Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

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

  The coroner smiled at him benignly.

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

  “Yes sir! M’lord!”

  “ ‘Sir’ will do very well. I am not a judge.”

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

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

  “Yes sir, it were me.”

  “I see. Proceed.”

  There was almost silence around the room, only the slight sound of fabric rustling as someone shifted in a seat, and a whisper as a woman spoke to the person next to her. The journalists present wrote nothing so far.

  “Then Lord Ravensbrook came an’ asked if ’e could see the prisoner, ’im bein’ ’is only relative, like,” Jimson continued. “An’ seein’ as ’ow things was goin’ bad with ’im in the trial. Guess like ’e thought as there’d be a verdict soon, an’ then ’e wouldn’t be allowed ter see ’im alone anymore, ’im bein’ a guilty man then, an’ still an innocent one now, leastways afore the law.”

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

  “Thank you, sir.” Jimson did not look in the slightest relieved. “Well, it all seemed right ter us, Bailey an’ Alcott an’ me, so we let ’im in—”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Jimson,” the coroner interrupted. “When you let Lord Ravensbrook in, how was the prisoner? What was his demeanor, his attitude? Was he still in this rage you described earlier? How did he greet Lord Ravensbrook?”

  Jimson looked confused.

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

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

  “Lord Ravensbrook said he wished to see the prisoner alone?”

  “Yes sir, ’e did.”

  “I see. Then what happened?”

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

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

  “Yes sir, ’course I did. ’E were lyin’ in a pool o’ blood like a lake, sir, an’ ’is eyes were wide open an’ starin’.” He tugged at his collar again. “ ’E were dead. Weren’t nuffink more ter be done for ’im. I pulled the door to, didn’t lock it, weren’t no point. Alcott went ter report wot ’ad ’appened, an’ I tried ter do what I could fer ’is lordship till ’elp come.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jimson.” The coroner looked for Goode.

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

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “Yes sir, he is. I don’t know what may have kept him. I ask the court’s indulgence. I am sure he will not be long.” He had better not be, he thought grimly, or we shall lose this by default!

  “This is not a court of advocacy, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner said irritably. “If Mr. Goode does not favor us with his presence, we shall proceed without him. Have you any questions you wish to ask this witness?”

  Rathbone drew in his breath to make as long-winded a reply as he could, and was saved the necessity by the doors swinging open wide on their hinges. Ebenezer Goode swept in, coattails flying, arms full of papers, and strode up to the front. He bestowed a dazzling smile upon the coroner, apologized profusely and took his seat, managing to disturb everyone within a ten-foot radius.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner conceded. “But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know. It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced.”

  “Yes sir,” Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o’clock.

  The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.

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

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

  Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.

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

  “She’s already learned all she can,” Rathbone said defensively. “She said there’s nothing there we don’t already know.”

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

  “Then we’ll have to go further back than Caleb’s life in Limehouse,” Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. “It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!”

  Goode sighed. “And God knows what we’ll learn then!”

  “Or what we’ll be able to prove,” Rathbone added, finishing his ale.

  The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured. His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.

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

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

  “Lord Ravensbrook,” the coroner began, “will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone’s death? You do not need to repeat anything before you actually went into his cell, unless you wish to do so. I have no desire to harrow your feelings more than is my duty and cannot be avoided.”

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

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

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

  Rathbone glanced at Goode and saw a flicker of question in his eyes.

  “Of course it was futile,” Ravensbrook resumed. “Nothing I could say had any effect upon him, or softened the anger inside him.”

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

  “He was … sullen,” Ravensbrook replied, frowning slightly. If he were aware of Selina Herries staring at him as if she would imprint his features in her mind, he gave no sign of it at all. “I asked him, for Genevieve’s sake, to tell me what had happened in that last meeting,” he continued. “But he would not. I assured him I would not repeat it to the authorities. It was only for the family I wished to know. But he was adamant.” His voice was level, but seemed tight in his throat, as though he had to force it out, and several times he licked his lips.

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

  “He asked me for pen and paper,” Ravensbrook said, resuming his account. “He said he wanted to write a last testament.…”

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

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

  In the audience Selina let out a little cry, then immediately stifled it. Another woman gave a stifled sob, but whether of personal grief or simply the emotion of the scene, it was impossible to say.

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

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

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

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

  Ravensbrook’s mouth tightened and his brows furrowed. “No, of course not!”

  “Thank you. Proceed.”

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

  This time even the coroner did not prompt him.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I cannot tell you precisely what happened,” Ravensbrook started again. “It was all too quick. He managed to stab at me several times, half a dozen or so. We fought back and forth. It probably seemed for longer than it was.” He turned to face the coroner, looking at him earnestly. “I have very little idea whether it was seconds or minutes. I managed to force him away from me. He slipped and my own impetus carried me forward. I tripped over his leg and we landed together. When I arose, he was lying on the floor with the knife in his throat.”

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

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

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

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

  “Thank you.” Ravensbrook turned to leave.

  Goode rose to his feet.

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

  “If you must,” the coroner conceded reluctantly.

  “Thank y
ou, sir.” Goode turned to Ravensbrook, smiling courteously, showing all his teeth.

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

  “Thank you,” Ravensbrook said stiffly.

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

  Ravensbrook stared at him, his face white.

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

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

  Ravensbrook looked at him with loathing.

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

  “I see,” Goode replied expressionlessly.

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

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

  At twenty-nine minutes to five Monk was called, and found to be absent. Rathbone protested that he should be located. The coroner pointed out that since Rathbone himself had been in Monk’s presence every moment of the relevant time, there was nothing useful that Monk could add.