Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [123]
“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “He even went so far as to tear her gown open at the bosom. The whole thing must have been a nightmare for her, poor creature. She only escaped him by hurling herself out of the hansom, as it was moving, mind you, and fell into the road. How she was not injured, I cannot think.”
The letter burned in his hand.
“I wouldn’t put too much weight to it, my dear …” he began.
“What?” She was aghast. “How can you say such a thing? What on earth do you mean? The man behaved unpardonably!”
“Possibly, my dear, but some women do imagine things to be quite—”
“Imagine?” She was nonplussed. “The man put his hands on her, John! He tore her gown! How can she have imagined that?”
“Well … perhaps he merely brushed against her, the motions of the cab, and all that …” He thought of his own brush with Drusilla, and the absurd interpretation it seemed she had put upon that. His sympathy was entirely with this fellow, whoever he was. He broke out in a sweat thinking how easily he could have been in his place. “Rather a hysterical woman, my dear,” he added. “Don’t like to distress you, but I wouldn’t accept all she says, if I were you. Single women in their thirties and all that. Given to fancies of a rather heated nature. It can happen. Misunderstood a civility for something much more. Easy enough.”
She frowned. “Do you really think so, John? I find it hard to believe.”
“Of course you do, my dear.” He forced a smile, although it felt painted onto his face. “Because you are a woman, and properly married with a home of your own, and all that goes with it. You would never imagine such things. But not all women are as you, you must appreciate that. Be advised, Mariah. A good friend of mine, whose name I will not mention to avoid his embarrassment, has had a similar experience with a young woman, and he was as innocent as the day, I assure you. But in the heat of her … her imagination, she totally misread him, and accused him of … well … it is not fit for you to hear.”
“Oh, my goodness!” She was totally taken aback. “Well, I never. I really had not thought …”
“It does you credit.” He rose and left the table. “But I urge you to dismiss the matter altogether, and on no account be drawn into discussion of it. Now you must excuse me, my dear. Please do not let me disturb you.” And as he passed the fire he dropped the letter into it and hesitated long enough to see the flames consume it, to his infinite relief. It would not be spoken of again.
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 Stonefield. 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