Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [171]
“Thank you,” Ravensbrook acknowledged without turning his head. He stared at the wall opposite him, and spoke as if in a trance. He seemed to be reliving the events in his mind, more real to him than the paneled room, the mild face of the coroner, or the crowd listening to his every word. All eyes were upon his face, which was racked with emotions, and yet curiously immobile, as if it were all held inside him with unyielding self-control.
“The gaoler opened the door and stood back for me to go in,” he began in a level, careful voice. “I had sought permission to speak to Caleb alone. I knew it might very well be the last time I had such an opportunity. The trial was not going in his favor.” His hesitation was barely perceptible. “I … I had certain things I wanted to say to him which were of a personal nature. Probably it was foolish of me, but I hoped that for Angus’s widow’s sake, he might tell me what had happened between Angus and himself, and she could know that Angus was … at peace, if you will.” The coroner nodded. There was a sigh around the room.
Genevieve caught her breath in a gasp, but made no other sound. She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to see.
Rathbone glanced at Goode and saw a flicker of question in his eyes.
“Of course it was futile,” Ravensbrook resumed. “Nothing I could say had any effect upon him, or softened the anger inside him.”
“Was he in a rage when you first went in, Lord Ravensbrook?” the coroner asked, his eyes wide and gentle. “The gaoler seems not to know.”
“He was … sullen,” Ravensbrook replied, frowning slightly. If he were aware of Selina Herries staring at him as if she would imprint his features in her mind, he gave no sign of it at all. “I asked him, for Genevieve’s sake, to tell me what had happened in that last meeting,” he continued. “But he would not. I assured him I would not repeat it to the authorities. It was only for the family I wished to know. But he was adamant.” His voice was level, but seemed tight in his throat, as though he had to force it out, and several times he licked his lips.
Rathbone glanced around the room again. Enid sat stiff-backed, leaning a trifle forward, as if she would be closer to him. Genevieve looked from the witness stand to Enid, and back. Selina Herries clenched her knuckles in front of her, and her bold face was filled with pain, but her eyes did not waver.
“He asked me for pen and paper,” Ravensbrook said, resuming his account. “He said he wanted to write a last testament.…”
“Did he mean a will, or a statement, do you know?” the coroner inquired.
“He did not say, and I did not ask,” Ravensbrook answered. “I assumed it was some statement, perhaps a form of last words. I hoped it would be his confession or contrition, for his own soul’s sake.”
In the audience Selina let out a little cry, then immediately stifled it. Another woman gave a stifled sob, but whether of personal grief or simply the emotion of the scene, it was impossible to say.
Titus Niven put his hand on Genevieve’s, discreetly, very gently, and the tightness in her shoulders eased a fraction.
“So you asked the gaoler for a pen, ink and paper,” the coroner prompted.
“Yes,” Ravensbrook agreed. The emotion in the room did not seem to touch him; perhaps his own turmoil was too great. “When they came, I returned to the cell and gave them to Caleb. He tried to use the pen, but said it was scratchy. The nib needed recutting. I took out my penknife to do it for him …”
“You did not offer him the knife?” the coroner asked, leaning forward earnestly.
Ravensbrook’s mouth tightened and his brows furrowed. “No, of course not!”
“Thank you. Proceed.”
Ravensbrook stood even more rigidly. The desperate grip on his emotions, the fragility of his hold, was painfully apparent. He was a man walking through a nightmare, and not a soul in the room could be unaware of it.
This time even the coroner did not prompt him.