never so careless as to take anything for granted.
In the dock, Caleb Stone stood motionless. His hair was long and thick and curled wildly, adding to the reckless look of his face with its wide mouth and brilliant green eyes. His very lack of movement drew the gaze in a room where everyone else fidgeted now and then, shifting position, scratching a nose or an ear, turning to look at someone or something, whispering to a neighbor. The only person who did not even glance his way was Genevieve, as if she could not bear to see his face with its mirrorlike resemblance to the husband she had loved.
“Mrs. Stonefield,” Rathbone proceeded, “has your husband ever been away from home overnight before?”
“Oh, yes, quite often. His business necessitated traveling now and then.”
“Any other purpose that you are aware of?”
“Yes…” She stared at him fixedly, her body rigid in its navy and gray wool and trimming silk. “He went quite regularly to the East End of the city, to the Limehouse area, to see his brother. He was…” She seemed lost for words.
Caleb stared as if he would force her to look at him, but she did not.
Several of the jurors were more attentive.
“Fond of him?” Rathbone suggested.
Ebenezer Goode stirred in his seat. Rathbone was leading the witness, but this time he did not object.
“In a way he loved him,” Genevieve said with a frown, still keeping her head turned away from the dock. “I think also he felt a kind of pity, because-' This time Ebenezer Goode did rise.
“Yes, yes.” The judge waved his hand in a swift motion of dismissal. “Mrs.
Stonefield, what you think is not evidence, unless you give us the reasons for your belief. Did your husband express such a sentiment?”
She looked at him with a frown. “No, my lord. It was my impression. Why else would he keep on going to see Caleb, in spite of the way Caleb treated him, unless it was loyalty, and a sort of pity? He defended him to me, even when he was most hurt.”
The judge, a small, lean man with a face so weary he looked as if he could not have slept well in years, regarded her with patient intelligence. “Do you mean his feelings were wounded, ma'am, or his person?”
“Both, my lord. But if I cannot say what I know by instinct, and because I knew my husband, but only what I can prove by evidence, then I shall say only that he was injured in his person. He had sustained bruises, abrasions, and more than once shallow knife wounds, or some other such sharp instrument.”
Rathbone could not have planned it better. Now there was not a man or woman in the whole courtroom whose attention was not held. All the jurors were sitting bolt upright and facing the witness stand. The judge's lugubrious face was sharp. In the crowd Rathbone saw Hester Latterly sitting beside Lady Ravensbrook, who was ashen- skinned and looked as if she had aged ten years in the last weeks. Monk had said she'd had typhoid fever. It had certainly taken its toll. Even so, she was a remarkable woman and nothing could rob her features of their character.
Ebenezer Goode bit his lip and rolled his eyes very slightly.
In the dock, Caleb Stone gave a short burst of laughter, and the guards on either side of him inched closer, their disgust plain.
The judge glanced at Rathbone.
“Do we understand, Mrs. Stonefield,” Rathbone picked up the thread again, “that your husband returned from these trips to see his brother, with injuries, sometimes quite serious and painful, and yet he still continued to make these journeys?”
“Yes,” she said steadily.
“What explanation did he offer you for this unusual behavior?” Rathbone inquired.
“That Caleb was his brother,” she answered, “and he could not desert him.
Caleb had no one else. They were twins, and it was a bond which could not be broken, even by Caleb's hatred and his jealousy.”
In the dock, Caleb's manacled hands, strong and slender, grasped the railing till his knuckles shone white.
Rathbone prayed she would remember precisely what they had discussed and agreed. So far it was going perfectly.
“Were you not afraid that one day the injuries might be more serious?” he asked. “Perhaps he might be crippled or maimed for life?”
Her face was pale and tense, and still she stared straight ahead of her.
“Yes-I was terrified of it. I implored him not to go again.”
“But your pleas did not change his mind?”
“No. He said he could not abandon Caleb.” She ignored Caleb's snort of derision, almost anguish. “He could always remember the boy he had been,” she said chokingly. “And all that they had shared as children, the grief of their parents' death…” She blinked several times and her effort to maintain control was apparent.
Rathbone restrained himself from looking at the jury, but he could almost feel their sympathy like a warm tide across the room.
In the crowd, Enid Ravensbrook's haggard face was softened with pity for the distress she imagined so clearly. There was such a depth of feeling in her, Rathbone could not help the fleeting thought that perhaps she too had known such loneliness as a child.
“Yes?” he prompted Genevieve gently.
“Their sense of total loneliness,” she continued. “And the dreams and fears they had shared. When they were ill or frightened, they turned to each other. There was no one else to care for them. He could not forget that, no matter what Caleb might do to him now. He was always aware that life had been good to him, and for Caleb it had not proved so fortunate.”
In the dock Caleb let out a sound, half groan, half snarl. One of his gaolers touched him gently. The other sneered.
“Did he say that, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone demanded. “Did he use those words, or is that your surmise?”
“No, he used those words, more than once.” Her voice was clear and decisive now. It was a statement.
“You were afraid that Caleb might harm your husband seriously, out of his envy at his success, and the hatred arising from that?” Rathbone asked.
“Yes.”
There was a murmur around the room, a shifting of weight. The sun had gone and the light was grayer across the wood.
“Did he not understand your feelings?” Rathbone asked.
“Oh yes,” she affirmed. “He shared them. He was terrified, but Angus was a man who set duty and honor above all, even his own life. It was a matter of loyalty. He said he owed Caleb a debt for the past and he could not live with himself if he were to run away now.”
One of the jurors nodded his approval and his determination deepened. He glanced up at the dock with bitter contempt.
“What was that debt, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone asked. “Did he say?”
“Only a matter of Caleb having defended him on occasions when they were children,” she replied. “He was not specific, but I think it was from older boys, from teasing and bullying. He did imply that there had been some boy who had been especially brutal, and Caleb had always been the one to take the brunt of it and protect Angus.” The tears momentarily spilled down her face and she ignored them. “Angus never forgot that.”
“I see,” Rathbone said softly, smiling a little. “That is a sentiment of honor I imagine we can all understand and admire.” He gave the jury a moment or two to absorb the idea. Again he did not look at them. It would be far too unsubtle. “But you believe he was frightened, all the same,” he continued. “Why, Mrs. Stonefield?”
“Because before he went he would be restless and withdrawn,” she answered.
“Quite unlike his usual manner. He preferred to spend time alone, often pacing the floor. He would be pale- faced, unable to eat, his hands would shake and his mouth be dry. When someone is as deeply afraid as that, Mr.
Rathbone, it is not hard to observe it, especially if it is someone you know well, and love.”
“Of course,” he murmured. He was acutely conscious of Caleb crouched forward over the railing, and of two jurors staring at him as if he were a wild animal, and might even leap over upon them, were he not manacled. “Was
