Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [155]
“I don’t require brandy,” he said with a very slight shake of the head. “Just do what is necessary, woman.”
“I wasn’t going to give it to you,” she answered. “Have you any?”
He stared at her with seeming incomprehension.
“Yer feelin’ faint, miss?” the gaoler said with concern.
The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “No thank you. I wanted to clean the wounds. Water will do if that’s all there is, but brandy would have been better.”
Rathbone passed her the glass of water Ravensbrook had declined. Monk moved forward and fished in Ravensbrook’s jacket and found the flat, silver engraved flask, opened it and set it where she could reach it.
In silence they watched her work, cleaning away the blood first with cloths from the gaoler’s coarse shirt, then with a little brandy, which must have stung when it was applied, from the involuntary oath escaping Ravensbrook, and the clenched teeth and gulp of pain.
But even Monk could see that the wounds were not deep, more gashes and cuts than genuine stabs.
She then bound them with bandages made from almost all of Rathbone’s fine Egyptian cotton shirt, which she tore with great abandon and considerable dexterity, and, Monk thought, not a little satisfaction. He glanced at Rathbone and saw him wince as the cloth ripped.
“Thank you,” Ravensbrook said stiffly when she was finished. “I am obliged to you again, Miss Latterly. You are extremely efficient. Where is my wife?”
“In your carriage, my lord,” she replied. “I daresay she will be at home by now. I took the liberty of instructing the coachman to take her. She may become ill if she sits waiting in this chill. I am sure someone will find you a hansom immediately.”
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Of course.” He looked at Rathbone. “If you need me for anything, I can be found at my home. I cannot think what else there is to do now, or to say. I assume the judge will make whatever remarks he believes necessary, and that will be an end to it. Good day, gentlemen.” He stood up and, walking very uprightly and with a slight sway, made his way to the door. “Oh.” He turned and looked at Rathbone. “I presume I may have the liberty of giving him a decent burial? After all, he has not been found guilty of anything, and I am his only relative.” He swallowed painfully.
“I can see no reason why not,” Rathbone agreed, suddenly touched by a sense of overwhelming loss, deeper than mere death, a bereavement of the spirit, of the past as well as the future. “I will attend to the formalities, my lord, if you wish?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you,” Ravensbrook accepted. “Good day.” And he went out of the door. Now no longer locked, it swung to heavily behind him.
Hester looked towards the cell.
“You don’t need to,” Rathbone stepped in front of her. “It’s most unpleasant.”
“Thank you, Oliver, for your sensitivity,” she said bleakly. “But I have seen far more dead men than you have. I shall be quite all right.” And she walked in, brushing his shoulder. He had replaced his jacket and it looked odd with no shirt beneath.
Inside she stood still and looked down at the crumpled form of Caleb Stone. She stared at him for several seconds before she frowned a little, then with a deep sigh, straightened up and came out again. Her eyes met Rathbone’s.
“What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.
“Go home and get a shirt,” he replied with a twisted smile. “There isn’t anything else we can do, my dear. There’s no case to prosecute or defend anymore. If Mrs. Stonefield wishes me to act for her in the matter of formally acknowledging her husband’s death, then of course I will do so. First we must deal with this matter, which I imagine the judge will do when court reconvenes tomorrow morning.”
“Is there something which worries you?” Monk said suddenly, looking at her closely. “What is it?”
“I … I don’t think I am quite certain …” She frowned in concentration, but seemed unwilling to add more.
“Then come to my house and dine,” Rathbone invited her, and included Monk with a gesture. “That is, if you do not have to return with Lady