Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [109]
He held his gloved hands up, open wide. They could no longer see his face, but Monk could imagine his expression from his voice in the darkness.
“All right! Take me!” he yelled. “Take me to your petty little courtroom, and your charade of a trial! What will you convict me of? There’s no corpse! No corpse!” And he threw his head back and roared with laughter. The sound of it echoed across the dark water and was swallowed in the mist. “You’ll never find a corpse—you fools!”
8
THE SERGEANT never for a moment hesitated about charging Caleb with the murder of Angus Stonefield. However, when the Crown Prosecutor came to consider the case, it was a different matter. He debated the evidence before him, and in the middle of the day sent for Oliver Rathbone.
“Well?” he demanded, when Rathbone had reviewed what they knew and heard the tale of Caleb’s arrest. “Is there any point in bringing him to trial? In fact have we sufficient evidence even to proceed with a charge?”
Rathbone thought about it for some time before replying. It was a rare bright winter day and the sun shone in through the long windows.
“I have some knowledge of the case,” he said thoughtfully, sitting with his elegant legs crossed, his fingertips placed together. “Monk consulted me some time ago about the evidence necessary to presume death. He was acting for Mrs. Stonefield.”
The prosecutor’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting,” he murmured.
“Not really,” Rathbone answered. “Poor woman was convinced in her own mind of what had happened, and understandably wished to be in a position to appoint someone to continue the business, before it was too severely damaged by Stonefield’s absence.”
“So what do you know that might assist this case?” The prosecutor leaned back in his chair and regarded Rathbone steadily. “I’m inclined to believe Stone did kill his brother. I should very much like to see him answer for it, but I’m damned if I’ll send to trial a case we cannot win, and which will leave the wretched man vindicated, as well as making us a laughingstock.”
“Oh, indeed,” Rathbone agreed heartily. “It would be sickening to have him acquitted for lack of evidence, and the moment after have the corpse tum up, with proof of his guilt, and not be able to do a damned thing about it. That’s the trouble, we have only the one shot. It must hit the mark, there is no second chance.”
“Considering that as children both men were wards of Lord Ravensbrook, it may well be a case which attracts some attention,” the prosecutor went on, “in spite of Stone’s present highly disreputable way of life. It will be interesting to see who defends him.” He sighed. “If there is a need for defense.”
“The wretched man has admitted killing his brother,” Rathbone said grimly. “Boasted of it, in fact.”
“It will still be very tight. We have no corpse, no absolute evidence of death …”
“But a great deal of circumstantial evidence,” Rathbone argued, leaning forward. “They were seen together the day Stonefield disappeared, even seen quarreling. Stonefield’s torn and bloodstained clothing has been found, and no one has seen him since.”
The prosecutor shook his head. “Still possible he’s alive somewhere.”
“Where?” Rathbone demanded. “Jumped a ship and sailed to China or the Indies?”
“Or America?”
“But from a Pool of London quay, downriver, at what time?” Rathbone argued. “For America it would more likely be Liverpool or Southampton. Come to that, what time was it he was last seen? Was the tide going out or coming in? Couldn’t jump a ship on the incoming tide, unless he ended up in London again. And why would he do that? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” He sat back in his chair again. “No. You’d never persuade a jury he simply took flight. From what? He had no debts, no enemies, no incipient scandal. No, he’s dead, poor devil. Probably buried in one of the common graves of the Limehouse typhoid victims.”
“Then prove it,” the prosecutor said grimly. “If his lawyer is worth