Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [170]
Bailey, the second gaoler, was called next, and the coroner elicited from him confirmation of everything Jimson had said, but briefly. There were no contradictions to explore.
It took all Goode’s ingenuity to think of sufficient questions to stretch it out a further half hour, and Rathbone found it hard to add anything at all. He redescribed Caleb’s words, his gestures, his tone of voice, his behavior earlier during the trial. He even asked Bailey what he thought Caleb felt and expected of the outcome, until the coroner stopped him and told him he was asking the witness to speculate beyond his ability to know.
“But sir, Mr. Bailey is an expert witness on the mood and expectations of prisoners charged with capital crimes,” Rathbone protested. “It is his daily occupation. Surely he, of all men, may know whether a prisoner has hope of being acquitted or not? It is of the utmost importance in learning the truth that we know whether Caleb Stone was in despair, or still nurtured some hope of life.”
“Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner conceded. “But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know. It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced.”
“Yes sir,” Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o’clock.
The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.
“Have you heard from Monk?” Goode demanded when he and Rathbone were seated in an excellent tavern nearby and enjoying a meal of roast beef and vegetables, ale, apple and blackberry pie, ripe Stilton cheese, and biscuits. “Has he learned anything?”
“No, I haven’t,” Rathbone said grimly. “I know he went to Chilverley, but I haven’t heard a thing after that.”
Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.
“And what about the nurse, what’s her name? Latterly?” he asked. “Did she learn anything of use? I see her in court. Shouldn’t she be in the East End? We could have put off calling her today. She might have given us something!”
“She’s already learned all she can,” Rathbone said defensively. “She said there’s nothing there we don’t already know.”
“What about Caleb, damn it!” Goode said angrily. “If this isn’t an accident, then either it’s suicide—and we’ve already decided that is unlikely—or it’s murder. In the interests of human decency, never mind abstract concepts like truth, we need to know.”
“Then we’ll have to go further back than Caleb’s life in Limehouse,” Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. “It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!”
Goode sighed. “And God knows what we’ll learn then!”
“Or what we’ll be able to prove,” Rathbone added, finishing his ale.
The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured. His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.
There was a murmur of both awe and sympathy even before the coroner spoke.
Rathbone glanced at the crowd. Enid looked at her husband, and her eyes were shadowed with unhappiness and pity. Almost absently her hand strayed to Genevieve beside her.
“Lord Ravensbrook,” the coroner began, “will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone’s death? You do not need to repeat