Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [149]
“You intend to call him?” Ravensbrook’s body was rigid, his skin like paper. “Do you not fear he will damn himself out of his own mouth, if he has not already done so? I ask you in compassion not to. If you leave it as it is, plead a quarrel which got out of hand, on his behalf, then the jury may return manslaughter, or even less, perhaps only the conceding of a death.” Hope flickered boldly in his dark eyes. “That would surely be in the best interests of your client. He is quite apparently insane. Perhaps the only place for him is Bedlam.”
Goode considered it for several moments. “Possibly,” he conceded, pulling down his brows, his voice very quiet. “But the jury is not well disposed towards him. His own behavior has seen to that. Bedlam is not a place I would send a dog. I think I must give him the opportunity to tell the story himself. There is always far less likelihood of the jury believing it if he will not tell it himself.”
“Rathbone will destroy him!” Ravensbrook accused in a sudden flair of temper. “He will lose control of himself again if he is pressed, and he is frightened. Then he’ll say anything, simply to shock.”
“I will make the judgment when I have spoken with him,” Goode promised. “Although I am inclined to agree with you.”
“Thank God!”
“Of course it is his decision,” Goode added. “The man is being tried for his life. If he wishes to speak, then he must be allowed.”
“Cannot you, as his legal adviser, protect him from himself?” Ravensbrook demanded.
“I can advise him, that is all. I cannot deny him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.”
“I see.” Ravensbrook glanced at Rathbone’s profile. “Then I think he has very little chance. Since I am his only living relative, and once he is convicted I may have no further opportunity to speak with him, I would like to see him, alone. Today, at least, he is still an innocent man.”
“Of course,” Goode agreed quickly. “Would you like me to arrange it for you?”
“I shall seek your help if it is necessary,” Ravensbrook answered. “I am obliged for your offer.” He glanced at Rathbone, then at Enid on her chair.
She looked at him in a long, curious, pleading gaze, as if there were a question she did not know how to frame.
If he understood, there was no reflection of it in his expression or in his bearing. He did not offer any further explanation.
“Wait for me in the carriage,” he told her. “You will be more comfortable there. Miss Latterly will be back in a few moments.” And without anything further, he took his leave, walking rapidly towards the stairs down to the cells.
Some twenty minutes later Rathbone was outside on the entrance steps to the street, talking to Monk, who had just arrived. Ebenezer Goode came striding down, his hair flying, his face ashen. He pushed past a clerk, almost knocking the man off his feet.
“What is it?” Rathbone said with a sudden upsurge of fear. “What’s happened, man? You look terrible!”
Goode seized him by the arm, half turning him around.
“He’s dead! It’s all over. He’s dead!”
“Who’s dead?” Monk demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Caleb,” his voice was hoarse. “Caleb is dead.”
“He can’t be!” Rathbone knew even as he said it that it was stupid. He was trying to deny reality, because it was ugly and he did not want to believe it.
“How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don’t know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the