Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [150]
Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed. Rathbone had succeeded. The Duke of Wellington’s words rang in his ears about the next most terrible thing to a battle lost being a battle won. There was no taste of victory whatever.
“It wasn’t suicide,” Goode said shakily. “Ravensbrook went in to see him, as he asked. Apparently Caleb was concerned he was going to be found guilty. He said he wanted to write a statement. Perhaps it was a confession, or an indication of something, who knows? Ravensbrook came out for a quill and a paper for him. He took them back in. Apparently the quill was poor. He found his penknife to recut it …”
Rathbone felt sick, as if he knew the words before they came.
“Caleb suddenly lurched forward, seized the knife, and attacked Ravensbrook,” Goode said, his eyes going from Rathbone to Monk, and back again.
Rathbone was startled. It was not what he had thought after all.
“They fought,” Goode went on. “Poor Ravensbrook is cut quite badly.”
“God help him,” Rathbone said quietly. “That was not the ending I wanted, but perhaps it is not the worst. Thank you, Goode. Thank you for telling me.”
11
RATHBONE WAS STUNNED by the news. It was preposterous, even if not all the elements were tragic. He had never known such a thing to happen before, certainly not in this manner.
Monk was standing stock-still, his face dark.
“Come on,” Rathbone said gently. “It’s all over.”
Monk did not move. “No it isn’t. I don’t understand it.”
Rathbone laughed abruptly. “Do you ever? Do any of us? If you thought he was going to tell you what he did with Angus, or why he killed him now, instead of sometime in the past years, you were dreaming. The wretched man was mad. Dear God, wasn’t that evidence enough? Jealousy had driven him insane. What more is there to understand?”
“Why he attacked Ravensbrook now,” Monk replied, turning and standing to climb the steps back up. “What good would it have done him?”
“None at all!” Rathbone said impatiently, following rapidly after him. “What good did killing Angus do him? Nothing except release his hatred. Perhaps he felt the same way about Ravensbrook. He had nothing to lose. Can’t hang him twice.”
“But they weren’t necessarily going to hang him at all!” Monk said sharply, striding through the door and into the hallway. “Goode hadn’t even begun. He’s a damned clever lawyer.” They passed a group of dark-suited men talking quietly, and almost bumped into a clerk hurrying in the opposite direction. “We know Caleb killed Angus,” Monk went on. “Or at least I do … because I heard him admit it, even boast about it. But that’s not proof. He still had hope.”
“Maybe he didn’t know that. I’m a damned clever lawyer too!” Rathbone said at his elbow.
“Is this what you wanted?” Monk demanded, matching Rathbone pace for pace along the corridor, coattails flying. “Can’t prove he was guilty, so deceive the poor devil into committing another murder, right there in his cell, so we can hang him for that, without a quibble? Even Ebenezer Goode couldn’t defend him from that!”
It was on the edge of Rathbone’s tongue to give back an equally bitter response, then he looked more closely at Monk, the confusion in his face. It was not all anger. There was doubt and pain in it as well.
“What?” he demanded, swinging to a stop.
“Are you deaf? I said—” Monk began.
“I heard what you said!” Rathbone snapped. “It was sufficiently stupid—I shall ignore it. I am trying to fathom what you meant. Something puzzles you, something more than simply the questions we were asking before, and now we shall almost certainly never answer.”
“Ravensbrook said Caleb attacked him.” Monk began walking again. “And he fought him off. In the struggle Caleb was killed … accidentally.”
“I heard it,” Rathbone agreed, going down the steps towards the cells. “Why? What are you thinking? That it was