to his assistance? Come, ma'am, is that impossible?”
“No-not-not impossible, I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But… “But what?” He was immeasurably polite. “But Angus was not a brawler?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a man to get into a scrap? Not as you know him, I'm sure, but have you ever seen him in a public house in the Isle of Dogs?
Sometimes it takes a very peaceable man, or even a coward, to avoid a fight there. Is Caleb a fighter, ma'am? Could he have instigated these brawls, or have been the focus of them?”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Really, my lord, how can the witness possibly know such a thing? As my learned friend has pointed out, she was never there!”
Goode smiled at Rathbone with exaggerated courtesy, and not without humor.
“Alas, hoist with my own petard. I concede.” He turned back to Genevieve.
“I withdraw the question, ma'am. It was absurd. May I ask, from what your husband said to you, is it possible that he was injured in a fight, or a series of scraps, in Caleb's company, or even on his way to or from visiting him, but not actually by Caleb? Or is that impossible?” “It is possible,” she conceded, but everything in her face and the stance of her body denied it.
“And the regrettable blood upon these clothes,” Goode said, his face twisted with distress, “which I willingly accept are his. May I be optimistic, even filled with hope, that it is not in fact his blood at all, but that of some other poor soul, and that he shed them simply because they became spoiled in this manner?”
“Then where is he?” she leaned forward over the railing, her face pleading.
“Where is Angus?”
“Alas, I have no idea.” Goode's expression was one of genuine sorrow, even apology. “But when they were found he was not in them, harmed or unharmed, ma'am. I agree, it does not look fortunate for him, but there is no need to despair, and certainly no proof of any tragedy. Let us keep courage and hope.” He inclined his head slightly, and with something of a flourish returned to his seat.
The judge looked at Rathbone. There was the merest hint of weary humor in his eyes. “Mr. Rathbone, is there anything further you can usefully ask of your witness before I adjourn the court for luncheon?”
“Thank you, no, my lord. I believe she has told her story plainly enough for all to understand.” There was nothing he could do but make her repeat what she had already said. It was a matter of judgment as to what would swing the jury one way or the other. He believed restraint was the better part. He had studied their faces, their reactions to Genevieve. He should not overdo it. Let them form their own opinions of her, paint her as they wished to see her. Her spirit to defend the interests of her children might be misperceived and mar the image.
The court rose. Caleb was taken down, the crowd spilled out to purchase whatever refreshment it wished, and Rathbone, Goode and the judge partook of an excellent meal, all separately, at a nearby tavern. They returned early in the afternoon.
“Proceed with your next witness, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge directed. “Let us get to some meat in this matter.”
Rathbone spent the rest of the day calling the Stonefield servants to corroborate what Genevieve had said regarding Angus's absences frotn home, which were considerable, although only when returning from seeing Caleb was he ever injured. On two of these occasions the wounds had necessitated considerable treatment. He had refused to call a doctor, in spite of the apparent seriousness, and Mrs. Stonefield had attended to him herself. She had some skill in that area.
Had Mr. Stonefield been long in recovering?
On one occasion he had been obliged to take to his bed for over a week. It seemed he had lost a great deal of blood.
Had he given any cause for his injury?
No. But the butler had overheard Mr. Stonefield speak of his brother, and Mrs. Stonefield had made no secret of her assumption that Caleb was the assailant.
The jurors' faces made the belief plain, and their contempt for Caleb, who ignored them almost as if they were irrelevant.
The butler was very straightforward. He offered Goode no opportunity to trip him, and Goode was far too wise to be seen to embarrass such a plain man. He was courteous and complimentary. All he could achieve was another reminder to the jury that the precise dealing of the wounds was still all surmise. Angus had never said in so many words that Caleb had stabbed him.
And he did not labor that. Every man and woman in the room believed it was Caleb; it was in their faces when they looked at the dock, and at Caleb's jeering, insolent stare back at them.
The first day of the trial closed with a conviction of the mind, but no evidence which the judge could direct as law, only massive supposition and a crowd filled with a frustration of loathing.
Rathbone left and almost immediately found a hansom. Without thinking he directed the driver to Primrose Hill. That was where his father, a quiet, studious man with a gentle manner and an alarmingly sharp perception, lived.
His father was sitting by a large log fire with his feet on the fender and a glass of red wine by his side when Oliver arrived and was shown in by the manservant. Henry Rathbone looked up with surprise and then a shadow both of pleasure and concern.
“Sit down,” he offered, indicating the chair opposite. “Wine?”
“What is it?” Oliver sat down, feeling the warmth of the fire creep over him with intense satisfaction. “I don't like that burgundy you have.”
“It's a claret,” Henry replied.
“I'll have a glass.”
Henry nodded at the manservant, who departed to bring the wine.
“You'll burn your feet,” Oliver said critically.
“Scorch the soles of my slippers, perhaps,” Henry argued. He did not ask why Oliver had come. He knew he would be told in time.
Oliver slid a little farther down in the armchair and accepted the claret from the manservant, who went out and closed the door with a quiet snick.
The ash settled in the fire and Henry reached forward and put on another log. There was no sound in the room but the flickering of the fire, no light but the flames and one gas lamp on the far wall. The wind outside was inaudible, as was the first beginning of the rain.
“I'm thinking of getting a new dog,” Henry remarked. “Old Edgemor has some retriever pups. One I like in particular.”
“Good idea,” Oliver said. He was going to have to open the subject himself.
“This trial is troubling me.”
“So I gathered.” Henry reached for his pipe and put it in his mouth, but did not bother to light it. He seldom did. “Why? What is not as you expected?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
“Then what is there to be distressed about?” Henry looked at him with his clear, light-blue eyes, so unlike Oliver's own, which were very dark, in spite of his fairish hair. “You are off balance. Is it your mind, or your emotions? Are you going to lose when you should win, or win when you should lose?”
Oliver smiled in spite of himself. “Lose when I should win, I think.”
“Summarize the case for me.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at Oliver absentmindedly. “And don't address me as if I were the jury! Just tell me the truth.”
Oliver gave a jerky little laugh, and listed the bare, literal facts as far as he knew them, adding his feelings only as he believed they were relevant to some interpretation and not furnished by evidence. When he had finished he stared at his father waiting for his response.
“This is another one of Monk's,” Henry observed. “Have you seen Hester again? How is she?”
Oliver found himself uncomfortable. It was not a subject he wished to contemplate, much less discuss.
“It is exceedingly difficult to get a jury to convict for murder without a body,” he said irritably. “But if ever a man did deserve to hang, it is Caleb Stone. The more I hear of Angus, the more I admire him, and the worse Caleb appears. The man is violent, destructive, sadistic, an ingrate.”
“But…” Henry raised his eyebrows, looking at Oliver with piercing gentleness.
