Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [143]
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