Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [135]
“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