Caleb arrive also?”

  “No.”

  “But he told you earlier that he intended to be there?”

  “Not that time special. That’s where ’e said Angus were to go for ’im always. Same place. I didn’t even see ’em together, an’ I never saw ’em quarrel, an’ that’s the truth, whether yer believe me or not!”

  “I do believe you, ma’am,” Rathbone conceded. “But did you see Caleb later on that day?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  One of the jurors shook his head, another coughed into his handkerchief. There was a rustling in the public benches.

  Rathbone turned away from the witness stand, and his glance caught Ebenezer Goode’s and saw him smile ruefully. The case still hovered on the knife’s edge, but however unwillingly, Selina’s evidence might be all it needed to topple it against Caleb. Goode had very little with which to fight, and they both knew it. It would be a desperate gamble to call Caleb himself. Even Goode could not know what he might say. There was a recklessness in the man, a well of emotion too dangerous to tap.

  Rathbone turned the full circle before he faced Selina again. His eye caught Hester, near the front of the crowd, and beside her, Enid Ravensbrook, looking pale and tense. Her face was strained with pity and the terrible waiting for the evidence to unfold as they came nearer and nearer to the moment when the hatred and jealousy of years must finally explode in murder. Caleb had already left home when she had married Ravensbrook, but she must still have inherited some feeling for him, sensitive to her husband’s long involvement, to all he had given, the years of struggle and finally the failure.

  Certainly she knew both Angus and Genevieve, and was only too familiar with their loss.

  Milo Ravensbrook sat on the other side of her, his face so pale he seemed bloodless, his dark eyes and level brows like black gashes on gray-white wax. Could a man see a more hideously painful revelation than that one child had killed the other? He would be left with nothing.

  And yet from the moment that Angus’s bloodstained clothes had been identified, was there anything else they could have done, any other course to follow?

  Enid turned to him, her expression a mixture of anguish and almost an expectation of hurt, as if she already knew he would reject such intimacy, yet she could not help offering herself. She put her hand on his arm. Even from where Rathbone stood, he could see how thin her fingers were. It was only three and a half weeks since she had passed the crisis of her illness.

  Ravensbrook remained frozen, as if he was not even aware of her.

  There was silence in the room.

  Rathbone looked again at Selina.

  “Miss Herries, when did you see Caleb again? Consider your answer very carefully. An error in judgment now could cost you very dearly.”

  Ebenezer Goode half rose to his feet, then decided an objection would achieve nothing. The question had been too carefully worded to be considered a threat. He sank back.

  In the crowd someone dropped an umbrella, rustled for an instant, then left it where it lay.

  “Miss Herries?”

  Selina stared at Rathbone and he remained fixed on her gaze, as if he could see into her brain, read her fears and weigh them one against another.

  The judge moved his hands, then refolded them.

  “Next day,” Selina said almost inaudibly.

  “Did he mention Angus?”

  “No …” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Will you please speak so we may hear
you, Miss Herries?” the judge directed.

  “No.”

  “Not at all?” Rathbone pressed.

  “No.”

  “He didn’t say that he had met him?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t ask?” Rathbone allowed his eyebrows to shoot up. “Did you not care? You surprise me. Was it not the money for the rent of your home which Angus was to bring? Surely that was a matter of the utmost importance to you?”

  “I took the message,” she said flatly. “Wot else weren’t up ter me ter ask.”

  “And he didn’t tell you? Reassure you, for example? How boorish. Perhaps he was in too foul a temper.”

  This time Ebenezer Goode did rise.

  “My lord, my learned friend is making suggestions for which he has had no grounds, and they are the merest speculation.…”

  “Yes, yes,” the judge agreed. “Mr. Rathbone, please do not lead your witness with such remarks. You know better than that. Ask your question and have done.”

  “My lord. Miss Herries, was Caleb in a bad temper when you saw him again?”

  “No.”

  “Just a little hurt?”

  “Hurt?” she said suspiciously.

  “Stiff! Bruised?”

  “Yeah, well …” She hesitated, weighing how far she dare lie. Her glance slid once towards Caleb, then quickly away again. She was frightened, weighing one danger against another.

  Rathbone was sorry for her, but he could not relent. There were facets of his professional skills he did not enjoy.

  It would be overdoing it to draw the jury’s attention to her dilemma. They had seen Caleb’s face. They knew her position. Better to allow them to deduce it than to patronize them, risk having them think he was too eager.

  “I do not ask you to tell us how he obtained any injuries he may have received, Miss Herries,” he helped her. “If you do not know, simply say whether he was injured in any way, or not. You are surely in a circumstance to know. He was your lover.”

  “ ’E were ’urt, yeah,” she conceded. “But ’e didn’t say ’ow, an I don’t ask. There’s lot’s o’ fights in Lime’ouse an’ Blackwall. Fights any night, an’ most days. Caleb often got ’urt, but ’e never killed no one, far as I know.” Her chin came up a fraction. “Not that anyone got the best of ’im neither.”